by David Marcum
News of the Baron’s death was reported in San Francisco by the sole survivor of the ship Ipecacuanha, from whose dinghy he was recovered.
“If it was his ship, then that would be expected, surely?”
“Not when my friends at the pool notified me that the Ipecacuanha arrived in London just two days after the Baron’s death was reported. The dinghy may well have been lost, but the ship is here, not two miles from where we stand!”
“So, you think the Baron is here?”
“I should hope not! It is a possibility that I may not yet discount, but my interest lies in the older mystery. The dinosaur.”
“From the Friesland incident?”
“Indeed. Whatever animal killed those crewmen, I could not identify it. It could as easily have been a dinosaur as a giant chicken.”
“What?”
“The indentations were inconclusive. I could neither prove nor disprove young Challenger’s dinosaur theory, and I believe that the answer lies aboard the Ipecacuanha. If its route and purpose are the same as the Friesland’s had been, then there will may be evidence of similar cargoes, either aboard the ship itself or detailed within its log.”
“Does it matter?”
“Matter?” He snapped. “Of course it matters. My advice was sought, my counsel given, and yet the matter remains unresolved. I can no more ignore a clue than I can live without air!”
“I thought you said that an objective mind knows when to stop looking for clues?”
“Nor can it ignore the clue that throws itself in front of a galloping horse. Two closely-related incidents two days apart, Watson.”
“Two days and six thousand miles, you mean.”
“How far is San Francisco from the Sunder Islands? Nine, ten thousand miles? And from the Sunder Islands to London? The same. So, the dinghy travels east, the ship west, and they arrive at their destinations a couple of days apart. I do not see distance as a discounting factor in this case.”
Shedding his dressing gown, Holmes strode from the room, calling for me to check my revolver and to summon a hansom to Billingsgate forthwith.
Finding a cargo ship among the clustered rows of tall-masted ships moored along mile upon mile of walled banks and open quays lining the Upper Pool without a solid point of reference is like finding a needle in a haystack. With thousands of ships loading and unloading every day, obscured by wharves filled with cargo crates and countless labourers weaving back and forth through crowds thicker than those seen at Royal processions, I was grateful that Holmes was well-prepared for our excursion. Alighting from our cab, we were quickly greeted by a petite young lady wrapped in men’s clothes a size too large and far too well-cared for to pass as anything native to the location.
“This is Miss Abigail Tanner,” explained Holmes, “of the Victoria Street Society.”
“Charmed,” I said, nodding to acknowledge the young lady, but cautious of any rhetoric she might offer. As a medical man, I can accept that there is a line to be drawn between the total abolition of vivisection and the carefully regulated licensing put forward under the Cruelty Act. Perhaps Holmes’s reputation protected me, or perhaps I had misjudged her, but the young lady barely changed her expression as we were introduced, and quickly set about apprising us of her activities.
“This way,” she urged, leading us on through the massed foreign labourers that lined the wharves, “I secured a copy of the cargo manifest and passenger list from the Custom House, and I’ve seen no movement on board since the ship was unloaded four days past.
“We found the ship lying low in the water with four bare masts evenly spaced along her length, separated only by a pair of dark grey funnels and a brace of dinghies on the near side - one short if a set of empty davits was any indication. The mooring lines were secure, and there was no boarding ramp in place, leaving a gap of some ten or twelve feet between the quayside and the ship’s hull.
“That is the S.S. Matilda Briggs,” said Holmes, “I am certain of it. The name on the escutcheon may be different, but every other aspect is as I remember.”
“How can you tell after ten years?” Said I.
“Are you telling me it would come as a surprise that I have outlined a monograph on patterns in marine sign-writing, broken down by country and company?”
I confessed that it would not, focusing instead upon how he planned to get us aboard. “If I might make a suggestion,” said Miss Tanner, indicating another vessel close to the stern. “There is a boom or whatever you call it on one of those masts. If we use that ship’s boarding ramp, we could swing it over the side and step across.”
