by Guy Adams
“I decided to investigate the two animal dealers Johnson mentioned. Perhaps a trail could be established, leading from the ledger book of one to the illicit laboratory of the other. It was a worthwhile thread to follow.
“Of the two businesses, that of the Welshman, Thomas, seemed the most likely. Johnson had already established that the majority of his trade was to the scientific community. The business is run from a small shop on the Commercial Road. It presents itself as a most innocent affair, a general store like any other.”
Holmes gestured offhandedly out of the cab window to illustrate his point.
“A small bell above the door alerted Thomas that he had a visitor,” he continued, “and he emerged from a back room while I was perusing his stock.”
Holmes smiled, clearly working his mental way along the memory of the man’s shelves.
“He seemed to carry a little of everything as the most successful of those shops inevitably do—from basic ironmongery to reams of cloth; tinned groceries to children’s toys. And if you couldn’t see it, instructed several hand-printed signs dotted around the place, all you had to do was ask and the management would track it down for you.”
“A bold claim!” I said.
“Indeed,” Holmes agreed, “though I had little doubt it was true, indeed Thomas repeated it as he emerged through a pair of bead curtains and onto the shop floor.
“‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is that you’re hunting for, merely give the word and I shall find it.’
“I had been browsing through the children’s toys at the time, a wooden ark complete with its biblical cargo. I placed a small carved lion on the palm of my hand and showed it to him. ‘Might you have any bigger specimens?’ I asked.”
“Subtle,” I laughed.
“We haven’t time to waste on pussyfooting around,” Holmes replied, “brazen enquiries were the way forward. Thomas was only too happy to match my candour.
“‘How big did you have in mind?’ he said.
“‘I had heard you might be able to provide a full-size example,’ I told him, gathering more of the carved animals and holding them out. ‘In fact I was led to believe you could provide full-size examples of pretty much any animal I chose to name.’
“He smiled, not willing to admit to anything until he had some assurances. ‘As the signs say, Sir, I pride myself on being able to find anything my customers wish to buy. These are difficult times for small businesses and many have chosen to specialise in order to survive in today’s modern financial world. I have taken the opposite route. If you want it, I can get it.’
“‘Regardless of the law?’ I asked.
“He shrugged at that and made a show of disapproval. ‘Naturally, Sir,’ he said, ‘I make it a rule never to come to the attention of the police force. I am merely a businessman doing his best to earn a living.’ A nebulous answer!”
“And one designed to reassure the law-breaking customer,” I noted.
“Most certainly,” he agreed. “I was being invited to commit myself! So I decided to press the point. ‘If I, as a gentleman of science, wished to procure experimental stock—live specimens— then you would be able to help me?’
“‘Nothing illegal in that,’ he said. ‘I do a great deal of work with gentlemen of learning such as yourself. It’s a noble business, expanding one’s knowledge.’
“‘Indeed,’ I said—in full agreement with that sentiment at least—‘but sometimes one might want to circumnavigate some of the legal procedures, the paperwork in particular. I have no great desire for my rivals to know what sort of experiments I am conducting. In fact I would prefer for nobody to know the details.’ Here I decided to leave no room for misunderstanding. “Besides the kind gentleman that might procure such specimens for me in the first place of course.’
“‘Naturally,’ he replied, ‘that could hardly be avoided.’ He laughed a little and then decided to try and gain one more piece of security as to my credentials. ‘Who was it that suggested I might be able to offer such a service?’ he asked. I gave him the name of Moreau and that was enough, Mr Thomas was more than happy to help me and, in so doing, he proved himself the man we were after.”
“Amazing that the man’s name might be deemed any sign of security,” I said.
Holmes nodded. “But you must remember we are dealing with a community that would either endorse Moreau’s work or, in Thomas’s case, simply not care. These are unpleasant waters.” He sighed. “And I’m afraid they remain hard to navigate. The animals are shipped—to Rotherhithe, naturally—and the exchange made at the docks. Thomas retains no paperwork, nor does he have any knowledge of where the animals will end up. It’s a blind sale and therefore no use to us in tracking the purchaser down. Nonetheless the encounter answered a number of questions, most particularly with regards his acknowledging the name of Moreau.”
“So you believe it’s the doctor himself?” I asked. “I haven’t got to the section of Prendick’s report where he claims to see the man die but I suppose it would only be as accurate as its narrator.” I pulled the document free of my pocket and scanned the pages.
“There is a great deal of obfuscation in this case, Watson,” he replied. “As always, there is as much to be interpreted from the contradictions and lies as there is from the facts.”
It irritated me to admit that I didn’t follow.
“People give themselves away as much when they lie as when they tell the truth,” Holmes said, “you just have to discern the difference between the two and the reasons behind them.
“For example, Kane said earlier that the bodies found in Rotherhithe were likely those of people who had simply wandered into his creator’s lair. He claimed that he used to dispose of such accidents when he lived there. But now that he was gone, they were left to wash up wherever the tide took them.”
“It’s a strong tide that washes body parts into a pub.”
