Sherlock Holmes-The Army of Doctor Moreau

by Guy Adams

  Not being altogether able to recommend the experience of combat, I decided to try and change the subject.

  “I wanted to talk to you about a series of press articles I remember from a few years ago,” I said.

  “Oh,” he replied. “I rather hoped you were planning to offer me a novel.”

  “Just short stories at the moment I’m afraid,” I said. “I haven’t the time for a full-length piece.”

  “But the public love the serials,” he insisted. “They queue up around the block.”

  “I’m afraid most of our cases just don’t really suit the format.”

  “Couldn’t they be … well, padded out a bit?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “You know—a few red herrings, trips to the country. Throw in another moor and they’ll be biting our hands off—they were as rabid as the damned dog during our serialisation of the Baskerville case!”

  “I understand that, Norman,” I said. “But I really can only work with the case files I have. Besides, I think the stories read much better when they’re kept trim.”

  “Our bank disagrees. What are you working on at the moment? Following up that business with the chef?”

  “Chef?”

  “Andre Le Croix. Famous chap, fat, did a runner on the opening night of his new restaurant.”

  “Not really our sort of thing.”

  “No, I suppose not. Shame though, I was one of the diners and the whole night put me out a couple of quid. You sure I couldn’t get you to hunt him down for me?”

  “I’m not your personal debt-collection service, Norman. I’m afraid the current case is not for publication.”

  “Top secret, eh?” he asked, a vicious glint in his eye.

  The last thing I wanted to do was encourage him. “Not at all, it just wouldn’t make a very good story. Now, about these articles …” Which was when the coffee arrived, and my request was curtailed by the serving of drinks. I fielded the offer of sandwiches.

  Finally, while Norman’s mouth was filled with salmon paste, I tried to get the information I was after.

  “Dr Moreau,” I said. “Disgraced physiologist. Who was the reporter that broke the story?”

  Norman swallowed, somewhat reluctantly. “What do you want to bring that lunatic up for?” he asked. “Thinking about him’s likely to put me right off my sandwiches.”

  I apologised, and waffled about researching for a science-fiction story.

  “Science fiction?” he asked, poking uncertainly at the indeterminate filling of another sandwich with the nib of his pen. “What do you want to write that sort of rubbish for? Grisly murders and heaving bosoms, that’s what the readers want.” He popped the sandwich into his mouth. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a bit of both myself.”

  “I may not even want to publish,” I insisted. “But you know what it’s like when you have an idea—you just have to follow where the muse takes you …” This was unutterable guff but Norman swallowed it as easily as his ad hoc breakfast.

  “Fella’s name was Mitchell,” he said. “He was a freelancer. Believe it or not I’ve published him myself. Though keep it under your hat—the three or four old pussies who write demanding to know who authored ‘The Adventures of Professor Q’ have been informed it’s a state secret.” He winked over the rim of his coffee cup as he took a big mouthful. “That sort of nonsense sells copies. I can give you his address if you like.”

  “If you’re sure he wouldn’t mind?”

  “My dear Doctor, you don’t know writers like I do—he’ll be over the moon to have such a famous personage on his doormat. I give it five minutes before he’s trying to convince you to co-write a novel with him!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In actuality, the subject of co-writing a novel never came up. But then Mitchell clearly had other things on his mind. He spent the first five minutes convincing himself I wasn’t a spy for the Russian monarchy —it would seem he had been writing a piece on them that had ruffled some Tsarist feathers. Eventually it was my mentioning Mycroft that finally calmed him down.

  “That’s a name that rarely brings good news,” he said, “though at least he was never boring.”

  Sentiments mirrored by Sherlock, I noted.

  “I haven’t heard from him for years. I did him a small favour once—brought certain matters to a head in order to serve his purpose.” He smiled. “We all have to do our bit for Queen and country after all.”

  Rather than spin a similar tale to the one I had offered Norman Greenhough, I simply explained to Mitchell that I wanted to know everything he could tell me about Moreau. I gave no reason but equally offered no excuse. Given that he had worked with Mycroft in the matter, I saw no need to be circumspect. He laughed, which had certainly not been the response I was expecting.

  “I can tell Mycroft hasn’t sent you now,” he said, “he would never countenance such straight talking! The man’s a veritable oyster when it comes to information. I suppose you must be the John Watson?”

  I admitted as much. The stress on the definite article always made me feel bizarrely embarrassed—it was something I was asked rather a lot. I had never grown used to the notion that I was deemed to be famous by the general public. But then, most famous people probably never do. They see themselves from the inside and therefore know they are the very epitome of normality and drudgery.

  “I suppose therefore—” he smiled “—I’m a writer. You must forgive me but we do a lot of supposing—that you’re involved in an investigation with Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

  Once again I admitted he was right, but still chose not to elaborate.

  “You’re going to make me keep guessing, aren’t you Doctor?” he smiled.

  “Isn’t that what journalists excel at?” I replied, returning his smile.

  “I suppose it is.” He took a cigarette from a small case he kept in his jacket pocket and offered one to me. Realising I would be better off trying to get along with the man than continually rebut him, I took one and we smoked for a minute while he ransacked his shelves.

