Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain

by Stephen Seitz

  Title Page

  SHERLOCK HOLMES AND THE HOUSE OF PAIN

  by

  Stephen Seitz

  Publisher Information

  First edition published in 2015 by

  MX Publishing

  335 Princess Park Manor,

  Royal Drive, London, N11 3GX

  www.mxpublishing.co.uk

  Digital edition converted and distributed by

  Andrews UK Limited

  www.andrewsuk.com

  © Copyright 2015 Stephen Seitz

  The right of Stephen Seitz to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998.

  All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without express prior written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted except with express prior written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The opinions expressed herein are those of the authors and not of MX Publishing.

  Cover design by www.staunch.com

  Introduction

  “The only island known to exist in the region in which my uncle was picked up is Noble’s Isle, a small volcanic islet and uninhabited. It was visited in 1891 by H. M. S. Scorpion. A party of sailors then landed, but found nothing living thereon except certain curious white moths, some hogs and rabbits, and some rather peculiar rats.” – Charles Edward Prendick, The Island of Dr. Moreau

  At long last, I can give the world the truth behind Sherlock Holmes’ reference to the Giant Rat of Sumatra, and how events brought Holmes together with the infamous Dr. Alexandre Moreau, and with one of the 19th century’s most noted zoologists, one George Edward Challenger, long before the latter’s adventures recounted in The Lost World.

  Before I begin, those readers unfamiliar with The Island of Dr. Moreau should probably skip this introduction to avoid spoilers. As for Challenger, I reveal nothing not already known to millions of readers everywhere.

  For decades, students of the life of Sherlock Holmes have wondered about The Giant Rat of Sumatra, first mentioned in Dr. John Watson’s account of the Sussex Vampire, published in 1924. At the time, Sherlock Holmes did not deem the world ready to accept the existence of such a creature, and we now know, thanks to the book you hold in your hands, that Holmes wanted to suppress a good deal more than that.

  Those who have read Sherlock Holmes and the Plague of Dracula know how I came to possess Dr. John Watson’s journals, during which he recorded the events of his daily life; those, of course, include his time with Sherlock Holmes. The journals do a lot to straighten out Watson’s incoherent sense of dating. As I mentioned in SHPoD, Watson could not publish fully accurate accounts of Holmes’ adventures due to the risk of libel, not to mention the risk of angering the British government. One suspects that Watson was protected by Mycroft Holmes without his knowledge at Sherlock’s request. It is widely known, and admitted by Watson in some stories, that he had to alter names, dates, and other identifying data, if only to avoid scandal for innocent parties. I also believe that Watson followed the old adage, “Never let the facts get in the way of a good story.”

  The miracle of this particular manuscript, which I am calling The House of Pain, is that the dating adds up between Edward Prendick’s account of The Island of Dr. Moreau and the dates given by Watson in “The Reigate Squires.” Sherlockian chronologists agree, for once, that the latter case took place in April 1887. While Prendick was not able to precisely mark his time on the island, he does give us one telling clue: Dr. Moreau dies on the full moon. Using Prendick’s rough chronology, that means it could only have happened on March 8, 1887, well within the dates given by Watson for “The Reigate Squires.”

  For those not familiar, that story opens with Watson heading to the French city of Lyon, where Holmes has been laid low with exhaustion, the result of an intense two-month investigation for the Netherland Sumatra company and its being swindled out of millions by Baron Maupertius, the Bernard Madoff of his day.

  “Even his iron constitution,” Watson tells us, “had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months, during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch.”

  “Aha!” I hear some of you saying. “Holmes could not have been both tracking Alexandre Moreau and Baron Maupertius at the same time!”

  Well, guess what? He could. Though Watson’s stories tell one tale at a time, every journalist and private investigator can tell you it doesn’t work that way. Of course Holmes worked on more than one case at the same time. The rent doesn’t get paid any other way. If you work for yourself, you take as much work as you can handle, and sometimes you take on too much. Keeping up with it all can easily take up to 15 hours a day, and that’s no doubt what Holmes did. In early 1887, Holmes was chasing down the giant rats, trying to locate and stop Dr. Moreau, and at the same time accommodate the Netherland Sumatra Company’s troubles. As it happened, that particular affair turned out to be a disaster for the Moreau family, which had heavy investments in Sumatra. None of that, however, has anything to do with the narrative I present here. If it doesn’t advance the story, it doesn’t go in. Interested researchers will just have to do their own legwork.

  As I did with SHPoD, I had to go to other archives to find supplementary information and to confirm the facts. The descendants of the Moreau family, I am sorry to say, threw up every roadblock they could; Alexandre’s infamy endures to this day, and they want nothing to do with him. Luckily, there is enough information extant in public records so that, in the end, I did not need their help. The family’s cooperation, however, would have provided a fuller narrative. For one thing, I never did determine what happened to Moreau’s niece, Sophie, on her sojourn to America.

