Theophilus Grim and the Fowl of Ruin
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the professor's gesture had taken me by surprise, and I found myself lightheaded.
Professor Grim laughed. “I forgot, Mr. Chumbles, that such an esteemed former surgeon as you, a man who has performed many blood-lettings and limb amputations, would still find himself squeamish at the sight of a needle.”
Despite my dizziness I took Grim's vitals, making sure that his heart and lungs were in good working order, after having injected the Fowl-Fortifying serum into his bloodstream. When I was satisfied that he was unharmed by the fluid, I bade him continue.
Professor Grim nodded to Horatio, who held the wriggling game bird in a firm grasp, and again picked up the hypodermic syringe, carefully lifting the bird's struggling wing. With a gentle hand, the professor carefully inserted the needle into the pheasant's body, depressing the plunger which injected the dark fluid into the bird. Then, placing the empty syringe on the table, Grim took the pheasant from Horatio and placed it back into its cage, careful to secure the latch. “Well, that's done,” Professor Grim said.
“And now what?” I asked, my curiosity overwhelming me. “Should we see some sort of transformation?”
“I believe it will take some time to take effect in the bird's body,” the professor said. “But I do not believe there will take place any physical transformation in the subject, only an inherent fortification of the bird's nutritional value.”
“Well,” I said, attempting a smile, but feeling altogether unwell. “If there is nothing further to do than wait, I suggest we head to the Leech & Lancet. One-Legged Lester promised roast boar this luncheon, as well as a new shipment of Tipperfeldy.”
“Then off we go,” Professor Grim said, sounding pleased at the offer of good food and fine company. Horatio stayed behind to keep an eye on the pheasant and to write down any changes he might observe in the inoculated fowl. The boy was a prodigy in his own right and would be a brilliant scientist one day—the professor's experiment was in good hands.
At the Leech & Lancet, Professor Grim and I found a table near the large stone fireplace, and One-Legged Lester brought us meat and drink. Grim and I enjoyed a lively conversation, which ranged from cricket to politics to science and medicine. Again, I probed the professor as to the purpose of the scores of Irishmen whom I had recently observed toiling away on a clandestine project inside the massive hangar room of Grim's warehouse.
“Ah, I would love to tell you all about it, my friend,” Professor Grim said, holding his whiskey glass between his thumb and index finger, enjoying a slight sip now and then and then taking a draw on his fine Caribbean cigar. “But I do not wish to rob you of the glory of its revelation when the time at last comes.”
“It appears to be a grand project,” said I. “My heart is aflutter with curiosity. I dare say I will wait with great impatience until the project's completion.”
Grim and I continued our discussion and our enjoyment of the food and drink offered by the Leech & Lancet. At last, I looked at my watch and was surprised by the time which had gotten so far away from us.
“Good heavens! It is nearly two. Agatha will be wondering when her next meal is coming,” I said, thinking of my fat Siamese cat.
Bidding the professor a good night, I took a cab back to my home, while Grim walked the short distance back to the dockyard warehouse he called home. I promised to call as early as I could the next morning, curious about the fortified pheasant.
The following morning, a thick yellow fog hung over the city like a blanket. I took a hansom cab back to Professor Grim's warehouse, lest I lose my way in the fog. Once there, I could not resist a peek into the hanger to catch but a glimpse of the magnificent secret project. Sneaking a brief glance, I saw what looked like a wide circular window set into a shiny brass or copper object, which appeared to be about the size of a house, before one of the Irishmen caught me at the door and shut me out saying, “Sorry, the professor's orders.”
I took the elevator at the end of the hallway to Grim's parlor room on the top floor. I was surprised that the professor was not sitting in the room enjoying one of his fine Caribbean cigars and sipping black tea with goat milk as was his custom this time of morning.
“Hello!” I shouted. “Is there anyone there?”
“In here, Mr. Chumbles!” Horatio shouted back to me, and by the sound of it, he was somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. I left the parlor and walked the long hallway toward the kitchen, finding the walls streaked with some sort of purple substance. Entering the kitchen, I was surprised to find Horatio and Professor Grim standing in the middle of an extraordinary mess.