  “That was a fascinating period,” he said, sucking contemplatively on his cigarette. “Terrifying of course, but Moreau was quite the most fascinating man I had ever met.”

  “And surely one of the most reprehensible?”

  “Oh yes—” he smiled “—that too. But then I spend a great deal of my time in the company of truly loathsome human beings. Most of the work I’ve done has been getting under the skin of the real monsters in our society.”

  “I suppose I could say the same, Holmes certainly could.”

  “And are you digging away beneath just such a surface now?”

  I realised I couldn’t expect him to offer me much unless I showed myself to be at least partially willing to share.

  “Our current investigation overlaps with the work of Moreau,” I said. “He casts a long shadow and it would be extremely useful were we to be able to understand him a little better.”

  “Understand him? Oh I doubt you’ll ever do that. He was quite beyond such a thing as comprehension. I simply followed in his wake and tried to conceive of his goals. Of course, at the time, it was by no means certain he actually had any. He talked big, naturally. All scientists do in my experience—they all intend to make us live forever or crack the Earth open like an egg. Still, I found it hard to believe that the things he did within that laboratory had a viable goal. Back then, of course, I had very little scientific knowledge at all, so it’s hardly surprising that his work was beyond me. From what I heard later it seems likely that he wasn’t quite as pointlessly mad as most people originally thought.”

  “Where did you hear about his later work?” I was by no means certain that he should know of such things, though if he had worked with Mycroft I dare say he was privy to more information than most.

  “You hear most things in my line of work, Doctor,” he said, “especially when you’ve been doing it for as long as I have. I heard all about Edw
ard Prendick and his story of having met Moreau in the South Pacific, about the creatures he met there …”

  “And did you believe any of it?”

  “I can honestly say I would be willing to believe anything with regards Moreau, he was an extremely capable monster.” He suddenly jumped up from his seat. “I kept all of my notes from the time I spent working with him,” he said, moving over to his desk and picking up a large folder. “They’re not pleasant reading but you’re welcome to borrow them should they be useful.”

  “You’re too kind.” This was more than I had hoped for.

  “No, it comes with a price—would you keep me informed? I know you can’t tell me everything, but I would appreciate being involved as much as you can allow. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d worked with the government!”

  I was by no means sure this was a deal I could afford to accept, but the opportunity to take his notes was a hard one to turn down.

  “As soon as I can reveal more,” I said, “I will. I’ll even ask Mycroft if you can be put in the picture. How would that be?”

  At the mention of Mycroft his face soured a little. “Perhaps it would be better not to appeal to him,” he said. “I’ve found myself somewhat at odds with him in recent years.”

  “He can be a hard gentleman to get on with.”

  Mitchell nodded. “And I often find myself in, shall we say, legally complex positions.” He grinned at his phraseology. “As a journalist you sometimes have to tread delicately to get the story you want. I’ve done nothing that I’m ashamed of, I hasten to add, but I can understand why Mycroft felt it necessary to distance himself from me. He does have to maintain a whiter-than-white reputation.”

  He handed the file over. “Never mind, tell me what you can when you can, I’ll settle for that. If there’s a story in it down the line I’d like to be ahead of the game.”

  “Understood.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I left Mitchell’s home with the bundle of notes beneath my arm, and ruminated upon whether to return to Baker Street or continue fishing for information. The thought of Holmes’ insufferable arrogance decided me. Instead of making my way home I called in at Scotland Yard.

  “Doctor!” Lestrade was apparently pleased to see me, which brought to mind Holmes’ statements from the night before. Did the policeman truly resent the impression I had created of him in the popular press? I decided simply to ask him outright, and to Hell with it. He stared at me for a moment, clearly surprised by the question. Then he laughed.

  “I don’t think I’ve had to pay for a single beer in the last twelve years, Doctor,” he said, “which is more than enough compensation for any slights on my professional ability.” He took a big mouthful from a cup of tea on his desk. “There’s not a copper from here to Glasgow that doesn’t want to hear a story or two. ‘Is ’e really like ’e seems in the magazines?’ they ask. ‘Can ’e really do those tricksy little numbers where he guesses all about a person from the way they comb their hair or knot their tie?’ The questions are never-ending.”

  “That alone must get somewhat tiresome,” I suggested.

  “Nah …” Lestrade dumped his teacup back on the desk, where its dregs splashed onto a stack of crime reports. It made me think of bloodstains. Perhaps I was spending altogether too much time with Holmes—everywhere I looked I imagined murder. “To be honest,” Lestrade continued, “the attention’s nice really. You don’t get much credit in this job. You’re someone to spit on or lob a brick at. More often than not when I say my name people want to shake my hand, not punch me. I doubt it’s done me much harm with the powers that be, either.”

  “So, everything considered, I should be asking for a commission rather than apologising?”

  He laughed. “There’s no spare from my wage, Doctor! That’s not changed, whatever else has!” He sat up straight, perhaps reminded by discussion of his salary that he had a job to do. “Surely you didn’t come over here just to ask me about that, though?”

