Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain

by Stephen Seitz

  “I put some creosote down last night,” Holmes said as Toby sniffed for the scent. “If we are fortunate—ah!”

  Toby strained on the lead and led us along the bank in a generally easterly direction. We made our way over soft ground and moribund vegetation, until we saw, ahead of us, a large pipe draining water slowly into the river.

  “The storm outlet,” Holmes said. “That makes sense. Those evil creatures are too large for ordinary rat habitat. But it does raise concerns about Sister Hastings’ health. You should have brought your Gladstone.”

  “I have a field kit,” said I, displaying the small tin box, in which I had packed some medical essentials. “It should do, depending on her condition.”

  “Right. Come along, then. Toby’s ready to break free if we don’t follow.”

  Running water does not confound such a wonder as Toby, and he resolutely followed the scent deep into the storm drain, and from there into the dank and slimy underground maze of pipes, corridors, passages, built seemingly without any sense of a plan. Yet the place was warmer than the outside, much like a cave which maintains the same temperature all year round.

  Our lanterns showed us old, historic brickwork, plenty of support structure in need of maintenance, and, finally, a wide brick corridor with tracks visible in the muddy dirt.

  “Well done, Toby!” Holmes exclaimed, stopping long enough to give our canine friend a liver treat. “Do you hear that, Watson?”

  We did, a commotion of some sort, but utterly unlike the last time, with its ritualistic speech and primitive social structure. They sounded more like an angry mob, and I detected nothing human in these sounds. This time, we only heard isolated words and a lot of excited, highly pitched twittering. The nearer we came to the fracas, the louder sounds of fighting became. As we drew closer, Toby began to show signs of fear, but the resolute bloodhound kept to the course, though his stubby tail sagged with reluctance, and he kept glancing back at us, I believe in hopes of turning back.

  What we saw will haunt my nightmares forever.

  The rats had formed a circle, and in the center two of them, one grey and one black, were battling each other. Both were covered in dark blood and matted fur, and their razor-sharp teeth rent one another’s flesh with every attack, releasing fresh and frightening howls of pain. We heard no signs of human-like speech, only the guttural noises one would expect from rodents grown to such unnatural sizes.

  “What about Sister Hastings?” I whispered.

  “I don’t think we should attract their attention right now,” Holmes whispered in reply. “They have devolved back into savagery. It appears that Moreau’s treatments are not permanent. Their animal nature is winning out.”

  “I never saw rats entertaining themselves this way,” I whispered back. “My God, Holmes! What if humanity’s darker impulses have somehow merged with these creatures’ naturally dark nature? Don’t forget, they eat meat, and they’re none too fussy about what kind. These monsters could truly be dangerous!”

  The animals cheered like the devils of hell as the grey rat took the upper hand, sinking his teeth into his opponent’s neck, and opening up an artery. The air filled with the reek of hot blood as the black rat-creature screamed in its dying agony. It fell forward onto the damp, dirty floor as the grey rat, crazed with bloodlust, attacked again, delivering the final blow and rising up on its hind legs to bask in its victory and the audience’s adoration.

  “Now’s the time, Watson,” said Holmes. “Let’s see if we can get past these things. Come, Toby, don’t be afraid, that’s a good boy.”

  We inched down a side corridor, hoping to find a way back to the main avenue, but we got lost again. Toby wanted to go back to the scent of creosote, but we could not take the risk just yet. Finally, we decided to rest until it felt safe to return.

  “This does not inspire my hopes for Sister Hastings,” Holmes said. “I would judge from what we just saw that these creatures need Moreau’s treatments to retain their intelligence.”

  “This could be good news, you know,” I said. “It might mean they have no use for Sister Hastings. They may have forgotten about her altogether.”

  “But what a state she must be in!” said Holmes. “She has to be undernourished, badly in need of medical care, frightened. Assuming she is still alive, a result in which my confidence is waning. Come. They must have dispersed by now. Let’s see what we can find.”