“Indeed. Not to mention the fact that the second body had been beaten and manacled before being killed, so hardly someone who had simply wandered in and come to an unlucky end.”
“Kane may not know that, though.”
“Kane’s not stupid. He is also clearly obsessed about his creator. To dismiss those bodies as washed-up accidents is not logical. So why did he say it?”
“I don’t know, why?”
“My point precisely. Aha! We’re here!”
And with that he leapt out of the cab and up the steps of Carruthers’ hotel.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
By the time I had paid the driver and caught up with Holmes, he was halfway up the stairs, running towards Carruthers’ room.
“Would it not be easier just to meet him in the foyer?” I wondered aloud while catching my breath somewhere on the fifth floor.
“Come on, Watson!” Holmes called. “We haven’t time for you to dawdle!”
I made my increasingly breathless way along the corridor of the eighth floor, Holmes a short way ahead, knocking on Carruthers’ door.
“Gentlemen!” the explorer shouted on opening the door to greet us, seemingly unconcerned at the fact that he was wearing nothing but a hat and nightshirt. “How splendid to see you! Shall I order breakfast?”
We were forced to explain that it was four o’clock in the afternoon and that perhaps we would be better off taking tea.
“Ah …” He glanced at himself in the mirror and came to realise that perhaps all was not quite how it should be. “I’m afraid I’ve been scouring the city at night and have quite lost track of my own place in the scheme of things. Perhaps you should order for us and I shall join you in a few moments?”
We agreed that would be for the best and the pair of us made our way back downstairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was no more than ten minutes before we were reacquainted, Carruthers having found a slightly crumpled suit to preserve his modesty before the waiting staff.
“That’s better!” he announced, once abl
e to graze on a plate of bread and butter and eye the cake-stand appreciatively. “One forgets to indulge in the niceties.”
“Food is a nicety?” I asked with a smile.
“Food that comes on a plate at least,” he replied.
“We may well have found you your prey,” said Holmes. “Which will save another night of aimless tracking.”
“Thank the Lord for that,” said Carruthers. “There is nowhere quite so impossible to pin a trail as the city. It has been driving me positively wild.”
“I suppose I have grown used to it,” said Holmes, “as it has become such a familiar hunting ground to me over the years. Still, even when I think I know every inch of it I stumble upon somewhere new.”
“I’m afraid I’m used to areas further afield,” Carruthers admitted. “I’ve spent very little time in the capital. I’m an explorer really, never happier than when I’m far from the place I, somewhat inaccurately, refer to as home.”
“Have you always sought game?” I asked.
“Far from it, in fact I’d never claim to be a hunter at all, though certainly I’ve had occasion to adopt the role. I travel a great deal, as I have mentioned, and tend to find myself drawn to the more dangerous areas of our globe. I have often lent my services to Mycroft’s gathering of intelligence. When it came to finding a man who has pitted himself against nature at its most violent and unpredictable, I imagine Mycroft’s list was small.” He leaned forward in his chair and grinned. “And I dare say most of ’em were far from the capital!”
“It can’t have been easy for my brother to find someone whose discretion could be assured,” said Holmes.
“Indeed,” Carruthers agreed, “the thing with big game hunters is they cannot help but brag, it’s part of the sport. How my ears have grown limp listening to interminable tales of unfortunate tigers!”
“Certainly whatever creatures we find are not for show,” I said. “These heads are never destined for the games-room wall.”
“A fine thing too,” said Carruthers. “I’ve always been more fond of seeing breathing animals than dead ones but, if it’s a case of preserving the lives of innocents, then I shall take my shot when I have it.”
He leaned back in his chair, finally satiated by the considerable tea platter.
“A number of years ago I was forced to make a similar decision on behalf of a village in the Himalayas. They were besieged by a wolf pack, regularly losing their children, the animals creeping into their huts at night and stealing them from their cots.
“The villagers saw it as an act of nature, a punishment no less, for perceived indolence amongst the farmers. I knew better of course and begged the hunters to set out and kill the pack. They refused and it seemed to me that they would simply dwindle, vanishing one by one every night until there was nobody left alive in the place but the fleet of foot or the unappetising.
“I interfered. To do so is to break a cardinal rule amongst those like me who make it their life’s mission to see the world and the varying cultures it offers. Still, I could not stand by and see more die. I saw the weeping parents, trying to remain strong in the eyes of the god they decided had seen fit to punish them, and knew that I could not just stand by.
“I tracked the wolf pack over a period of two days.” He took a calm sip of his tea. “No more children died at their hands.”
“And yet,” Holmes said, “it could be said that nature was simply taking its course, the weak feeding the strong.”
“Survival of the fittest,” Carruthers said. “Whether my Remington could be deemed unnatural or not I think I proved myself fit enough.”
Holmes nodded. “I don’t disapprove,” he said, “just thinking aloud. Darwinism haunts our steps in these matters. I find myself thinking more and more about what this research could bring. Is man wrong to interfere in the passage of so-called natural law or is he simply exhibiting the intelligent dominance that proves the validity of that law? As the dominant species can we not be expected to become stronger and stronger until there is nothing that can harm us? And what then? Where does it all lead? What manner of creature are humans destined to become?”
