Part Three
Watson’s Journal
January 23, 1887
We returned to the theatre, where we were greeted by an anxious Smith.
“I do not approve of your plan, sir,” said he.
“Do you, or do you not, wish to rid your establishment of the largest vermin anyone has ever seen?” Holmes replied. “To do that, we need patience, our friend Toby, and a sledgehammer. I will pay for the damages.”
“See that you do.”
Holmes had formulated a simple plan: put some bait in the dressing room from which the rats gained entry to the theatre, leave a generous amount of creosote by the entry hole, and follow it (or them) with the aid of Toby, Holmes’ favorite bloodhound. One of the least appealing creatures in the world to behold, Toby brought to mind a brown and white dust mop on short legs, but his deep, mournful brown eyes and his unusually keen sense of smell made him a prize in the eyes of Sherlock Holmes, who often said the dog was worth more to him than the whole of Scotland Yard.
We entered the theatre at around midnight, by which time, we hoped, the rats had taken the bait. Sure enough, not only was the platter empty, there were also unmistakable tracks right through the creosote. Toby pulled at his lead, impatient to take up the chase.
“Not yet, Toby, not yet,” Holmes said in a soothing voice, even as he swung the massive iron mallet at the hole in the wall through which the rats had gained entry. We entered the menacing darkness once there was room, and now we saw Toby in his element, his stump of a tail oscillating rapidly with the joy of the hunt as he pulled the lead and ourselves along with it.
Deeper and deeper below the ground we went; until we were no longer sure we could make our way out without Toby’s aid. We passed some astonishing sights along the way; ancient skeletons, lost a long time ago, workmen’s tools dating back centuries, and fascinating graffiti, some of which was written in Latin.
“Holmes, we have discovered part of ancient London!”
“Indeed, Watson. When the Romans were here, above us were open fields and gardens along what’s now Ermine Street. We know some of the area contained a Roman cemetery, and late in the twelfth century that site became a priory called St. Mary Spital. It was one of the great hospitals of the day, most of which King Henry VIII had flattened in 1539 or ’40. Right now, I’m afraid we shall have to leave the discovery of this place’s origins for greater archeological minds than your or mine. Come.”
At least an hour must have passed before the passages widened enough for us to stand at full height, and broadened to the width of an avenue on the surface. Around us, classic Roman architecture, majestic arches, and what looked to be the stalls of merchants.
“Watson, this is incredible,” Holmes said. “An archeologist would swoon. We appear to have stumbled upon an undiscovered district of Londinium itself. The original Roman city, now the seat of an even greater empire. One wonders what Caesar would think.”
“Holmes, there’s light ahead.”
We also heard sounds of chanting, unsettling highly pitched voices, yet resonant with solemnity, and notes of fear and wonder as well. There was something musical about the chanting, as though some sort of liturgical ritual was taking place. As we drew closer, we could see the remains of what looked like a small, crude amphitheatre, in what had once been a pagan temple in the time of the ancient Romans. It seated the most terrifying of audiences: a horde of huge, chanting rats with some human-like features, their beady demonic eyes fixed upon a stage, where two of the things held a terrified woman wearing a plain black dress.
“Sister Hastings, I presume,” said Holmes.
Toby whimpered with primal fear, and shied away from the assembly ahead. Several of the rat people glanced in our direction, but we were well hidden in the cool and dark stone corridors.
How badly I wanted my eyes to deceive me, but they did not. These creatures had evolved far beyond their rodent origins. They had human-like aspects to their rat faces, their eyes bright with some sort of intelligence, and many strove to stand on their hind feet, in the style of men. They appeared under the thrall of a huge black rat, someone they called the Lawgiver.
“Holmes, what are these … things? They have speech! And it’s English! They even have law!”
“I can’t believe it,” Holmes whispered. “He’s finally done it.”
“Who? Who has done what?”
“Moreau. I had thought him fully eradicated from the planet. I see now that he’s a greater menace than ever. Watson, did you remember your Webley?”
“Of course.”
“We may need it, though I prefer to liberate the poor woman as quietly as possible.”
Now the chanting became quite clear.
“His is the House of Pain.
“His is the Hand that makes.
“His is the Hand that wounds.
“His is the Hand that heals.
“His is the lightning flash.
“His is the deep, salt sea.
“His are the stars in the sky.”
I shall not soon forget the look on Holmes’ face when he heard the words, “House of Pain.” The man I knew to be utterly fearless, as resolute as a boulder, as strong as a horse, actually displayed fear for a moment, and he stifled a cry in his throat. But that passed as quickly as a summer storm, and the steadfast friend I knew and admired returned as though he had never left.
