Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain

by Stephen Seitz

  I have also been fascinated by the sea creatures we have encountered so far. Seabirds are ever hopeful for the occasional scrap, and the ocean’s predators are also close by, hoping some of the birds might get careless. If, for some reason, my quest fails (and right now I don’t see how it can), then I might make some inquiries into marine biology.

  I conducted a small experiment of my own by casting a few chunks of bread into the water. Several of the gulls dove for the treat, ignoring or not seeing the dorsal fin which surfaced almost immediately. As the birds maneuvered so as to get to the bread first, the fin bobbed patiently nearby and disappeared. Just as the first gull snatched a morsel, the water breached and a great grey shark, its terrible jaws wide and powerful, took the gull whole and disappeared under the water. The other birds scattered, but one stayed away only long enough to make another try at the floating bread. This time, when the shark attacked, the gull, prize in its beak, gracefully eluded the gnashing teeth and soared into the bright blue sky, a sign of intelligence. It had learned from its fellow’s fate.

  A hue and cry among the sailors snapped my attention to stern, where several sailors, some armed with revolvers, dragged a heavy net as quickly as they could.

  “What’s the trouble?” I asked.

  “One of the animals is loose!”

  Rushing forward, I spotted a large, orange primate: the orangutan had somehow escaped its cage and made its way to the deck. Our seasoned captain, one Francois Vigneault, ordered his men to circle the beast in the hope of trapping it in a net.

  “Kill it if you have to,” he said, but I objected.

  “He’s confused and frightened,” I said. “I’m a zoologist. Let me take care of this.”

  “You have managed such creatures, Challenger?”

  “I have studied apes in the field. I know how they behave. Get me some of those apples from the galley.”

  Our ship had three masts and two smokestacks, and little in the way of climbing opportunities. Two of the sailors sought to distract the beast while two others hoped to drop the net over it. But the orangutan heard his captors positioning themselves, and jumped onto one of the sailors, who flailed helplessly in the creature’s grasp.

  “Get him off me! Get him off me!” he bellowed in French.

  The beast seemed to understand, and threw the helpless sailor aside, over the rail and into the ocean. The others raced to his rescue, leaving only the captain and myself to deal with the now enraged creature. With a seeming snort of contempt, it pushed passed us, and made its way to safety, up in the rigging.

  “Well, Challenger?” Vigneault said. “What do we do now, O Master of the Apes?”

  “We wait,” I said. “He can’t stay up there forever.”

  He could, however, get some no doubt badly needed exercise after having been imprisoned in the dark cargo hold for more than a week. In fact, the great ape put on a considerable show of its acrobatic acumen, its rage and anger fading in favor of joy at being free. It swung from rope to rope along the mast and kept going higher, ever higher, until it reached the flagpole atop the mast and hung there, almost majestic against the bright white sky.

  One of the sailors appeared with a sketch pad, and began drawing, capturing the remarkable moment.

  “That’s Sabourin,” Vigneault said. “He’s not really a merchant sailor. He has visions of becoming an artiste. He studies at an academy in Paris, but he has no genuine experience of life. How could anyone, away from the sea? We are certainly giving him some inspiration now, are we not?”

  “I hope he’s good,” I said, as if I know anything about painting. I prefer a good photograph, myself. A photograph is closer to truth than any drawing, no matter how brilliant the painter may be. I must make a note to ask him for the picture, if he is willing to part with it. It’s the only visual record of this incident.

  After a while, the orangutan slowed down, and came to rest on one of the spars. Perhaps it was even dozing; it was hard to tell from so far away.

  “Time to lay the trap,” I said.

  We spread the net out on the deck below the brute, and left out a large bowl of water and plenty of fruit, much to the delight of the flies which romantics of the sea never seem to mention in their endless tales of adventure and derring-do. Apes, I don’t believe, are particular about their food so long as it is edible.

