Sherlock Holmes-The Army of Doctor Moreau

by Guy Adams

  “Oh, it were a mess all right,” the old man said. “You’ve never seen the like.”

  Holmes scoffed. “Don’t be so sure, I’ve seen sights in my time that would make a horse sick. Just cos you landlubbers get yourselves in a twist.”

  “The thing was in pieces,” the old man insisted. “It weren’t no body, it were a bag of butcher’s meat.”

  “Like I say then, an animal.”

  “How’s an animal put it in a bag you bloody idiot?” shouted the old man in exasperation at Holmes’ apparent stupidity. “It wasn’t no animal!”

  “Maybe an animal did it then a bloke put it in a bag,” insisted Holmes. “I heard it had bite marks on it.”

  “I don’t give a monkey’s what you’ve heard. I’m telling you it was Kane or one of his lot.”

  There was a silence at that, a clear sense that those around us had been shocked at the mere mention of the man’s name.

  Holmes let the awkwardness hang there for a moment before, with all pretence of innocence, saying, “Who’s Kane then? Local lad is he?” Nobody saw fit to reply. “Only if he’s got any work on offer I might be convinced to keep my feet on dry land for a while.”

  Someone reached out and took Holmes’ drink from him.

  “I’d get out while you still have legs to do so,” said a dry, rasping voice.

  “I didn’t mean nothing,” said the old man, but then shut his mouth once more as he decided silence was his best option for survival.

  “Touchy lot, ain’t you?” said Holmes. “Come on, Jim,” he said and pushed his way towards the door. Realising he meant me, and needing little in the way of encouragement, I followed on.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Well, that went well,” I said with some sarcasm once we were back out on the street.

  “I thought so,” agreed Holmes, offering a smile that, when framed by his bald, tattooed face, looked positively terrifying.

  “What did you hope to gain by that?” I asked. “Other than having to drink two pints of that foul muck they had the audacity to term ‘ale’.”

  Holmes suddenly stopped and yanked me to one side. To the side of the Bouquet of Lilies was a rough lean-to, a small covered area where the landlord kept a padlocked coal-house and a pile of logs. Holmes pushed me into the shadows just as a high-pitched whistling noise rang in my ears. I felt a cold rush of air go past my face as something flashed past and then came to a percussive stop in the upright post of the lean-to.

  “Dear God!” I exclaimed, looking at the still-vibrating hilt of the dagger that had passed not a foot from my head. “That could have been the end of me!”

  “Have patience,” said Holmes. “They probably haven’t finished yet.”

  “I can’t see a thing,” I admitted, staring out into the shadows.

  “Luckily for us, neither can they.”

  Holmes plucked the knife free from the wood and looked at it. “Interesting,” he said, “a German knife.” He glanced at me. “We’ve had a lucky escape, the knife-throwers of Hamburg are incredibly accurate.”

  “I am struck dumb by relief,” I muttered, somewhat exasperated by the way he was happy to show off, even while our lives were under threat.

  We heard the sound of footsteps coming towards us. Holmes grabbed my arm and yanked me towards the street behind the pub. “Run!” he shouted. “Your life depends on it!”

  Didn’t it always?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  We made our way through the backstreets, the sound of footsteps never far behind us. I didn’t know if Holmes had a particular destination in mind. His passage seemed entirely random as we turned left, then right, then left again, weaving our way through the narrow passageways and terraces. More likely, I realised, he was trying to ensure that our pursuers never had a clear line of sight for long enough to throw another knife, like a soldier zigzagging before enemy fire in the hope of avoiding a bullet.

  I was armed. Holmes may mock my willingness to risk the wrath of the law by carrying a loaded firearm on our excursions but I was damned if I was going to skulk around the roughest parts of Rotherhithe without some form of protection. It was little use to me at the moment anyway. I may have been a medical man more than a soldier but even I knew that in the time it took for me to turn around and find my aim I would likely have a knife in my chest. If we were able to find cover so that I could turn the tables then maybe we’d stand a fighting chance. Breathlessly, I suggested as much to Holmes. But he just shook his head and continued to drag me through the backstreets of Rotherhithe.