“Holmes, are you all right?”
“A bad memory came back to haunt me,” he said. “To the business at hand. We should go backstage and see where the creatures are holding Sister Hastings. Once we know where she is being held, we can free her.”
“What about Toby?”
“Keep him calm, and he’ll be just fine.”
A commotion in the audience caught our attention, and we crept closer, this time having to carry Toby, who buried his head under my arm. The poor animal began to tremble, and I must admit I was not far behind him.
“Lawgiver, she speaks in riddles,” said one of the rat people. “We do not understand. Are we not Men?”
“Never!” she spat.
A dozen rat heads swung away from us, looking down the corridor opposite from where we stood.
“It is a Man!” cried one of the rodents.
That’s when some idiot in one of the other tunnels fired a shot, striking one of the rat people in the shoulder and releasing a terrible squeal of pain. It dropped to its front paws, while, onstage, Sister Hastings, who began to scream with terror, was whisked away, kicking and struggling for her life, into the darkness. At least four of the vile creatures raced down the corridor from whence the shot had come. Other rat people, each of them on all fours, scurried past us and disappeared, and, following them, a stout man of about four-and-forty bolted towards us.
“You there!” cried Holmes. “Do you know what you have done?”
“Race for your life!” he yelled as he tried to pass us, but Holmes tripped him up and sent him sprawling on his face.
“Imbecile!” snapped Holmes. “You have probably doomed that poor woman!”
The man cursed at us and then demanded, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“The woman is a missionary serving the Jews of Spitalfields, and from what I can tell, these rat people have drafted her to interpret religion for them. They aspire to a humanity they can never hope to have. For myself, I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague, Dr. John Watson. Our companion is named Toby.”
By now, our unwanted acquaintance had risen and brushed the dirt from his clothes.
“I know who Sister Hastings is,” said he. “My own name is Sixtus Jones. Do you know Mr. Challenger?”
“Who?”
“A scientist. He wanted to capture one of those creatures and study it.”
&n
bsp; “A scientist? Does he often fire guns in close spaces made of granite? Has he never heard of ricochet? That bullet could have hit anything, including us. Anyway, if he wanted to study one of those beasts, it is unlikely he’ll have the chance now. Once discovered, these things won’t be back. Come, Watson. We should see if they’ve left any clues.”
“Before you do that,” said Jones, “we should all meet with Challenger. He is a zoologist, and could bring some valuable insight into your inquiries.”
“And so we shall,” said Holmes. “Perhaps we might have luncheon and compare notes. But right now, we have a missing woman to find. You may either join us, or make your way out.”
“I’ll stay, if it’s all the same to you,” Jones replied. “You appear to know what you’re doing.”
“Would that the appearance was the reality,” said Holmes, “but we are as blind men lost in a maze. I hope Toby can follow our trail back.”
Only now did I notice Jones’ wounds. He had been mauled by one of the rat people, and was bleeding profusely from one of his thighs. I could see where a solid chunk of flesh had been ripped away. Only the power of fear enabled the poor man to stand.
“Luncheon will have to wait until we get you to a proper hospital,” I said, tearing off one of my sleeves to use as a bandage and tourniquet. “You won’t be able to stand up much longer, Jones.” I handed Toby’s lead to Holmes.
“I must tend to this man,” I said. “Jones, do you remember your way back?”
“I think so. Doctor. I need to lie down for a moment.”
“Right,” said Holmes. “I’ll see you in Baker Street later. Toby, come! We may need your nose yet.”
I searched the area for something I might use as a splint, but no such luck. Jones would have to hobble to the best of his ability.
“My lantern,” he said. “I dropped it in the corridor.”
After retrieving said lantern, arms around one another’s shoulders, we slowly made our way back. Under ordinary circumstances (and when are circumstances ever ordinary where Sherlock Holmes is involved?), the rats running by our feet would have unsettled me, but compared to what we had just seen, they were almost comforting. After at least two hours, and plenty of rest stops for Jones, we finally saw signs of modern civilization: a utility door to the Underground tunnel. The flat walkway must have felt like a comparative heaven to Jones, who was losing more and more of his stamina by the minute.
“Almost there, Jones! I see a station ahead!”
“Thank God!”
Jones gratefully passed out once I got him to a bench, and, thanks to a nearby policeman, we managed to get him to a hospital before he bled to death. For myself, I badly wanted a bath and a soothing whiskey. This night, I felt I had earned it.
