“And thus be able to furnish us with a name. Where does Whateley live?”
“Kelvin avers, albeit without much certainty, that he resides in Pimlico.”
“No address?”
“None. But at least we have somewhere to start. Let us sally forth and hail a hansom. The game, as you so often have me declare in your stories, is afoot.”
* * *
Pimlico I have always found a dark, odd backwater of London. It seems defined not by what it is but by what it is not. It is neither Westminster nor Belgravia nor Chelsea, but rather occupies a trapezoidal space bounded by those three well-heeled and desirable boroughs and, to the south, by the Thames, as though it were created merely to fill a gap in the capital’s geography, like some sort of architectural patch. Its Regency-style terraces, for all their white frontages, look drab and forlorn, its treeless streets joyless.
This impression I found all the more marked as our cab clattered towards its destination beneath a sinking, reddening sun. Children in broken shoes darted across the unswept roadway, yelling and shrieking. Curtains billowed listlessly from half-open windows. Unseen dogs desultorily barked.
“How do we go about finding Whateley’s house?” I asked. “Are we simply to knock on doors until we chance upon the correct one?”
“More or less,” came the reply. “There is, at times, no substitute for good old-fashioned legwork. Come!”
For the next hour Holmes and I travelled from house to house, asking at each whether a Nathaniel Whateley lived there and, failing that, if the occupants knew of a young American gentleman by that name in the vicinity. It was dull, dispiriting work, and often as not we were greeted with a gruff rebuke. Polite though we were, some of the householders seemed to regard our presence on their doorstep as an imposition, while others, mistaking us for rent collectors or bailiffs, were frankly hostile.
Just as I was abandoning all hope of success, Holmes proposed a change of tack. Spying a band of urchins loitering on a corner, he said to me, “It is a truth universally acknowledged amongst gold prospectors that the least promising-looking terrain can yield the most profitable seams.”
I doubted this was demonstrable fact, yet nonetheless I followed him as he approached the assembled ragamuffins and queried them about Whateley.
One lad, perhaps the grubbiest-faced of them all, piped up. “The Yank, you say? I know where you can find ’im.”
“Nathaniel Whateley?” said Holmes. “You’re sure?”
“If that’s ’is name,” said the lad with a shrug. “Ain’t many Yanks as live around ’ere. Something of a toff, ’e is, for an American. Dresses nice. Shoes always shiny. Lobs me the odd penny now and then.”
“Ah. Then doubtless you will not vouchsafe his whereabouts without a suitable inducement.”
“If you mean do I want paying to tell you what you want to know, you’re not wrong, sir.”
“Watson? Give the boy something.”
I delved into my pocket. “Here. A shilling.” The urchin stretched out a smut-blackened paw. “No,” I said, snatching the coin out of his reach. “It is yours only if you lead us to the right house.”
“Sixpence now, sixpence if it’s the right ’ouse. Take it or leave it.”
“He’s a hard bargainer, this youngster, Watson,” said Holmes. “I wouldn’t haggle further lest we lose his patronage altogether.”
The boy led us to a four-storey terraced house hard by the river, a building that was better kempt than most of its neighbours but still somewhat down-at-heel. In answer to our knock, the door was opened by a maid, who affirmed that Mr Nathaniel Whateley did live there but was not at home. I flipped a second sixpence towards our young guide, who caught the coin in mid-air and made it disappear into the pocket of his threadbare poplin jacket. A moment later, the boy himself disappeared, scurrying off down an alleyway.
“When is Mr Whateley expected back?” Holmes asked the maid.
“That I can’t say, sir,” replied she. “You’d have to ask Mrs Owen, my mistress. It’s her house. Mr Whateley just rents part of it.”
“Then may we see Mrs Owen?”
The maid withdrew into the house, and a few moments later a middle-aged woman came bustling out to take her place. Holmes presented his card, which she peered at with a sceptical eye before scrutinising his face and mine.
“I’ve heard of you, Mr Holmes,” said she eventually. “Who hasn’t? I thought you died in Switzerland.”