  The Challenger papers proved somewhat less daunting, but still required me to spend a lot of time and effort. The man was an inconsistent diarist, although his researches were always precise. The tough part, it turned out, was finding his journals. All of Challenger’s academic work has been either posted online, or is readily available from specialized libraries.

  The journals, and their gold mine of personal information, seemed to have disappeared. No one in the Challenger family today had ever seen them, the universities where Challenger spent his days did not have them, but once I tracked down the law firm Challenger used for his personal affairs, I found the records of an estate sale in their dusty files. (Challenger lived well into the mid-20th century.) The Challenger journals had gone to a manuscript dealer in London, who had sold them to a private collector of dinosaur memorabilia, who asked me not to reveal his identity. You’ll just have to take my word for their authenticity.

  Moreau scholars, I’m afraid, will find this narrative of little help in trying to find the actual island. Both the logs of the Meribelle and the Mississippi Delta are silent on the subject, no doubt due to pressure from the Moreau family. C.E. Prendick records that some of the Moreau rats made it as far as Noble’s Isle, but that tells us nothing; the sailors would have found the ruins of the Moreau compound and the House of Pain had they been on Noble’s Isle.

  One last n
ote: I have changed the spelling and punctuation from the original British to American usage. My damned computer won’t obey me and autocorrects every other word. I have just plain given up.

  We now live in a world where gene splicing is routine, cloning commonplace, and the art of anesthesia is far advanced from the time of Dr. Moreau. Despite Holmes’ admonition, I think the world can handle the cruel misdeeds of one deranged scientist. I thank readers for their indulgence.

  Stephen Seitz

  Springfield, Vt.

  Part One

  From the Journals of Dr. John H. Watson, M.D.

  January 21, 1887

  The horrible tragedy in Spitalfields earlier this week has had some unexpected bonuses, not the least of which is ending a long period of boredom for my friend Sherlock Holmes. Now he can put that blasted needle away.

  The cocaine may relieve his ennui between clients, but it is no honeymoon in Paris for those of us who have to endure it. His moods range from manic to melancholy; he’ll index documents for hours on end, or stare out the window for so long at a time one might think he had died in his armchair.

  On Wednesday last, some seventeen people were crushed to death in the panic following a false fire alarm at the Hebrew Dramatic Club, in Princes’ Street. The press accounts claim that not long after, what might have been an unremarkable incident turned to terror because someone thought a gas leak to blame, and as a consequence cut off the supply. This action plunged the building into complete darkness, and the only way in or out is through a private residence which has been converted into a club.

  The play that night was in Hebrew, Spitalfields being where London’s foreign Jews seem to congregate. The proceeds were intended to benefit an ailing Jewish workman, but now money is needed for funeral costs. When I heard the reluctant trudge of a client up our well-worn steps, I had no idea that Holmes and I would be drawn into the disaster’s sequel.

  Three sad, reluctant knocks brought me to the door. To my surprise, the nervous, dejected man I admitted into our rooms had a familiar face, and it took me a moment to realize we had played rugby together in my army days, to pass the time between battles.

  “Hastings!” I cried. “Can it be you?”

  He gazed at me for a moment, smiled with recognition, and said, “Upon my soul, it isn’t John Watson, is it? You played forward. They couldn’t get a ball past you, could they?”

  Hastings had changed little over the past 15 years or thereabouts. His tie and tweeds marked him as an upper middle class Englishman, and he carried a black walking stick capped with a brass knob. In height a head shorter than myself, but he would still be able to wear the old uniform, which I am humbled to admit I no longer can.

  “I haven’t heard from you in ages,” I said. “What brings you here?”

  “A deeply distressing personal problem,” said Holmes, rising, still in the mouse grey dressing gown he had donned that morning. “That much is evident from your expression. You are a cabinetmaker and purveyor of home furnishings, I perceive.”

  “How could you know that?” our guest asked.

  “You are dressed too well for work in a standard woodshop, and you are dressed like a businessman. Quite successful, too, to judge from your new walking stick. Combine that with the lingering aroma of varnish, I conclude not only that you sell home furnishings, but make some of them yourself.”

  “I see you have warranted your reputation, Mr. Holmes. Yes, you are quite right. I made my beginning as a cabinetmaker, but I now have my own establishment. I find the work relaxing and rewarding, and there is a certain pride in knowing I can compete with the best of them.”

  “I must make introductions,” I said. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes, this is James Hastings, one of the finest goalies I have ever had the honor to serve.”

  “I must say, Watson, seeing you again is the first good thing to happen to me in days,” said he.

  “Pray take a seat and give us the reason for your visit to our humble quarters,” said Holmes as I placed a kettle on the Bunsen burner for tea. “Please do not spare a single detail.”