  We emerged close to the river again, having evidently looped right around. Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me behind a stack of empty crates. I reached for my gun but he held down my hand and placed his fingers to his lips. Within a few moments our pursuers appeared. The first was as hairless as Holmes appeared to be, a thick scar running its way through his pale skin from the top of his head to the corner of his lips. The second made a pretence at refinement, his suit and glistening watch chain such an unfamiliar sight in this environment that it was a wonder he was able to walk the streets unmolested. Or perhaps that said all one needed to know about his potential for violence: only a man confident in his ability to take on all comers would have the audacity to dress in such a manner.

  The man with the scar had a knife in his hand, the partner of the one that had narrowly missed us earlier. He spun it in his hand, letting blade revolve after hilt like a deadly carriage wheel.

  “Lost them,” said the dapper fellow.

  “You give up too easily,” said his scarred comrade, and I noted the German accent as predicted by Holmes. “They must be hiding close by.”

  “Probably.” The other man was struggling to catch his breath. “But I’m in no mood to keep chasing them. I’m not paid to run around the docks all night.”

  “Lazy.”

  The dapper man fixed his comrade with a mean-spirited glare. “Keep a civil tongue, Klaus,” he said. “I’m not beyond beating a bit of respect out of you should it be necessary.”

  Klaus smiled and, thanks to the scar, it twisted all of his features out of kilter. It was as if a painter had swept his hand across the face of a still-wet portrait. “You don’t want to pick a fight with me, Martin, I’ll cut your pretty face off.”

  “Like someone once tried to do to yours?”

  “Oh no,” said Klaus, running the tip of his knife along the thick ridge of his scar, “this was me. I get bored sometimes.”

  Martin shook his head. “The people I have to work with.” He reached into his pocket and removed a silver cigarette case. Taking out a cigarette, he tapped it affectedly on the case, placed it between his lips and then replaced the case in his pocket. From a different pocket he removed a box of matches, lit the cigarette and exhaled a large, blue cloud of smoke. The whole business was so theatrical and affected, clearly designed to show Klaus how singularly unconcerned he was at the man’s threats.

  “Let’s go and see Kane,” he said after another draw on his cigarette. “We’ll tell him that someone was asking after him.”

  “And admit we lost them?”

  Martin shrugged. “I’m not ashamed of it. They obviously knew where they were going. He doesn’t pay me to run around the streets all night.”

  “Fine. Then you will tell him who it was that decided they not bothered to find them.” Klaus wore his accent like a badge, a brutal club to beat his grammar with.

  Martin resorted to showmanship again, tossing his half-smoked cigarette at Klaus’ feet before pushing past him and walking off along the quay. “All right then,” he shouted back. “I will.”

  Klaus ground the cigarette beneath his boot with far more violence than the job warranted, and followed on behind.

  Holmes waited a moment longer and then whispered in my ear. “Now we have someone who can lead us to wherever this Kane fellow conducts his business,” he said. “Far more useful than a pair of crooks with one of your bullets in them, don’t you thin
k?”

  “Of course,” I sighed. “If someone had seen fit to tell me what the plan was in the first place …”

  “I’ve already told you,” said Holmes, “no explanations, you can follow at your own pace.”

  He slipped out from behind the crates and began following Klaus and Martin, keeping to the shadows.

  Restraining the urge to shoot him myself, I did likewise.

  There was something to be said for Martin’s insufferable ego—it made him an easy man to follow. He walked with confidence and swagger, never once feeling the need to check for others around him. He was the only important man in his world. He was an idiot. This fact was not lost on Klaus but he was clearly so angry at his colleague that he was also distracted from the path of common sense. Following them along the quayside was unproblematic, and when they came to the side door of a large warehouse, we hung back and watched as they stepped inside.