Grim’s kitchen was normally a tidy room with a large coal oven, shelves lined with copper pots, a marble counter for cutting and preparing food, and a tidy, walk-in pantry stocked with every food imaginable from every corner of the world. Now, I found the floor littered with bowls, shards of broken mugs, spilled porridge, and much more of that strange purple substance splattered everywhere. And I noticed that Professor Grim's white lab coat appeared to be covered in purple streaks.
“What has happened here?” I asked. “And what is this strange purple matter?”
“You won't believe what has happened, Mr. Chumbles,” the professor said, his eyes wide and his voice loaded with breathless suspense. “It is so remarkable, that I scarcely believe it myself.”
Grim led me out of the shambles of a kitchen and into his laboratory. Upon the same counter where he had left the pheasant he had inoculated with the Fowl-Fortifying Fluid, was the very cage which had lodged the bird, only now the metal bars were twisted and broken, leaving jagged edges and a great hole in the side. And there was no sign of the feathered game bird.
“Oh dear,” I said, reaching into my pocket for my flask.
“Somehow the bird escaped from the cage,” Professor Grim said. “No ordinary pheasant could have caused such destruction to this cage. Somehow, this creature burst right through these metal bars.”
“Did the boy observe any change in the bird's physical demeanor?” I asked.
Horatio shook his head. “It looked like an ordinary bird when I went to bed, sir,” the boy said. “I checked on the creature right before I went to sleep.”
“The bird must have mutated from the serum,” Grim said, a grave expression on his face, turning his half mustache down in a frown. “It must have burst out of its cage sometime after I went to bed as well, for it appeared to be fine to me when I returned from the Leech & Lancet yesterday afternoon.”
“The beast got into the jam,” Horatio said. “There's smashed jars all over the pantry, and raspberry jam is smeared everywhere, all the way down the 'allway.”
“Beast?” I asked. “I thought we were still talking about a pheasant. A simple game bird.”
“I'm afraid it is not just a bird anymore,” Professor Grim said soberly. “We must find this creature at once and, if necessary, destroy it. Before it has a chance to harm someone.”
I followed the professor down his long hallway on the top floor of his warehouse. Horatio remained behind to reorder the kitchen in the absence of Grim's cook and housekeeper, Mrs. Fletcher, whom the professor had given the day off at the first sign of the missing beast. Slimy purple streaks led us down the hall, around corners and under tables. Ultimately, we found that the purple jam stains led to an opening in Professor Grim's now defunct Transporter Tube.
“The beast must have escaped here,” the professor stated. “We must get to the engineering room at once. The beast could be trapped inside.”
Professor Grim led the way to the elevator, which we rode to the ground floor. The ride was interminable and filled with suspense at what we might find when we reached the engineering room with the massive, coal-powered boiler. Another long walk down a hallway led us to the big steel door marked Engineering Room.
“Blast,” I said, “we should have grabbed your shotgun.” I offered to go back up the elevator for the weapon.
Professor Grim produced
his Enfield revolver from his belt. “That's not necessary, sir. Perhaps you should remain outside whilst I enter the room.”
I picked up a shovel that was leaning against the wall by the door. “I am with you, my friend,” I said. And with that, Grim threw open the door and we rushed inside. I expected to hear gunfire, but instead heard nothing. There was not a stirring from a man or mouse besides Professor Grim and myself. A cursory examination of the room showed more raspberry jam near the opening of the Transporter Tube. Then we saw something truly startling: a gaping hole in the side of the warehouse leading to the world outside.
“Great Scott!” I said. “What terrible beast could have burst through the wall like this?”
“Perhaps we had best retrieve the shotgun, after all,” Professor Grim said, and we did so, grabbing his Purdey side-by-side.
Fully armed, Grim with the pistol and myself with the shotgun, we resumed our pursuit of the mutated pheasant beast. The thick yellow London fog hampered our search, making it almost impossible to see more than an arm's length. The professor and I walked for nearly an hour, finding no clue of the beast, and we decided to head to the Leech & Lancet to ask if anyone had made sight of the creature.
I took a bar stool and ordered a dram for me and a pint of bitter for Grim. One-Legged Lester limped over, his wooden leg