  The day waned, and, on Vigneault’s orders, the men stayed below in their quarters. Four of us secreted ourselves in lifeboats, waiting. Not until twilight did the orangutan decide it was safe to descend. Though hungry and tired, it was still suspicious, and did not approach the bait for at least fifteen minutes. Finally, it drank greedily, and that’s when we sprung the trap.

  The net’s corners snapped upward, trapping the beast as we feverishly pulled on the ropes to suspend the creature until we could maneuver it back into its cage. It let out a howl of anger and betrayal, and thrashed about, scattering apples and grapes all around. Lanterns were needed by the time we got the creature’s cage on deck, and we lowered the animal gently and carefully, until we could push it inside the door and cut it free of the netting.

  The poor creature stared at us through the bars, its eyes sad and seeking pity, not knowing what it had done to deserve a fate like this, its brief exercise in freedom now a frustrating memory. I did feel pity for the brute, knowing the pain it would soon experience. I had to harden my heart and remind myself that the greatest good is always achieved at a high price.

  The day’s surprises did not end there.

  I was relaxing in my cabin after the day’s frenetic events, when a new hubbub caught my ear, and two sailors marched someone past my cabin, on their way to the bridge. My heart pounded as I realized what had happened, and I burst onto the deck to follow.

  “Wait!” I cried. “Wait! I know her!”

  Sophie Moreau pulled herself free and ran to my arms. She was tired, dirty, dressed in peasant clothing, hungry, and cold, but I let the love in my heart warm her, give her safety. I took her into my cabin, telling the sailors, “Please let me deal with this situation. I’ll explain later.”

  Hustling her into my cabin, I gave her a soothing glass of claret and some food. She sat on the edge of my berth, her eyes bright with the nervous energy of fear.

  “How did you manage this?” I wanted to know, but Captain Vigneault stormed in, furious.

  “Challenger, I’m told you know this stowaway,” he said. “This is all we need, a woman on a vessel where the men haven’t seen a female face for at least a week! Are you mad?”

  “Sophie, this is Captain Vigneault,” I began, but she stopped me with a brief and inappropriately coquettish look.

  “I am George’s wife,” she said. “My name is Sophie. I understand this vessel is going to my uncle, Alexandre, whom I have not seen since I was a young girl.”

  “This is a serious matter,” said Vigneault. “We send people to jail for this. Sometimes we put them to hard labor while they’re aboard.”

  Sophie opened a small coin purse and extracted a single coin, tossing it to Vigneault.

  “This is 20 francs!” Vigneault said.

  “That should cover the expense, no?” she asked, producing another. “And, of course, I appreciate your generosity in allowing me to stay with my husband. Could we have a larger cabin, perhaps?”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange,” said Vigneault, who had calmed considerably. “Please pardon my anger, Madame.”

  “Of course. Could you leave us, please? George and I have plans to make.”

  Alone at last, I gave Sophie a proper kiss, and then asked her what had happened.

  “Husband?”

  Sophie produced two plain wedding bands from her coin purse. Only then did I notice that the blue diamond engagement ring given to her by the Baron von Edelshausen no longer sparkled on
her third finger. It must have brought her quite a bit of money.

  “I had to guess at your size,” she said, handing me my ring. “Now we can voyage together. They will forgive a small deception, yes?”

  “Especially for 20 francs in gold. Sophie, why are you here?”

  “Once you left, I realized you were right,” she said. “I could spend the rest of my days in slavery to my grandfather’s avarice, or I could be happy with you, regardless of our fortunes. There is also the mysterious Alexandre, the relation of whom no one speaks. I decided I could not stay away. I left my family a note telling them I have gone to London. They’ll scour the city, never knowing what really happened until it’s too late.”

  “Were you planning to spend the entire voyage down in the cargo hold?”

  “If necessary. But then—”

  She stopped, and I suddenly knew why.