  The rats had gone elsewhere, leaving the quivering carcass of the black rat behind. Toby became excited, and pulled us toward the horrid creature. Once we were close enough, I could see it drawing shallow, labored breath, but its wounds were far too deep for there to be any hope of survival, let alone recovery.

  “Holmes!” I exclaimed. “It’s the Lawgiver!”

  The wretched rat managed to lift its head long enough to get a good look, its dull red eyes pleading with us to do something.

  “We have lost … the Law,” it wheezed. “We … are not Men. We have … failed …”

  “Where is Sister Hastings?” Holmes asked. “The one you call Interpreter! Where can we find her?”

  The animal looked down one of the corridors and then fell unconscious.

  “We should do the merciful thing,” Holmes said. “Devil beast he may have been, but in the end, he did strive to reach the stars.”

  I drew my Webley and fired a single shot into the Lawgiver’s head, the report echoing through the underground corridors like a death knell. The shot hung heavy on my heart; there is no worse feeling for a medical man than having to give up on a patient, however vile that patient may have been. There is no more heartbreaking an experience than battlefield triage, the look of terror and disappointment in a soldier’s eyes when one has to shake one’s head and move on past to find someone with a fighting chance to live.

  We lingered over the creature’s body for an instant, lost in our thoughts. At last, Holmes said, “The last thing the Lawgiver did was to glance down that corridor over there. It’s now our only lead. Let’s see where it goes.”

  Toby began to relax somewhat the further away we walked from the carcass. Our lanterns showed the same dull sight, endless stone and brick corridors, water from the springs and wells beneath the surface making the air damp and foul, as well as cool. We did see plenty of the gigantic rats’ tracks, but nothing which could be construed as human.

  “Holmes, this is pointless,” I said. “We can’t hope to accomplish anything down here. Why don’t we go back home and try again tomorrow?”

  Holmes shook his head.

  “Look at Toby,” he said. “He’s onto something.”

  I withdrew my flask.

  “Perhaps some fortification if we are to continue,” I said.

  We each took a long swallow of brandy. I relished the instant sense of warmth the alcohol spread through my body, driving the damp from my bones for a little while.

  Toby’s tail began to wag, and he pulled us down a smaller tunnel to the side. This tunnel had a low ceiling, forcing us to crouch. We encountered more running water, and then the equivalent of a small stream, no doubt leading to or from a reservoir. It also ran steadily down a slight incline, taking us further and further from our original location.

  We heard some activity ahead, and, judging from the sound, we had found another rat creature warren. When my lantern suddenly illuminated the face of one of those creatures, its red eyes suddenly blazing with primitive emotion, we both let a cry out, and I dropped my lantern.

  “After him!” cried Holmes.

  With Toby at the lead, we ran as fast as we dared, trying in vain to keep up with this devil’s spawn, until we came to some sort of chamber where several tunnels met. Five of the rat creatures had made their home there, and none seemed to have any human qualities left. They had assembled bedding for nests, and had taken shiny trinket
s they had found, probably from the streets above. We saw the remains of the meals they had cadged from their foraging. They had finally become the much larger versions of their original selves, and I thank God that they stared at us with fear, waiting for somebody to make a move.

  Toby began barking, and he lurched forward, tearing his lead from Holmes’ hand, scattering the pack, which scuttled into the dank darkness. Toby disappeared down a tunnel.

  “Damn and blast!” snarled Holmes, chasing after the hound, with myself bringing up the rear. “Toby! Come here!”

  All we heard from the dog was its low, anxious barking up ahead, a bark with a mournful tone in its voice. He had cornered two of the rat things, and they shied back from him, terror in their eyes, and working up the courage to pounce.

  “Where is the Interpreter?” Holmes demanded.

  In reply, one of the rats launched itself at Holmes, forcing me to shoot it in mid-air. It screamed as the bullet tore into its shoulder, and its companion bolted behind us, out of sight into the darkness. The evil brown monster hissed at us, and I shot it again, silencing its horrid voice forever.