“Artistic licence on Watson’s part. It was merely a walking holiday during which I took a nasty spill down a rock face. He transformed this into a fatality. The newspapers have since reported my continued existence.”
“You are no ghost, that’s for sure. But I still don’t know whether I should let you in.”
“Why ever not, my dear woman?”
“Well, for one thing, Mr Whateley is not at home.” “So the maid told us. It is a pity.”
“Nor have I been informed by him to expect visitors.”
“We have come unannounced. If he is not present, we shall trouble you no further. Might I prevail upon you, however, to tell us when he is due to return, so that we may arrange to call another time?”
Mrs Owen cast a furtive glance back into the shadowy interior of the house. “That,” she said, “I cannot say. It is…” Conflicting emotions were plainly visible upon her face. “Mr Whateley’s current whereabouts are unknown to me. It is, to be frank, somewhat worrisome.”
“How so?”
“He is usually so reliable. He is apt to disappear from time to time, but never fails to give notice beforehand. He’s a naturalist, you see. Often he takes himself off on field trips, either into the countryside or to the Continent. He always lets me know when he is scheduled to return, and he is sure to leave sufficient money if he is to be away when the rent falls due. Quite punctilious about that, is Mr Whateley. One hears about Americans being brash and arrogant, but not he. I would not call him a kind man, but he is steady and reputable. I have not minded keeping house for him, and there are precious few tenants I can say that about.”
“When did he go?” Holmes asked.
Mrs Owen still seemed unsure how much more she should reveal and if she had not revealed too much already. She struck me as being hewn from the same marble as our own Mrs Hudson. For a woman like her, discretion was her watchword.
“Maybe you should come in, gentlemen,” she said, relenting. “You have a certain reputation, Mr Holmes; it might be to my advantage to confide in you.”
As we crossed the threshold I darted a look at Holmes, as if to say, See? Your literary fame opens doors, and whom do you have to thank?
He saw the look but studiously ignored it.
* * *
Mrs Owen sat us down in her sitting room, which formed part of a small suite of rooms at the rear of the house that was her exclusive domain; the rest was her tenant’s. A handkerchief was in her hands and she wrung it as we talked, as though transferring her inner tensions into that lace-trimmed square of cloth.
“As I said, Mr Whateley is often away, seeking out specimens for his collection. He is seldom gone long. I think the month he spent in Egypt was his lengthiest absence, but normally it’s a fortnight at most. I always know he is about to leave because he tells me as much. Sometimes he will even lay out his prospective itinerary. ‘Dover to Calais, then south-east through Germany into Austria-Hungary and onward to the Carpathians.’ That’s the sort of thing. If he is delayed on his way home, he will wire to let me know. However…”
There was a lot of weight in that however, a depth of disquiet.
“Go on,” said Holmes.
“Wednesday last, he just vanished. It was mid-morning. I heard him gather his hat and coat from the stand in the hallway, and then he was out the front door without so much as a goodbye.”
“Nothing precipitated this event?”
“Nothing as I can recall. Nothing occurred that was out of routine. No, wait. Come to think of it
, he did receive a parcel that morning, by the first post.”
Holmes’s eyebrows arched. “A parcel containing what?”
“How should I know? It was addressed to him, not me. I brought it to him in his study along with the rest of his correspondence, as is my wont, and left him to it.”
“Does Whateley often receive such parcels?”
“Not frequently. Usually it will be a book he has ordered.”
“What were the parcel’s dimensions?”
“I should say not more than a few inches on each side.”
“Be more exact, if you will.”
“Perhaps ten long, eight wide, one thick. That’s the best I can estimate.”
“Then it could well have been another book.”
“I suppose so.”
“How was the parcel wrapped?”
“Plain brown paper, fastened with string.”
“And there was a return address?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Do you still by any chance have the paper? The string?”
“Mr Whateley threw them in the wastepaper basket,” said Mrs Owen, “which I emptied into the dustbin the next day. The dustcart has come by since.”