  “It’s my sister, Charlotte,” said Hastings, who nervously smoothed his black moustache throughout the interview. “You’ve heard of that horrible panic in Spitalfields earlier this week, of course. I believe my sister, Charlotte, was in attendance, and now she is missing.”

  “Your sister speaks Hebrew?” Holmes asked.

  “Yes, sir. Charlotte is quite plain, and has always had a severe demeanor. She never married, and has spent her life busying herself with church matters. She has adopted the Spitalfields district as her hunting ground for lost souls. She tries to covert the Jews and foreigners to Christianity through charitable works. Setting a Christian example, one might say. To this end, she learned their heathen speech. “

  “When did you last hear from her?” asked Holmes.

  “On Saturday. Charlotte usually spends the Sabbath with the rest of the family. It’s somewhat of a Hastings tradition.”

  “Did anything seem unusual?”

  “Not in the slightest. She brought us up to date on her doings, and told us she intended to see this comedy at the dramatic club. That’s how I know she was there.”

  “Perhaps she attended to something else.”

  “She hasn’t been seen since that night.”

  “Surely the regular police can make enquiries.”

  “They are doing so, but they also have to contend with more immediate concerns, petty crime of all types, and drunken ruffians. I do not feel they are giving this the proper attention.”

  “Pray tell me what you know about her mission.”

  “She calls on Jewish families in need to see if she can offer her assistance. If she sees a sick child, she’ll find a doctor. If they’re in need of food, she will procure a meal. She asks, in return, that they read her tracts and the Christian Bible, and she tries to get them into the Christian church, of course.”

  “Does she have enemies?”

  “She has had encounters with husbands who don’t like outsiders meddling with family affairs, but nothing to provoke violence, at least so far as she has told me.”

  “How about it, Holmes?” I prompted.

  “There is little in this case to pique my interest,” said Holmes, his eye drifting toward the syringe he keeps in a velvet case. “She may simply have had enough of life among the wretched and taken off for a respite. She will no doubt turn up on the morrow, just in time for dinner.”

  “Holmes, may I have a word?”

  We stepped over to the window.

  “Your reliance on the seven percent solution to relieve your boredom is starting to take its toll,” I said. “You’ve barely eaten in days, and I can see the early signs of malnutrition. You also haven’t seen daylight since Tuesday. You need air and exercise. For your own good, get out of this flat and give my old friend some reassurance.”

  Turning our attention back to our guest, Holmes proffered a cigarette and lit one himself.

  “The good doctor has persuaded me,” Holmes said with a genial smile. “I am delighted to take up the case.”

  “There’s a temporary morgue at the club on Princes’ Street,” Hastings said. “You haven’t long; Mr. Baxter is releasing the bodies to the families so they may honor the Jewish custom of burial before the second day after death.”

  “Your sister is not among them?”

  “No, but she may still be inside the entertainment hall. I don’t know whether there has been a thorough search.”

  Holmes nodded. “Watson? Are you game?”

  “Every time, my good fellow.”

  Spitalfields is one of London’s poverty capitals: overcrowded, smelly even for the city, infested with all sorts of vermin, miserable sanitation, crammed with foreigners, mostly Jews, who have come here to escape
even worse conditions in their original homes. Hastings took us down Brick Lane to a narrow brick thoroughfare which turned out to be Princes’ Street, stopping at No. 3, the dwelling which masked a theatre capable of accommodating some 500 people, according to Mr. A. Smith, the theatre’s manager. I should place Smith’s age as about ten years older than myself, his high forehead topped with thick, black and somewhat curly hair. A heavy brush moustache drew attention to his bulbous nose. I’d say he stood a head shorter than Holmes.

  “This woman,” Holmes said, showing Smith the photograph Hastings had provided. “Do you know if she was in the audience?”

  “Sister Hastings? Of course she was here. She frequently attended our events. She saw it as an opportunity to preach her evangel.”

  “Have you accounted for everyone present?” Holmes asked.

  “We have accounted for all the dead ones,” Smith replied. “You’d have to ask the police about anyone else.”

  “Did you find any indication that someone may have caused the panic deliberately?”

  “Not to my eye. I can’t imagine who might gain from something like this, except perhaps a deranged prankster.”

  “So you don’t know if Sister Hastings escaped.”

  “Nor do I know she didn’t. But she was not among the dead. Of that I am certain.”

  “May we take a look inside?”

  “Please do.”

  Those who constructed this theatre had done a splendid job. One upper tier of benches served the balcony crowd, while wooden chairs, most now overturned and broken, served the rest. A small orchestra pit kept the crowd separate from the stage, at the moment hidden by the large and heavy purple curtain.

  “Mr. Holmes, if you can find any clues in this mess, my hat’s off to you,” Hastings said.

  “We won’t learn much here,” Holmes said in agreement, “but we haven’t seen everything. Watson, go ask Smith if he knows where the gas was cut off, will you?”