  “It would appear Kane has a sizeable central office,” I said, glancing up at the building. “For a new organisation, he’s doing rather well.”

  “Isn’t he,” agreed Holmes.

  According to the large, white letters painted on the side of the building, it belonged to E.C. Kenton & Waldemar, who offered “Animal Feed and Farming Supplies”—all suitably innocuous.

  “Shall we?” asked Holmes, strolling up to the door.

  I took my revolver out of my pocket and we made to step inside.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I pushed past Holmes into the doorway, determined that, if one of us should be poking his nose into the unknown, there should be a loaded firearm nearby in order to stop it being, as it were, cut off.

  I could hear the retreating footsteps of Klaus and Martin, though it was so dark inside I could see nothing. There was a thick, sweet smell of grain and the ground underfoot was slightly sticky as we stepped inside and closed the door behind us.

  Slowly our eyes grew accustomed to the darkness; the faint light offered through the skylights above was enough for us to get an idea of our surroundings. The open space of the warehouse was filled with stacked crates and sacks, row after row of them. Holmes climbed up the closest stack and burrowed beneath the tarpaulin. I heard him draw out a pocket knife and tear at the sack underneath. After a moment he reappeared.

  “As far as I can tell,” he explained, “it’s nothing more than grain.”

  “Hardly criminal.”

  He looked around. “Who knows how much of this is just window-dressing?” he said. “Perhaps Messrs Kenton and Waldemar do indeed deal in animal food, with Kane working under their innocuous cover.”

  He jumped down and we made our way after Klaus and Martin.

  Towards the rear of the warehouse, Holmes bid me to stop as he craned to listen. Just ahead of us there was a rattle of metal and the sound of something being dragged across the floor. We could hear rushing water, accompanied by the sound of Klaus and Martin struggling. Moving closer we saw them, lit by a lantern in Martin’s hand, descending through a hole in the ground.

  “I hate this,” Martin moaned. “Why I can’t work for someone who conducts business where it’s dry and clean is beyond me. Have you seen the state of the walkway down there?” He looked up at Klaus. “What am I asking? You probably feel right at home.”

  Klaus nudged the man with his toe. “Keep with the talk pretty boy, I’ll send you for a swim down there. Let you float to the river with the rest of the filth.”

  Martin paused in his climb down to stare back up at the German. “I have a feeling the two of us aren’t going to work well together,” he said. “I just can’t imagine I won’t end up killing you before the week is out.”

  “You make big promise,” said Klaus, mangling his English more than ever.

  Martin disappeared and, with a low growl like an irritated dog’s, Klaus followed on after him.

  “What charming fellows,” muttered Holmes. “I might advise Kane that he would achieve a great deal more if he could only keep his staff in line.”

  “Seems to me he’s doing all right,” I said. “Though, on reflection, I would aspire to a lair located somewhere other than a sewer.”

  “Perfect place if you can tolerate the smell,” Holmes replied. “A whole city could be hidden beneath our feet, with invisible access to all parts of the metropolis.”

  “All well and good until you die of cholera.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Holmes moved over to the grating which Klaus had slid back into place behind him. “I suggest we give them a few more moments to get clear,” he said. “I am more than capable of following their trail after all. It wouldn’t do to bump into them.”

  “Agreed.” I would happily never come face to face with either gentleman again.

  Holmes walked over to the closest row of crates and flipped back the tarpaulin. Looking around, he spied a crow bar, fetched it and loosened the crate’s lid. He stepped back as the smell from inside assailed his nostrils.

  “Some form of dried meat,” he said, replacing the lid, “packed in strips.”

  “Animal food then. As claimed on the outside of the building.”

  He nodded, reached into his pockets and withdrew a box of matches. “Shall we go?” he asked, squatting down to lift the drain cover.