“That is a pity,” said Holmes. “Much could have been gleaned from the handwriting, the knots used, the way the paper was folded… Do you think that whatever was in the parcel may have caused Mr Whateley to depart with such haste?”
“I am loath to say. As I told you, I handed him the parcel and left him to it. Next thing I knew, a few minutes later, he was making his hasty exit.”
“Taking the parcel’s contents with him?”
“Presumably. I have since found nothing in his study that was not there before.”
“And he gave you no indication where he was going?”
“None. He was not back by suppertime. Nor was he in bed when Kitty – that’s the maid – brought him up his tea the next morning. The door to his room was ajar, the bed unslept-in. That was when I started to become anxious.”
“Understandably, given his regular habits. And you have not seen him since?”
“Neither hide nor hair,” said Mrs Owen, shaking her head. “Not for nearly a week now.”
“Singular,” said Holmes. “Tell me, does Mr Whateley receive guests here?”
“Hardly ever. I have a rule about visitors, female ones in particular. They may call but they may not stay past nightfall. In Mr Whateley’s case it has not been a problem. He is a well-spoken, presentable man, distinguished, but somewhat aloof. He has engaged in no romantic entanglements that I know of, nor does he seem to have many friends.”
“So you have not by any chance seen him in the company of a fellow approximately his own age, with grotesque disfigurements?”
The landlady frowned. “What kind of disfigurements?”
“Severe scarring here.” Holmes indicated the left side of his face. “And missing a hand on the same side.”
Mrs Owen laughed sharply. “No. I think I should remember such an individual had I laid eyes on him.”
“I am sure you would. I felt it worth asking.”
“Mr Holmes…” Mrs Owen paused, then forged ahead. “Your arrival at my door asking after Mr Whateley, coupled with his unaccountable disappearance, inclines me to think that my concerns about him are well-founded. That is why I am going to share with you a detail of his life that I would ordinarily keep to myself, as it may have some bearing on the situation. It somewhat undermines the portrait I have painted of him thus far, you see.”
She drew a deep breath before continuing.
“Mr Whateley is a model tenant, yes. I have no complaints about him. I am none too fond of the way he has commandeered my attic, but I am prepared to overlook it. Perhaps I am just squeamish.”
Holmes’s eyes narrowed in curiosity but he said nothing. I could see him filing away this remark for later exploration.
“All the same,” Mrs Owen continued, “he does have one peculiar characteristic which has always perturbed me. He talks to himself.”
“Not so strange,” I said. “As a naturalist, he must spend a considerable amount of time alone in the wild, stalking and trapping his quarry. I imagine he has got into the habit of talking to himself simply so as to hear a human voice. Besides, the profession tends to attract eccentrics.”
“I grant you that, Doctor. I myself murmur under my breath every now and then, and I have even been known to speak to my late husband, before I remember that he is no longer with me. But what I am describing is hardly the same. Mr Whateley conducts conversations. I have overheard him on several occasions.”
“Conversations?” said Holmes.
“Long, sometimes disputatious conversations. It is as though he is using one of those newfangled devices – what are they called? A telephone. He is speaking to someone not present in the room. There is the to-and-fro of dialogue but only his side is audible. There are pauses between his statements, as though he is listening to an interlocutor. At times he seems to be answering the other’s question, or posing one himself. I don’t know what to make of it. The queerest aspect of the phenomenon is that the party to whom he speaks would appear to have a name. A double-barrelled one, and Irish at that.”
Holmes’s mouth turned up at the corners in a smirk. “Irish indeed,” he murmured.
“Reilly-Logue,” said Mrs Owen. “That is what Mr Whateley calls him.”
The smirk vanished. “Reilly-Logue? You are quite certain that is the name?”
“That or something very like. I’m hard pressed to account for it.”
I could not see why Holmes found “Reilly-Logue” so noteworthy. Yet he was bent forward now in an attitude of quivering agitation. Evidently he had made a connection I had not.
I repeated the name a few times in my head, hoping it might strike a chord.