  “You let the orangutan out, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t intend to,” she said. “The poor thing is only fed twice a day, and its cage cleaned only once. All those animals, the chimpanzee, the leopard, the wolf, suffer in the dark, and it tears my heart to think of these innocent creatures terrified in the name of science. I’m sure Uncle treats them humanely in his experiments, but even so, my heart goes out to them.”

  I kept silent on this. In fact, I do hope to persuade Moreau to forego any studies in pain he might be making. Surely he has learned enough by now.

  “All I wanted to do was give it some more food,” she said.

  “You couldn’t slide it through the bars?”

  “I wasn’t thinking. I thought it might want company, so I entered the cage.”

  “Sophie! That was an enormously stupid thing to do!”

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “That ape was my only companion down there. I had no one to talk to, and little to occupy my time. So we formed a kind of bond. He trusted me when I gave him food and water, and I began to trust him. I think I took the poor creature too deep into my heart. I felt sorry for him.”

  “Well, you know better now, and you’re where you belong,” I said. “I’ll keep you safe, my love.”

  With that, we kissed and retired to my cabin to make up for lost time.

  Part Five

  Watson’s Journal

  March 9, 1887

  “There it is, Watson. The island of Dr. Moreau.”

  At long last. I have been wanting to get my legs onto dry land. The gentlemen at Morrison, Morrison & Dodd have secured us berths aboard the American cargo steamer Mississippi Delta, bound for San Francisco by way of Hawaii. Our errand will cost them a day or two, but delays are hardly unusual in shipping circles.

  Ahead of us lay a large island with a small mountain towering above the lush green vegetation and tropical trees. For some reason, it had never shown up on any charts known to our captain, one Bernard Morris. The midmorning sun bore down on us, the humidity oppressive, and the wind little more than a warm and clammy breeze which did nothing to cool us. As we steamed closer to the island, I became aware that something was terribly wrong. A thick, black cloud of smoke hung over the boathouse and pier like a funeral pall, clearly the result of some sort of conflagration.

  “Watson, the glasses!” Holmes barked, grabbing the binoculars from my grasp and training them on a spot in the water. A moment later, he frowned and said, “I see bodies floating ahead. Better alert the captain that we may need to take survivors aboard.”

  I took a look for myself; at this distance, all I could make out were bobbing corpses, and I doubted there would be a heartbeat among them.

  Captain Morris launched us and some of his men in a pair of dinghies, and we rowed toward the floating masses as quickly as we could. Coming closer to the island, there was now no doubt: there had been a great fire of some sort, and it still burned, though the flames seemed to be diminishing.

  The sailors pulled the body of a blond man dressed in khakis into our boat. Holmes uttered a cry of surprise.

  “It’s Montgomery!” he said. “If he’s dead, what has happened to Dr. Moreau? We need to get to the island immediately!”

  “What’s to be done with this man, sir?” asked one of the sailors.

  “Toss him back,” said Holmes, his voice cold. “This man does not deserve a decent Christian burial.”

  “And those, sir?” asked the sailor, pointing to a pair of black, fur-covered forms bobbing a few yards away.

  “Bring them aboard. I want to take a closer look.”

  My poor powers of description do not allow me to accurately convey the disgust and pity that rose in my throat at the sight of these inhuman aberrations. The giant rats were bad enough. But these? They were not beasts, they were not men. They had human-like facial features, but, like the animals they had been originally, wore no clothing. What they had been before they came under Dr. Moreau’s knife, I simply could not tell. One might have been a bear once; another may have been a jungle animal of some sort.

  The sailors, a superstitious lot to begin with, shied away from the unnatural atrocities.

  “Mr. Holmes, what sort of devil creatures are these?” asked the coxswain. “They must have come from the very pits of Hell.”

  “You’re more right than you know,” Holmes said. “These pitiful beasts have been through hells of their own to have turned out like this.”

  Holmes gave the bodies as careful an examination as he could, given the circumstances. Once or twice, I heard him whistle with a reluctant admiration.