  “Thank you, Watson. That was—”

  A sound from nearby. It might have been a cough, or a muffled cry, or just an echo.

  “Did that sound human?” I asked.

  “It didn’t sound rattish,” Holmes replied. “Let’s investigate.”

  About five minutes later, a sad sight greeted our eyes. We found an emaciated Sister Hastings lying insensible on the cold stone tunnel floor curled into the position of a fetus in the womb to try to preserve warmth. Her skin white as a corpse’s, her breathing thin, her body temperature much lower than it should have been.

  “We need to get her out of here, Holmes,” I said. “She’s hypothermic and in shock.”

  I poured some brandy down her throat, which produced that most welcome sound of a sputtering cough.

  “We came here for you, Charlotte,” I said as soothingly as I could. “We’re taking you to safety.”

  The poor woman, whose hair had gone as white as her skin, stared at us in mute confusion. But she was too weak to put up any resistance as I hoisted her body over my shoulder the way I had often done with wounded soldiers.

  “Any indication as to a way out?” I asked.

  Toby was finishing a liver treat as Holmes said, “I believe so. I hear the sounds of water-powered machinery down this tunnel. We may be near a mill. And if we are, then someone has a very bad rat problem, I’ll wager.”

  Before we could find that machinery, I spotted a set of rungs leading upward, to a manhole cover. Holmes went ahead first to open it up and to take Sister Hastings under the arms as we emerged into the cold February night air. I could see we were somewhere in Southwark.

  “We can’t be far from St. Thomas’s,” I said. “Fetch a cab or an ambulance, would you, Holmes? Right now, our primary duty is to get this woman out of the cold and warm her up.”

  It took Holmes several agonizingly long minutes to return with a cab, and Holmes offered to give the cabby a sovereign if we got to the hospital in less than five minutes. During the ride, Holmes and I covered the poor woman with our coats and gave her some more brandy. Her breathing became more regular, an encouraging sign.

  “We’re nearly there, Charlotte,” I whispered into her ear. “You’ll be in a safe and warm bed soon.”

  Her hand lashed out and scored my cheek, tearing a small gash and forcing us to subdue her.

  “She doesn’t even know we’re here,” I said. “That was an automatic defensive reaction.”

  “Poor creature hasn’t seen sunshine in weeks,” said Holmes. “I can’t blame her.”

  Once we arrived, Holmes dashed inside to fetch orderlies and a stretcher. As they took Sister Hastings inside, I said, “Holmes, you should return to Baker Street. I should give Sister Hastings a thorough and proper examination.”

  “I agree,” he said. “Take as much time as you need, old fellow. Send me a telegram in the morning.”

  I spent the night at Sister Hastings’ side, holding her hand and sleeping fitfully on a lumpy sofa kept nearby for visitors. Her body temperature had fallen to the point where she might have died soon had we not found her. The doctors administered hot compresses, fresh bedclothes, and bed rest under woolen blankets.

  Over the night, she gradually started to move, and, from some of her violent movements, her dreams must have been frightening. She kicked her blankets off more than once, and even got out of bed to curl up on the floor. I finally left at around eight o’clock, hoping to get a few winks and a shave before advising my old friend that we had found his sister.

  Holmes sent Hastings a telegram to meet later at a restaurant in the Strand.

  “Well, Watson, you look quite the mess,” said Hastings; it must have been obvious I hadn’t slept well. “I haven’t seen you that beaten up since Maiwand.”

  “We have welcome news, Hastings,” I said as the waiter poured coffee. “Charlotte is alive and recuperating at St. Thomas’s.”

  Hastings beamed and said, “This is welcome news indeed! Mr. Holmes, Watson, I cannot thank you enough! When can I see her?”