Reilly-Logue, Reilly-Logue…
Then it came to me.
R’luhlloig.
“Mrs Owen,” said Holmes, “you have been so forthcoming already that I can scarcely bring myself to beg another indulgence of you, yet I shall. You mentioned that Whateley has ‘commandeered’ your attic.”
“Yes, as a workplace. He keeps his collection of specimens there.”
“May we take a look?”
CHAPTER FIVE
The Dead Menagerie
“I SHAN’T GO IN WITH YOU,” SAID MRS OWEN AS WE arrived at the top of the stairs. “I’ve seen it twice. That is enough.” She motioned at the door that stood across a small landing from us. “It is not locked, but kindly take care not to touch anything. Mr Whateley is protective of his collection. He does not even allow me to dust in there, lest I accidentally break something. I do not mind in the least.”
“You make it sound as though the room holds appalling sights,” I said.
“Maybe I am oversensitive. All I know is that, for a naturalist, Mr Whateley likes the unnatural.”
So saying, the landlady retreated downstairs.
“Reilly-Logue, R’luhlloig,” I muttered to Holmes when she was out of earshot. “Please tell me it is coincidence.”
“There is no such thing,” came the reply, “not in the demimonde that you and I inhabit. Now—” he reached for the door handle “—if Mrs Owen’s dire warnings hold any water, we must brace ourselves.”
The attic was large, occupying practically the full breadth and depth of the house, and since it was situated beneath a mansard roof, there was a decent amount of headroom throughout. The walls were whitewashed, the floorboards limed, and there were projecting casement windows front and back, which would have let in plenty of illumination were their panes not occluded with rectangles of brown paper gummed securely into place.
Holmes lit the nearest gas jet, whose glow revealed dozens upon dozens of glass containers arrayed on shelves. They were specimen jars of varying shape and size, each with a label hung around its neck. The smallest was no bigger than a pint pot, the largest the dimensions of a firkin barrel.
All were filled to the brim with a clear, yellowish liquid which, to judge by the sickly-sweet smell that hung in the air, was formaldehyde.
In each floated a creature, dead.
At first I assumed they were simply animals of the kind one might find in any pet shop or zoo or indeed at the home of Mr Sherman of Pinchin Lane, Lambeth, purveyor of exotic and not so exotic fauna. The jar nearest to me, for instance, held what looked like a tarantula, albeit larger and hairier than the example I had seen on display at the Natural History Museum. Only on closer inspection did I realise that this spider had ten legs instead of the customary eight and that transparent wings sprouted from its back. The label stated that it hailed from the jungles of the Niger basin.
Likewise, what I took at first glance to be a coiled-up snake – some kind of constrictor, its body as thick around as my forearm – proved to be more akin to a worm. It had skin rather than scales and two weird slits at one end, which were either eyes or nostrils. Then there were a score of tadpole-like things floating in a cluster, their place of origin a lake at Plitvice, Croatia. The body of each was larger than my fist and their tails were fused together at the tips, so that in all they resembled the head of a flower, albeit one made of flesh rather than vegetable matter.
There was more. More and worse. Whichever way one turned, one’s gaze fell upon the lifeless remains of some animal that would not be found in any normal bestiary. Some of them appeared to be wayward evolutionary offshoots of well-known species, while others bore physical traits that were readily identifiable – batlike wings, a lizard head, flippers, feathers, fins – but combined them with physical traits that had no obvious existing analogue or with which they simply, by the laws of nature, did not belong.
“Are these real?” I said wonderingly, moving from jar to jar, from monster to monster in this dead menagerie.
“Do you mean are they fakes?” said Holmes. “Has Whateley assembled them himself, rather as P.T. Barnum did when he attached the mummified head and torso of a monkey to the tail of a fish and created his ‘Feejee mermaid’? I fear not. This is no cabinet of curiosities, Watson. Or rather, it is, but not one for public consumption.”
The Cthulhu Casebooks--Sherlock Holmes and the Miskatonic Monstrosities Page 5
