“I don’t see how he can. Alexandre disappeared in Sumatra many years ago.”
“Now he is somewhere else, madam,” I gasped, even as Henri’s fist curled again. “He is still at work. I have seen what he can do, and his handiwork was identified by one of his own laboratory assistants.”
The woman’s severe face softened, and she said, “I have been mourning him a long time. You must forgive my son. He is sometimes hot-headed, as you Scots would say. Please take a seat in the parlor. Serge will bring you tea.”
“Try not to poison it,” I said to the butler.
The Moreau family lives in the main front building, while the rest serves as offices for the family’s plethora of business interests, as well as administering the estate’s agriculture. On the inside, a curious mixture of the quaint and the contemporary, with early Christian art adorning the walls, the polished suits of armor in glass cases one would expect in a structure like this, with a grand fireplace underneath a mural of abbey life when the building served the Cistercians in the 1100s. Yet the furniture had all been purchased in modern times, including the welcome sight of a sideboard with a charming and expensive selection of alcoholic delights.
Eventually, the mother and son returned, looking more like the wealthy aristocrats they were. I forced my anger down and accepted the tea with as much grace as I could muster, it being served in the most delicate porcelain I have ever encountered, and the tea of a variety I had never tasted before.
“My compliments, Madam. I apologize for my behavior, but it is imperative that I talk to your husband.” I handed her my card. “George Edward Challenger, at your service.”
She extended her right claw for me to shake, and said, “I am Florinda Moreau, Monsieur Challenger. Would you please tell us what you know and what you want from us?”
I spent the next few minutes describing my adventures under the streets of London, some of which clearly disturbed the old woman and her middle-aged son. I produced the photos I had taken of the rat tracks, against which I had placed my own foot for comparison.
“These creatures, these giant rats, you say had speech?”
“And reason. They kidnapped a missionary because they wanted to know the nature of God. To them, Dr. Moreau is the Creator, and the concepts of theology are simply too advanced for them to grasp.”
“When most people speak of such things, they do so with horror and revulsion, but not you,” Henri said. “May I ask why?”
“As I told you, I am also a zoologist, and I believe your brother is a giant in our field. His work could have tremendous benefits for mankind, if only the rest of the bourgeois world in which we live would see past its petty prejudices and look at the possibilities. More to the point, now that Alexandre’s existence is known, it is a matter of time before these fools find him and stop him. But if I get there in time to warn him, then I might join his quest.”
Florinda summoned the manservant Serge and whispered to him.
“Would you see to our guest, Henri? I will be back shortly.”
Henri simply stared at me and struggled to find some conversation, while I stared with longing at the bottle of Scotch on the sideboard, having finished my tea.
“You don’t have a doctorate,” he finally said.
“No. I’m still working on my advanced degree. But I am very much a man of science, like your admirable brother.”
“And I suppose you expect us to finance whatever project you have in mind?”
“Ask, yes. Expect, no. I’ll find him on my own if I have to.”
Henri uttered a snort of contempt.
“You cannot find even a decent tailor,” he said. “How can you find someone hidden on an island in the middle of nowhere?”
I could not help smiling.
“When did I say that?”
Henri’s face paled.
Before the discussion could go further, Serge entered the parlor and said, “The master wishes to see Monsieur Challenger. Come this way, please.”
Accompanied by Henri, up we went, the stairs as broad as a boulevard, the burgundy carpet thick and ornate, with an intricate gold pattern drawing one’s eyes downward. By the time we reached the second story, it seemed to me a king lived there, and in a very real sense, one did. The master bedroom, large enough to accommodate a small brigade, looked out over a magnificent view of French countryside, a bright winter pastoral scene. The bed itself, a royal four-poster, dominated one of the walls, and looked out upon that view. Furniture from the time, or in the style, of Louis XVI, took up the rest of the room, and behind the large oak desk, empty save for a blotter, an inkstand, and some papers, sat the senior Alexandre Moreau, a haughty man of eighty. His dress was every bit as elegant and au courant as that of his son, but no one could doubt who was in command: Moreau pere, an Admiral Nelson of the industrial seas. He did not look up from the papers he was signing as we spoke, as though I was of no more consequence or concern than a fly on the wall, and certainly no reason to upset his precious routines.
I tamped my anger down. I am a large man, I am a loud man, and I am a resolute man. I will not be ignored. Penurious I may be, but I have pride, dignity, and a small but proud record of accomplishments. It takes more than money to make a man.
“You have word of my eldest son, I’m told,” he said. “Serge tells me you have encountered his work recently.”
“Yes, sir. He has created rodents of unusual size, and endowed them with speech and reason.”
The old man dropped his pen and gaped at me. I smiled with the satisfaction.
“Monsieur, my eldest son is dead. He disappeared in Sumatra many years ago.”
“He may have disappeared, but there is no doubt these creatures are the result of his work. One of his own laboratory assistants recognized it.”
I held my tongue as the old man pondered this information before he said, “Well, man? What is it you want from us?”