  “Speaking as her doctor, I have to advise that you give her some time to recover. She has been through a terrible ordeal; she’s lost a great deal of weight, and nearly froze to death. She has not even seen daylight nor drawn a breath of fresh air for nearly a month. And the experience may well have driven her mad. “

  “But what happened to her? Where has she been?”

  “I am about to tell you a fantastic tale, sir,” said Holmes. “You will find it hard to believe, but I assure you ever word I am about to tell you is nothing less than God’s honest truth.”

  So the tale began, and I could see Hastings vacillating between horror and disbelief as we narrated poor Charlotte’s tribulations.

  “If there is a merciful God, she should have no memory of these past few weeks,” I said.

  “What do I tell the family?”

  Holmes handed Hastings a copy of Pike’s pamphlet.

  “Your sister fell victim to the devil’s work of this man,” Holmes said. “He created the creatures responsible for abducting Charlotte, and my next task is to find him and stop his insanity once and for all.”

  “I’m … overwhelmed,” Hastings said at last. “But, again, I thank you. How can I ever repay you for this?”

  “You need not worry about that,” said Holmes. “I shall receive my reward once Alexandre Moreau is brought to justice and the world made a safer place. I will begin my researches in the morning.”

  Challenger’s Journal

  February, 1887

  I began my day in a filthy pension room in the medieval village of Moreau, tucked away a hundred miles or so from Nantes, in the heart of French wine country. As I write this, I have managed to charm my way into the de facto capitol of the region, the Moreau family chateau. Claret is readily at hand, I have a cheerful fire, and, should the cards play out in my favor, high hopes of finding the elusive Alexandre Moreau fils.

  The family home is an ancient abbey, built in the 12th century, a magnificent Romanesque stone structure whose lords were sustained by tenant farmers, and altered over the years to reflect changes in the times, and yet keep a firm grip on the past. An imposing structure of grey granite, it has the arches one would expect, including the shape of the windows, with a pair of round stained-glass windows on the first floor. The arcading continues the theme. Round twin towers several stories high flank the center, which rises above them both, tapering to points above the towers. A long central arcade connects the front building to a similar one at the other end, stretching about a quarter of a mile.

  I smacked the huge iron knocker against the heavy oak door and waited for several minutes before trying again. A tall, pale man
in stiff formal clothing opened the door.

  “May I help you, Monsieur?”

  “George Edward Challenger. I’m here to see Alexandre Moreau.” I handed him my card.

  “I am afraid that is impossible. One does not simply pound on the door to make such a demand. You must make an appointment.”

  “I have news of his son, and, more to the point, I need to find him.”

  “His son lives here in the chateau. I’m sure our news of him is more recent than anything you may have.”

  “Not that son, you pompous twit! His other son. The zoologist. Alexandre.”

  “Serge, what is it?” came a reedy voice from inside.

  “A tramp has come to the door, asking to see your father. He says he has news of your brother.”

  “Another fraud? Send him away!”

  “Wait!” I pushed my way past the stooge in the doorway and marched inside, earning a harsh, haughty glare from both master and servant.

  “Now, see here—” sputtered the former.

  “I have seen his latest creations, and they talk.”

  “You must be insane. Serge, eject this man!”

  As the butler grabbed my arm and tried to haul me to the door, I stood firm and bellowed, “Dammit, I’m a zoologist myself, and I’m trying to help, you fools! There are people looking for him! I need to find him before they do!”

  Henri Moreau, for it could have been no one else, struck me on the jaw, and I returned his salvo in kind, twisting myself free of Serge’s grasp and preparing my finest haymaker when a sudden command stopped us all.

  “That’s enough!” barked a feminine voice, and I had no doubt who she was. She and her son had the same pronounced widow’s peak, the same pointed nose and chin, and I daresay had the old woman a thin moustache it might be difficult to tell them apart. She had all the charm and warmth of a stalactite in a damp cave.

  “Henri, what is going on?”

  “This Neanderthal says he’s trying to help Alexandre, Mama.”