“We? Miss Tanner - Abigail - that is certainly a suggestion worth considering, but somewhat dangerous, and not something we would expect of you.”
“Dr. Watson is correct, Miss Tanner. This is my investigation, and it is not my intention to place you, or Watson here, in harm’s way. I shall affect entry alone, and you will both keep an eye open for any complications.”
I started to protest, but Holmes had already leapt into action, slipping off his coat and bustling it into my arms as I stood, open-mouthed. Forced to consider the safety of our young companion amid the bustle of stevedores and wharf-rats, I refrained from further comment while my friend disappeared from view. Moments later, he reappeared in a different coat and hat, carrying a hessian sack and bluffing his way aboard the ship. We soon spotted him on the shade deck, manipulating the yard-arm as Miss Tanner had suggested, scurrying along it like some daredevil funambulist before dropping out of sight onto the deck of the Ipecacuanha. In the silence that followed, I drew my fob-watch, counting the minutes while Miss Tanner kept watch. Four minutes into my friends’ excursion there was a chilling sound, a hissing growl that echoed across the quay, breaking through the noise and hustle of the dockworkers.
“Holmes?” Unconsciously I reached for my service revolver, keeping it hidden beneath the folds of my friend’s coat.
“What was that?” Abigail Tanner had heard it too, and with our attention drawn towards the ship, we spied Holmes close to one of the ship’s dinghies. Slowly he rotated the davits out over the water before slipping into the lifeboat and releasing it. Manila ropes snapped taut as the dinghy fell to the waterline, its splash barely registering over the sounds of the labourers. With barely room to manoeuvre, Holmes navigated the small boat towards a quayside ladder. Leaving Miss Tanner to distract any unwanted attention, I dashed across to the top of the ladder and looked down into the lifeboat. Sherlock Holmes, dusty, disheveled, and bloody, was already mounting the ladder, a large bag slung over his shoulder.
“Quickly, Watson,” he said, joining us on the quay and taking his coat, “we must be away.”
We were soon discussing the incident in the safety of a hansom, travelling first to Pimlico, where the Victoria Street Society were based, before continuing on to Baker Street. “I saw Challenger’s dinosaur, Watson, but I am certain it is not the same sort of creature that attacked the crew of the Friesland.”
“Then what - ?”
“Let me tell it as it happened, there’s a good fellow,” said Holmes as I cleaned the wound upon his forearm, applying a makeshift bandage while he told his tale.
“I do not believe that vivisection is the goal in this case, Miss Tanner. These creatures are being imported for what I believe to be a more sinister purpose, but not one that would be considered a crime. Upon reaching the ship’s deck, I made my way forward and up to the sheer deck, where I focused my attentions upon the Captain and passenger’s quarters. The former had not been used for some time, and I suspect the ship has no Captain. Captain Davies was a drinker and a slovenly man, but the room had not been occupied for several weeks, and the ship’s log had been transferred to the largest of the passenger berths. Until the end of December, the handwriting was that of a left-handed man with a poor education, self-taught a
nd prone to fits of anger.
“In January, a new hand took over. Where the original author’s writing was connected, like that of a native, the letters in this new handwriting stood apart from each other - a common feature when writing in a foreign language. Despite this, the handwriting used French cursive characters which usually look beautiful but, in this instance, they were shaky, as if the author were an elderly man or one who suffers chronic pain.”
“His obituary said something about the Baron suffering great bouts of physical pain in later life.”
“Well noted, Watson, but that alone is not enough to confirm the identity of the ship’s master...”
“Excuse me,” Miss Tanner interrupted our rather animated conversation, “but are you saying Dr. de Maupertuis is alive and here in London?”
“It is little more than a possibility, Miss Tanner, and one we will fully investigate. Your esteemed society has played no small part in this discovery, and you have our thanks.”
“But that wound. There were animals aboard the ship?”