“Well,” said Carruthers, “if you want my opinion, lonely ones. We can’t seem to bear sharing our world, not with other animals, not with other humans for that matter. If we don’t sort that little flaw out then one day there’ll be nothing left of this planet but a spinning, empty rock.”
“Oh now,” I said, “surely we’re not as bad as all that? Mankind can be capable of great kindnesses and consideration. We’re not the voracious destroyers you think.”
“But those who are outnumber those who aren’t,” he replied. “And I fear they will not stop until they’ve ravaged our world. But then—” he smiled over the ridge of his teacup as he drained it “— if we don’t deal with this Moreau fellow, there might not even be much left of the world to ravage!”
“Sir?” said a waiter at Holmes’ arm. “Are you Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
“I am indeed,” he replied, taking a telegram from the proffered silver platter.
“How on earth could anyone know you were here?” I asked.
“There’s only one man I would rely on to pull such a trick,” he said, opening the telegram.
“Mycroft,” I agreed with a chuckle.
Holmes did not share my good humour. In fact his face was positively ashen as he lowered the telegram. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I fear we may have left it too long to act. A man calling himself Dr Moreau appeared at the Houses of Parliament an hour ago.”
“He’s been captured?” asked Carruthers.
“Far from it,” Holmes replied. “He’s abducted the Prime Minister!”
PART FOUR
THE PIG-HEADED VILLAIN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
All three of us made our way to the Diogenes Club. This time the meeting would take place on Mycroft’s territory, the silent and smoky hallways of which were more than simply a gentlemen’s club.
The Diogenes is often discussed as the strictest and most unfriendly club in the city. Its members, some of the most influential and important men in the land, are forbidden to speak except in certain isolated areas. It prides itself on homing the most unclubbable men in the country, men so anti-social and misanthropic that no other building would have them. Of course this has the effect of making many people wish to join, there is nothing quite so attractive to a certain stratum of society as exclusivity, even if that exclusivity is earned at the cost of their social reputation. But few were allowed to join the club, the board saw to that.
The board was composed of one man, the same man that had established the club so as to have a central office within which to conduct his business: Mycroft Holmes. The club had become an extension of his secret empire, a place filled with those with real power. Not the Cabinet, which was in Mycroft’s view nothing more than an ever-shifting selection of public functionaries, rather than long-term men of money and position. Those who supported the Cabinet; who provided the leverage and finance to see things get done. In many ways the Diogenes was the government, the quietly beating heart at its centre that kept the country afloat. And now, in this state of emergency, that heart was beating harder than ever.
“Good morning, Gentlemen,” said the footman who greeted us at the doorway. “Mr Holmes is expecting you.” He led us up the stairs to the front door. “Need I remind you that, even in these trying times, the rules of the club stand. Once we are beyond those doors you are to say nothing until you are within the visitors’ room.”
“Nothing?” asked Carruthers, a man to whom this sort of behaviour was an anathema.
“Absolutely nothing, Sir,” the footman confirmed. “Failure to observe this rule will result in one of the staff ejecting you from the premises.”
“And we wouldn’t want that,” said Holmes. “I’m sure Carruthers has been thrown out of much better clubs than this in his time, after all.”
“Well, actually, I was once b
anned from the Coleman but that was entirely down to a misunderstanding with regards a demonstration of Chinese wrestling. I got a bit carried away and threw a member of staff through a picture window. It was quite a scandal at the time.”
“No doubt,” I said.
We were ushered through the front door into the charge of another member of staff, this one even more aged than the last. He had the face of a baby bird, a bulbous cranium surrounded by straggling hair with a nose that looked more than up to the task of fishing a snail from its shell. He gave a deferential nod that turned into a panicked shake as Carruthers opened his mouth to greet him. I nudged the garrulous explorer in the ribs and was relieved to see he got the hint. He adopted a music-hall routine of mime, rolling his eyes, slapping his wrist and making buttoning gestures at his lips.
The bird-faced gentleman led us up the giant staircase to the fourth floor of the club. I often wondered if the visitors’ areas were located on the top floor as an extra deterrent against sociability. Certainly there was little Mycroft would dread more than climbing all those stairs. He would never make the journey unless it was absolutely unavoidable.
We were led into the main visitors’ room where Mycroft sat in the window observing the street outside. Whenever I had met him here this was the position he adopted. I realise now that it was his version of that walk Holmes and I had conducted through the city. It was Mycroft’s opportunity to remind himself what the real world —and all the people in it—were really like.
“Well,” he said, without turning around, “I don’t imagine any of us thought matters would come to a head as quickly as this.”
“Indeed not,” Holmes agreed standing at Mycroft’s side and gazing through the glass at the street below. “Tell us what happened.”
“The Prime Minister was addressing the House of Lords on the matter of Ireland,” Mycroft sighed, “as he so often does. It was neither a particularly heated debate nor an important one, just the usual hot air that keeps that building warm through the winter months.