  I admitted as much. “I was wondering if you could get me information on the death of a man called Edward Prendick. He lived somewhere rural and was believed to have committed suicide by drinking acid.”

  “‘Lived somewhere rural’?” Lestrade laughed. “Don’t believe in making things easy for me, do you?”

  “Sorry, I had hoped to be able to narrow it down further.”

  “Actually you might be in luck, the name rings a bell.” He got up and stuck his head out of the door of his office. “Oi!” he shouted. “Albert, ’as George left yet?”

  A distant voice echoed back. “Only just—’ang on a tick!”

  There was a pause and the distant sound of shouting. After a few moments, a familiar, bespectacled face popped its head around the door.

  “You wanted me?” asked Inspector Mann, a detective Holmes and I had met recently when investigating the grotesque death of Lord Ruthvney. He was wrapped in several layers against the cold, making him appear to waddle slightly as he entered the room. On noticing me, he laughed, shuffled over and shook my hand. “Well if it isn’t Dr Watson,” he said, “the man partially responsible for the most incomprehensible police statement I’ve ever had to write.”

  “Yes, I imagine it took some imaginative filing.”

  “Indeed it did. It’s all very well for Mr Holmes—he doesn’t have to bundle his deductions up into carefully constructed paragraphs and lists.”

  “He leaves that to me,” I replied.

  “Well, next time we cross paths perhaps you could be so good as to hand over the relevant issue of The Strand and I’ll just file that.”

  He looked to Lestrade and put his hands in his pockets. “Might this be just such an occasion?”

  “Indeed it might,” I admitted, “if you know anything about the death of Edward Prendick.”

  He smiled. “Can I not have a single bizarre death on my patch without you two getting involved?” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Do you want the quick version or the full tour? I was just heading back there and you’re welcome to join me if you have the time and inclination.”

  I thought about it for a moment and decided the latter was definitely the way to go. If I was determined to gather evidence to rival Holmes then I needed to do it as per his methods and visit the actual scene of the crime.

  “I’m game for a trip to the country!” I replied.

  “Fine luck for some,” said Lestrade.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Mann and I made our way to Liverpool Street Station and boarded the one o’clock train to Billericay.

  En route, Mann entertained me with stories of his country career. It was clear that he hankered for the crimes of the city despite the fact that he couldn’t bear the thought of living there. “One must choose to cater for the soul or the brain,” he said. “The former is never happier than when surrounded by green, but the latter begins to fossilise.”

  He kindly insisted on sharing his sandwiches—there was no dining car on such a local service of course—and it was an enjoyable journey, watching the buildings give way to fields as we munched on tongue and chutney.

  On arrival at Billericay, Mann led me to the police station, a small building just off the main high street.

  It was a charming little place and I could see why Mann was comfortable there. Still, having becoming utterly converted to city life I think I would have become bored of “Mrs Wilkinson’s Tea Shoppe” and the company of the tweedy old squires seen through the window of the Dog and Sheep.

  The station contained a small, open-front office manned by a large officer whose lustrous sideboards made him appear positively ovine.

  “Afternoon, Sir,” he said. “Fine time in the city was it?”

  Mann smiled at me. “To Constable Scott, London is a mythical place, a foreign land.”

  “They certainly do things differently there,” Scott agreed. “I can’t say as I’ve ever fathomed what people see in it.”

  You woul
d have thought Billericay was a remote Scottish island, not a market town a stone’s throw from the capital.

  Mann led me through to his office, which was filled floor to ceiling with well-stocked bookcases. I glanced along the shelves and saw everything from military history to gothic romances.

  “I like to read,” he admitted, “and the missus says I can’t clutter the place up at home.”

  “Married life, eh?” I said with a smile, falling into the usual male banter.

  “Ah,” he said. “So there is a Mrs Watson then, eh?”

  “There was,” I replied, feeling suddenly awkward, as all widowers do. People don’t like to hear about loss, they rarely know how to respond to it.

  Mann handled it better than some. “Sorry to hear that,” he said with a smile. “You always think you know the people you read about, of course you only know the half of people’s lives.”

  “The half they choose to tell you.”

  “Indeed.”

  Sensing that the best way forward was to move on, he reached for a folder of notes that sat in the tray on his desk. “On the matter of Edward Prendick, perhaps it’s better if I walk you through the affair. I have my notes here, for whatever help they may offer, and I still have a key to his house courtesy of the dead man’s solicitor.” He took the latter from a drawer in his desk and dropped it into his overcoat pocket. The folder of notes under his arm, he gestured to the door. “No sooner are we arrived than we head off again,” he smiled. “It’s a short walk to the house but I can give you the background on the way.”

  It was important, I felt, that we had one thing clear above all others:

  “Is there any chance that the body found was not that of Edward Prendick?” I asked. “Had the acid disfigured enough to disguise his identity?”

  “It did considerable damage of course,” Mann agreed, “but the face was clear enough. The man we carried out of here was certainly Edward Prendick.”

  Which meant that the list of those theoretically able to replicate Moreau’s work was most definitely reduced to two, the man himself and his assistant Montgomery, both of whom were supposed to have died on the island but we would never know for sure, not now that the one and only eyewitness was confirmed dead.