“Just the one, a lizard. Visibly unharmed and left, I presume, because of its size and temperament. Such an animal would be best left on board ship than escorted ashore.”
“Was it unharmed? Well fed? You didn’t hurt it?”
“It was, as is, fine. It roams free in the cargo-hold with as much feed as I have ever seen. No sign of cruelty whatsoever.”
The girl, relieved, said no more on the matter until she alighted at Victoria Street. Holmes and I had said little regarding the subject until we were bound, once more, for Baker Street.
“Was that true?” I asked, leaning forward. “You said it was Challenger’s dinosaur.”
“After a fashion,” said Holmes, reaching into the bag and pulling out the ship’s log. “I took the liberty of retrieving this. It refers to a great lizard taken from one of the Sunder Islands. Komodo. There seem to be a great number of large animal specimens, many undiscovered, and besides, there is this.”
Reaching into the bag once more he withdrew a handful of copra meal, letting it slip through his fingers. The ground flesh of coconuts, copra was a common enough resource used as animal feed on long journeys, and is good for bulking up horses and other large animals.
“They seem to be capturing large animals and-”
“-making them larger! Pantagruel!” I ejaculated. “Maupertuis postulated that something he called the Pantagruel Effect caused isolated animals at the top of the food chain to grow to gigantic proportions, especially where there are no mammalian predators.”
“Bravo, Watson. And his clash with Meischer in 1868 followed his claim to have isolated lymphatic proteins.”
“I recall reading his proposition that chemical secretions into the blood could regulate healing, pain, sensory functions, and growth.”
“So, Maupertuis was experimenting in forced growth - making animals larger that might naturally be expected, as a means of fabricating evidence to support his assertion.”
“Not fabricating, Holmes. Reinforcing. I take it the lizard was very large.”
“A good ten or twelve feet in length with a flicking, snake-like tongue. After retrieving the log and examining the main berth, I returned to the cargo hold - the scene of my earlier conflict with the Baron. At first all I saw was the copra, and the rats. Big, feisty things, larger than any I’ve seen before, shifting among the coconut shavings like snakes in sand. And there, in the shadows, I saw it. Crocodilian, but with thinner skin and smaller jaws set into a broad head supported by a thick goitre. It didn’t look so frightening as an amphibian, but it was certainly bigger. I consider myself lucky that it was chained by the ankle because it was damned fast, like a guard-dog from prehistory.”
“And it bit you?”
“I antagonised it. Took up a wooden faggot and goaded the creature into snapping its jaws shut so I could examine the indentation. I was stuffing the wood and some shavings into this bag when it snapped again - a glancing bite, but my, those teeth were sharp.”
“And from the look of this wound, the beast is venomous,” said I.
“Oh? I feel fine. A little fatigued, but that is surely to be expected after significant exertion.”
“All I can say is that it should be coagulating by now. When we get back to Baker Street, you need to be properly treated and to get some rest.”
“What matters is that I have addresses - the names of places for which these animals were destined. Not Jamrach’s, nor the Zoological Society. It is a list of rural hideaways, farms used as research stations much like the one the Baron set up in the Sunder Islands.”
Returning to Baker Street, my fears were realised as Holmes soon slipped into a deep and unshakeable sleep. I did what I could, but the wound was not like a snake-bite. Rather, it was a ragged weal several inches in length. My theory was that the venom was not toxic so much as designed to force the wound to fester - something good medical aid would easily prevent.
Leaving Holmes to sleep, I decided to do some investigating of my own. Most of the entries corresponded with sites closed down by Holmes and the anti-vivisectionists, but one remained outstanding. There was an entry in the cargo manifest that noted the delivery of “a rat.” to a Kentish farm not so far away.
Summoning a hansom, I determined to investigate, checking my revolver before making the railway journey from Victoria Station out to Shortlands, from there I took a carriage out towards Urshot, stopping short at my destination, Hickleybrow Farm.