“I am convinced that your son is one of the great geniuses of the age,” said I. “If he can give rodents speech, if he can make rats think, what are the possibilities? Men could be given the best qualities of our mammalian kin. Imagine the ease with which gorillas could do hard labor, or soldiers with the cunning of the fox. Thinking further, is winged flight beyond possibility? These are avenues begging to be explored, and your son is the man who is already doing it. This knowledge must be harnessed, not left to rot in a godforsaken jungle!”
The old man actually smiled.
“You speak with conviction,” he said. “I’m beginning to believe you.”
“Can you help me? Do you know where he is?”
Henri Moreau spoke for the first time.
“Papa, don’t listen to him. He may well be just a confidence trickster.”
“I assure you, my credentials are genuine, and I invite you to investigate. I have registered at a pension in the village. You may find me there. I will be staying for a few days. There are certain amphibious species unique to this region, and I am taking the opportunity for further study.”
“There will be no need for that, Monsieur Challenger. I am unaccustomed to such specimens of humanity such as yourself, and I wish to learn more. Why don’t you take a guest room here, and we will discuss this further, at table this evening. Would you be so good as to join us?”
“I would be more than honored, Monsieur Moreau.”
“Seven o’clock, then. Serge, see to Monsieur Challenger’s arrangements, and settle his bill at the pension, won’t you?”
With a nod, he dismissed us. As we left, I filched a Bolivar cigar from the humidor on a stand near the door. I was damned if I was going to leave this place without a proper souvenir.
The Moreau family may have a reputation as rapacious capitalists; however, they do spend their fortunes in elegant style. We sat around an oa
k table that had to date back to medieval times, to judge from the carvings on the legs. Our chairs were upholstered in fine gold brocade, the table covered with a bright white linen cloth. The silverware proved to be genuine silver, the plates fine porcelain china which could have been refined into something musical, the wine served in Waterford crystal.
More than ever, I was aware of my status as an impecunious student. The settings alone intimidated me, as I am sure was the intent. I am accustomed to simple public house fare, my palate unprepared for the rich pate´, the fine wines accompanying each course, an Alpine dish called raclette, (combining potatoes, pickled gherkins and onions, a special sort of cheese, and succulent pressed meat), salmon, duck breast cassise, seasonal vegetables from the estate’s gardens, and an ambrosial chocolate soufflé´, complemented by a sweet liqueur. The Queen herself could not enjoy a more satisfying repast.
Besides Alexandre Moreau pere and Henri, two women joined us: the severe and frosty Florinda, and a comely young woman, Henri’s daughter, Sophie. She gave me a pretty, reserved smile, which I tried to return without looking like a Pictish savage, something, no doubt, is what their eyes saw looking at me, dressed as I was in an ill-fitting business suit.
“We are pleased to tell you that Sophie has accepted the hand of the Baron von Edelshausen in marriage,” Florinda Moreau told me. “Nuptials will take place in the spring.”
“I offer my heartiest congratulations,” I said. “I am sure you will be the happiest of brides.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Challenger. It is kind of you to say so.”
“That is quite the sapphire in your engagement ring.”
“Most make that mistake. It is, in fact, a blue diamond, one of only a few known in the world. The Baron is well traveled.”
And pretty damn wealthy, I thought. What a surprise. This exchange took place with all the cheer to be found in a cold and foggy cemetery on a dark night.
Conversation drifted to other matters. We chatted genially, and carefully, about scientific matters, with Sophie asking me intelligent questions about zoology and botany, the sort of questions which implied education and learning. Imagine! A young woman of her class actually conversant on topics other than herself, her clothes, her friends, and her money.
“Have you studied the biological sciences, Mademoiselle? You appear to be better educated than many women of your class, if I may say so.”
“Do you consort with many such women, Mr. Challenger?”
I tried not to blush as I replied, “’Consort’ is not the word I would use. I have had the honor to educate their sons.”
Their bored, uninterested, dense and ignorant sons, I thought, chafing at the endless politeness and superficiality of our conversation. Give me a good, lively Scottish pub any day.
“Alexandre wants the best for all his children,” Florinda said. “That includes education.”
“Did you learn it here, or at your uncle’s knee?” I asked.
I had committed a faux pas. I almost melted into my boots; rare is the situation in which I am not at least the intellectual equal of those around me. Even that happens so seldom I never think about it. The fact is I have few genuine peers. I do not consider myself immodest for saying that, because it is the simple fact.
“I apologize,” I said to everyone. “I am unaccustomed to your ways.”
“Do not trouble, Mr. Challenger,” the old man said from his regal throne at the head of the table. “We hear his name so little, and the horrible things we hear about him make him a sensitive topic for discussion.”
“He is the reason I am here,” I said.
“We will talk about that over brandy and cigars,” the old man said. “Women need not be exposed to certain matters, however well-educated they may be.”
“What do you know of my uncle?” Sophie asked. “Have you seen him?”
I shook my head, and replied, “I have encountered some of his extraordinary work, and it is imperative that I find him before someone else does. The hourglass is running.”