  I helped him to lift it as noiselessly as possible. Klaus and Martin should have been some way ahead of us by now but the noise would carry down there, and we didn’t want to announce our presence. We stood listening for a moment. Faintly we could hear the sound of talking, presumably the two thugs. It was clearly coming from some distance away. Holmes lit a match and dropped it through the hole. Briefly it illuminated a short ladder leading to a narrow walkway. “It would be wisest to use light sparingly,” he whispered. “To begin with, let us follow the evidence of our ears and be careful where we place our feet.”

  “Very careful,” I agreed, disgusted at the thought of traversing the sewer network in the dark. The pair of us descended.

  I was about to draw the cover back into place when Holmes stopped me. “The sound of you dragging that will travel some way down here,” he said. “We’ll risk leaving it.”

  I nodded, then realised he couldn’t see me, not that it mattered. I could tell he had already begun to move along the walkway.

  Moving as carefully and quietly as I could, I followed Holmes. The sound of voices continued ahead of us. I couldn’t make out the words but the tone clearly marked the speakers as Klaus and Martin.

  We walked for some time and I tried to imagine where our route was taking us above ground. My knowledge of the city south of the river was not good and, while I could tell that we must be some way beyond the docks of Rotherhithe by now, I could say no more. No doubt Holmes could have recited the street and house number but, naturally, he was still sticking to his childish silence.

  After a while, other voices joined those of Klaus and Martin. Clearly we were approaching the hub of Kane’s hideout.

  Light began to filter towards us, though a curve in the tunnel kept its source hidden. Holmes held out his arm and we advanced the last few feet with extra caution. The last thing we wanted to do was suddenly reveal ourselves in a flood of light.

  There was a general bout of raucous welcome as Klaus and Martin were greeted by their comrades. I tried to count how many people were gathered there by discerning their different voices, and decided there were seven or eight—hardly a large gang but more than enough to see us hopelessly outnumbered if our presence was spotted.

  Holmes slipped his head around the bend in the tunnel then pressed his lips close to my ear. “We should have a few more feet of darkness to conceal us,” he said. “Tread carefully and keep that gun of yours handy.”

  I hardly needed encouraging on either point.

  We turned the corner and moved one careful foot at a time, Holmes keeping his eye on where the light fell, judging how close we could get and still remain in shadow were they to look towards us.

  The open space was a verita
ble cathedral of old brick, a central atrium with alcoves around its towering walls. A series of jetties served a central platform. This platform was laid out with tables and chairs, packing crates, other assorted furniture, and provisions —enough for a working camp. The lights were provided by gas lamps strung in diagonal rows across the whole structure. I knew that such impressive sights lay beneath London—feats of engineering both modern and as ancient as the Roman occupation of the city—but I had never imagined they could have been turned to such a purpose.

  A pair of narrow gondolas was moored alongside a jetty by way of transport. No doubt the gang could travel the entire length and breadth of the city without ever having to come up into the fresh air.

  My rough guess had been accurate—there were five other gang members with Klaus and Martin, bringing the total up to seven.

  “Where’s Kane?” Martin asked, dropping into a chair on the central platform.

  One of the others, older than the rest, sporting a genuine version of the white hair and beard I was affecting, took a nostril full of snuff and replied, in a nasal tone of voice, “Out on one of the boats, ain’t he?”

  “Gone fishing!” another shouted.

  “Even he wouldn’t eat what comes out of that water,” a third added. “Most of it’s been eaten once already!”

  There was a roar of laughter at that.

  Klaus took a seat across the room from Martin. “There is someone who is asking questions,” he said. “We made chase but Martin does not like to run.”

  “Crumples his strides, don’t it?” said another in a thick Geordie accent.

  “Wears out his expensive shoe leather!” the lavatorial wit from earlier added.

  “Couldn’t see the point,” Martin insisted. “They weren’t important, probably just after work.”