Surrounded by a high fence against which thick hedgerows had been tied, my only access was through the farm buildings themselves, which were clustered together at the head of a long, exposed dirt path. Emboldened by the absence of people, I made my way up to the main farmhouse and started to look around, ostensibly for anyone with whom I might speak.
I had circled no more than half of the building when I heard giggles coming from the rear yard. I approached cautiously until I knew what was happening. A barn beside the house and yard appeared to be the source of these noises, and it was clear to me that the attentions of the farmer were not upon his duties, but rather on his wife!
Taking in the lie of the land, I could see that a large corrugated enclosure lay at the foot of a long slope at the very centre of the farm - impossible to see from the roadside. Putting my best foot forward, I headed toward the enclosure, again finding the place isolated and unmanned. A hand-painted sign at the door identified it as “Hickleybrow Biological Research Station, Prop. G. Bensington.”
“Halloo?” I called out, more for effect than out of any desire to encounter anyone, and the cacophonous sounds that came from within easily drowned out my call as I eased the unsecured door open and peered inside. The smell of ammonia and bird faeces overwhelmed me - like an over-filled and badly kept chicken hut, but of an order of magnitude that threatened to overcome my senses. Taking a deep breath, I stepped inside, quickly realising that these were not chickens. Birds, yes, but each restrained within its own single cage standing some ten feet high by four feet wide. The words of Sherlock Holmes echoed in my head: “It could as easily have been a dinosaur as a giant chicken,” he had said, giving more of his theory away than was usual for a case as strange as this.
These birds, despite the generous dimensions of their cages, were far from comfortable, as they each filled their living space so as to be unable to sit without pressing against the sides. Opposing rows of these gigantic birds faced each other across a deep, wide trough filled with water, regular feed, and the now familiar copra. Through the front of each cage the heads of these poor creatures emerged, and they were enormous. At first, I took them to be some form of African Ostrich, but larger than any bird I had ever seen. They were a good foot or two taller, with thicker necks and a heavier pelt of feathers than on any bird I had ever previously encountered. Perhaps an Australian Emu, or a New Zeala
nd Moa? Whatever they were, these had to be what was labelled as “a rat.” on the cargo list.
On a whim, I turned and looked around for something wooden. Spying a broom, I took it up and carefully prodded at the nearest of the creatures, which quickly broke out of its docile routine of eating feed and drinking water, snapping viciously at the broom handle, grasping it firmly to tear it from me. Letting go, I let it fly away, gingerly retrieving it by that part that was out of its reach.
I had seen enough. Snapping off the head of the broom, I left the giant pen, stumbling through the door and out into fresher air. Fleeing the scene, unseen so far as I could tell, I was soon back in Urshot awaiting the last train to London.
It was after midnight when I returned to Baker Street, and despite my aching bones, I chose to read up on the great birds. While I could not be certain, they seemed closest to an extinct creature, Aepyornis Vastissimus of Madagascar.
“Well, Watson,” said Sherlock Holmes when he finally awoke from his long sleep, “we may never cross paths with the Baron again, but at least you’ve helped me solve a large part of the Friesland mystery. The indentation on your broom-handle matched the bite marks on the bones of those poor seamen, so Challenger’s dinosaur was not the culprit. Whether it is was an extinct Elephant Bird or some new flightless giant, we can be sure that it shared its taxonomy with birds that are alive today. Only time will tell.”
Of the birds themselves, no trace was ever found. The farm was abandoned by the time the countryside’s finest arrived on the scene, and the other “research stations” had been similarly abandoned. Perhaps I had been seen running away from Hickleybrow, or perhaps the Baron’s associates had come to England to put an end to his abominable research. The Ipecacaunha, or the Matilda Briggs, similarly disappeared while Holmes slept off the venomous bite of its resident lizard. Was it a dinosaur? It is certainly possible, but the Pantagruel effect seems a more plausible answer. To me, at least, although young Challenger might have a different view.