With a simple hand gesture, old Moreau silenced further conversation immediately. He signaled a servant to lead the women from the room, but Sophie would have none of it.
“I am no serving girl whose ears need protection,” she said. “Soon I will be a baroness. It is time I started being treated as such.”
“You are young and willful,” Florinda told her granddaughter, “and I do not deem you fit for such knowledge. Your uncle has done some abominable things, and he is best left forgotten.”
“Please,” Henri said, and at that the women rose to go.
“We’d best continue this discussion in the library,” the elder Moreau said, rising as the servants began to clear the table.
The Moreau library rivaled those of Britain’s great country houses, the shelves rising two stories, most packed with books ancient and modern, the floors thick with lush Oriental carpeting, large portraits of Moreau ancestors staring down at everyone from a great height in their gilded frames. Serge poured brandy from a large decanter on the sideboard, and our modern overstuffed armchairs seemed out of place in such a room.
“I have these imported from Cuba,” Moreau said, clipping the end of a long, patrician cigar and handing it to me. “You said earlier that you knew what you had seen was the result of my son’s handiwork because a lab assistant recognized it.”
I nodded.
“Who was that? Do you remember his name?”
“Sherlock Holmes. These days he calls himself a consulting detective. I understand he mostly works for Scotland Yard. He is certainly no biologist.”
“It was he who ruined Alexandre’s reputation,” said the senior Moreau. “He has proven to be a thorn in our sides on more than one occasion.”
“He wants to find your son and stop him, and I know enough of the man to believe he is just the fanatic to do it.”
“It was this same Holmes who drove Alexandre into hiding after the affair in Sumatra,” Henri said. “And now you tell us he is on the trail again?”
“Yes, that is the case. I must get there first to save Dr. Moreau. The potential benefits to all mankind are simply too great.”
“Did you read that libelous scandal sheet?” asked the patriarch.
“I did. It is my belief that an ignorant public can’t see past its own provincialism and short-sighted thinking to the true strides Dr. Moreau has made in the interest of science and the betterment of us all. Sherlock Holmes does not see what the visionary scientist sees. He sees only the grotesque. I see the next step in human evolution. I see nothing less than the complete fulfillment of human potential. What true scientist could deny himself that?”
“How do you propose to stop Mr. Holmes?”
“I don’t. Your son can work anywhere in the world. I would like simply to rescue him and help him continue his work. Ideally, I would serve as his assistant. I feel there is much I can learn.”
“Henri, what do you think?”
Henri sipped copiously before he spoke, enmity radiating from his every pore.
“I believe you are sincere,” he said, “and I believe your proposed course of action has the best of intentions. But who are you to undertake such a mission? You are gauche and poor. I am not persuaded you should work for my brother, even if, by some miracle of God, you should even find him.”
“Tell me where he is, provide me with a boat and crew, and I can do it. Holmes has no idea whatsoever of Dr. Moreau’s whereabouts.”
“What makes you think we know?” asked the old man.
“As I told you before. Dr. Moreau cannot do his work without a specially equipped laboratory, and only you, with your great wealth, can make that possible. No one else could get him the equipment and supplies he needs, and do it in secret. You have to know where he is. Just put me on the next
boat. You will have had all the time you need to prepare his next laboratory by the time we return.”
Silence descended as father and son pondered my proposal. I did my best not to gulp the exquisite Napoleon brandy, or puff the cigar like a cheap cheroot.
The elder Moreau spoke.
“I have not seen my son in more than ten years, and my time is waning. I should like to speak to him again before I am gone. Will you excuse us while Henri and I discuss this privately? Sophie can show you her greenhouse.”
“I would be honored, Monsieur Moreau.”
Moreau instructed the servant to find Sophie, whose “greenhouse” turned out to be a vast indoor field of flowers: chrysanthemums, gladiolas, lilies, carnations, fragrant and exotic species completely unknown to me. They were laid out in row after row in rich, well irrigated soil, the temperature kept at a steady 85 degrees, with considerable humidity. I could not control the sweat beading on my brow; the lovely doll at my side scarcely seemed to notice any of it.
“This is your hobby?” I asked, unable to keep the wonder from my voice.
For the first time, Sophie smiled and laughed, the sound like tinkling bells. The fragrance proved a bit intoxicating, though the brandy considerably aided that feeling. I found Sophie’s presence intoxicating, and beat down a sudden urge to kiss her.
“I should like to talk with your florist,” said I. “I recognize some sophisticated hybrids here.”
“I am my own florist,” the girl said with pride. “I instruct the staff on the care and creation of these flowers. They are my passion, my solace. Let me show you something.”
Sophie led me to the section where she grew her roses, directing my attention to one bush in particular. The petals alternated in color between red and white in a manner I had never encountered before. The outer row of petals red, the next one in white, and so on, to a white dot at the center.
“It’s not quite there yet,” Sophie said, the pride evident in her voice. “I want a pink and white variety. That would be more pleasing to the eye, don’t you think? I will name it the Moreau Rose, of course.”
Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain Page 11