  “Watson, take a look,” Holmes said. “Note the precise patterns where Moreau stitched. If I thought he was a brilliant surgeon before, I can only say he has exceeded his powers tenfold. He has to be using extremely specialized and delicate instruments to achieve results like this.”

  I examined Moreau’s handiwork, and I must admit the man’s sheer genius for surgical technique. Grafts such as these simply are not possible by any medical science I understand; it is as if Moreau went so far as to somehow fuse individual cells.

  “I did not think it possible, but he has gone far beyond his early work,” said Holmes. “I believe he may well have knocked on the door of evolution. These combinations simply should not be possible. It can only mean he has achieved biochemical perfection of a sort.”

  “What could make such a man turn so wrong?” I asked. “He could have been the greatest surgeon of his time.”

  Holmes shrugged.

  “Sir, we have company!” cried a sailor from the other boat.

  As of from nowhere, a cargo vessel similar to our own had appeared, about a nautical mile behind the Mississippi Delta.

  “That has to be the Meribelle, out of Marseille,” Holmes said. “I had hoped to beat her by a day. Coxswain, is there any way we can get to the island first?”

  “Only if we return to the ship right now,” came the reply.

  “Right. Toss these accursed things overboard and get us back.”

  As we rowed, I asked Holmes, “How do you know this is the ship?”

  “Beyond the simple fact that it is here? I sent telegrams to shipping companies asking which would be carrying the supplies Moreau needs to conduct his experiments. Once I found a ship carrying exotic animals, saline, and specialized medical equipment, I knew we had our quarry.”

  Returning to the Delta took longer than Holmes wanted, and the Meribelle came up fast, almost overtaking us. Captain Morris ordered full steam, and the Delta sped ahead. Over on the other ship, I saw someone waving at us like a man gone berserk, anger and fury evident on his heavily bearded face. Smiling, I waved a rude hand gesture at him and called Holmes over.

  “Holmes, you’re not going to believe this,” I said, handing him the binoculars.

  “I should have known,” said Holmes. “I’ll say this for Challenger, he’s one determine
d man. Can you make out what he’s saying?”

  “Nothing complimentary, I fancy.”

  The Meribelle lurched forward with a sudden burst of speed, and we were now in a race for the harbor, which had a loading dock and boathouse, the latter of which had caught fire and burned bright against the hazy sky. Captain Morris gained us some distance by feinting toward our rivals, forcing them to swing widely to avert a collision, even as Morris deftly swung our ship back.

  “Couldn’t stop myself, Mr. Holmes,” he said, a wicked grin lighting up his grizzled and leathery face, the face of a man who lived for the sea. “I never can resist riling the frogs.”

  “Well done, Captain,” Holmes said. “They’d welcome you in our navy.”

  Despite Captain Morris’s maneuver, we still only beat the Meribelle by a few knots, having to greatly slow our speed to avoid crashing into the loading dock, which, happily, seemed too wet to catch the blaze from the boathouse nearby. Holmes and I drafted some sailors to take dinghies to shore as the Delta prepared to dock.

  “We need to move fast,” said Holmes. “We’ll have to split up. Coxswain, please take three men and see what’s happening on the beaches. The rest of you, let’s investigate that fire.”

  Following the columns of smoke, we came upon the smoldering remains of a small compound with several buildings, but nothing so luxurious as those quarters Holmes had described from his encounter with Moreau in Sumatra. A few small fires still burned in the debris.

  “Be careful,” Holmes instructed. “New flames could erupt at any second.”

  I went into what had been the courtyard and spotted the charred remains of a man, surrounded by the smoking bodies of a number of strange creatures I doubt the most sophisticated of zoologists could identify. The human skeleton remained somewhat intact; most people don’t know it takes a minimum of 800 degrees Fahrenheit to fully consume a human body. Remembering Holmes’ technique of describing a man from a few measurements, I noted the length of bone, its remaining mass, the approximate size of the rib cage.