January 26, 1887
The four of us, Holmes, myself, Jones and one G.E. Challenger, met for lunch at one of Holmes’s favorite restaurants in the Strand, this one renowned for its excellent ales.
I did not expect anything like this man. For one thing, he is younger, I’d say perhaps four-and-twenty, but no callow youth. Challenger is a great bear of a man, with a beard as dense as Spanish moss, a huge barrel chest, and the thickest arms I have ever seen on someone calling himself an academic. He also had a brash and overconfident demeanor, and I could see that being his friend would never be easy.
“I have heard of you, Mr. Challenger,” Holmes said. “I read your paper on the evolution of marsupials in Australia. Most ingenious, if a bit implausible.”
“You would have done well at the Royal Society,” Challenger said. “Those fools can’t see beyond the length of their pointed, upturned noses. They dislike having their beliefs upended by genuine research.”
“I take it they rejected your bid for membership.”
“I prefer not to discuss the matter,” Challenger said, signaling a passing waiter for beer.
As we sipped and perused our menus, Holmes brought Challenger and Jones abreast of the situation.
Holmes said, “I find it most interesting that Moreau has given his creatures laws they must obey to consider themselves men. It tells me he doesn’t much care for humanity itself. He believes he can create alternatives to mankind. I wonder if that is what he meant when he referred to a master race.”
“So you knew him well?” asked Challenger.
Holmes nodded and lit a cigarette.
“You two have made a fine mess of things for us,” Holmes said. “There hasn’t been a sign of the rat people since our little adventure, and now Watson and I will have to start over.”
Challenger cast Holmes a stern look.
“For all you know, they were going to kill that woman,” he snarled. “No decent man would have let that happen.”
“No decent man would have let those creatures know they’d been discovered,” Holmes replied. “For a zoologist, you don’t seem to understand these creatures very well.”
“Of course I suppose you do,” replied Challenger, with a touch of sarcasm.
“I may have helped create them,” said Holmes.
That caught Challenger’s attention.
“What?” he ejaculated. “You said you knew Moreau, but you never mentioned anything like that.”
“It would take too long to explain in these surroundings.” He produced a pamphlet and handed it to Challenger. “Perhaps you have heard of the Moreau Horrors.”
Challenger shook his head, but Jones nodded.
“I remember,” he said. “The mad vivisectionist, is that right?”
“Indeed. It was I who exposed him. Take a look at those photographs, Challenger. Do you not see the similarities?”
Challenger seemed fascinated.
“May I borrow this?” he asked. “This is science with which I’m unfamiliar. You participated in this, you say?”
“To my eternal shame and regret. You may keep that. I have a number of copies.”
“Thank you.”
Challenger immediately began to read the pamphlet, taking its information in at a remarkably quick pace, snorting at surprise at some of the photographs.
“This is true?” Challenger asked Holmes.
“I must apologize for the sensational style, but, yes, the report is correct in every detail.”
“I must inform you, sir, that you have bungled the greatest of opportunities.”
“What?” Holmes put his menu down. “What do you mean?”
“I realize someone like you wouldn’t understand this,” Challenger said, “but you shut down possibly the greatest scientific mind of the past half century. He might have accomplished great things, and it appears from what you showed us last night that he has. Rats with reason? What else awaits? We must find him, wherever he may be.”
“You can’t be serious!” Holmes said. “Alexandre Moreau is nothing less than an inhuman fiend, a Frankenstein brought to life. He has no humanity. He ordered one of his atrocious creatures to kill me. Left unchecked, who knows what he might unleash upon the world? Would you really create a world of those rats with Moreau as their ruler? The mind rebels at such a thought.”
“It’s no surprise to me that you are as short-sighted as those dullards at the Royal Society,” Challenger said, anger rising in his eyes. “Could you not see? Moreau may be misguided, but certainly he will find the right path eventually. This man may have found the key to evolution! He could answer the most tantalizing question of all: from whence did men come? Perhaps he could even recreate Cro-Magnon men. What we could learn from a living specimen! Look beyond your magnifying glass, Mr. Holmes.”
“Moreau wants but one thing: power,” Holmes replied. “He creates servants, and he rules through fear and pain. He has no interest in benefiting his fellow man. He had foregone his research into universal blood transfusion when I first knew him; that
only provided the veil for his true interests. Perhaps you have never looked into the eyes of a monster, Challenger, but I have. And now I see the situation is worse than ever. He must be stopped, once and for all. This time I shall not fail.”
“Holmes,” I said, “perhaps we should consider something you haven’t thought of.”
“Eh, Watson?”
“We could bring the man to justice, but learn from his notes. Would that not satisfy both of you?”
“A worthy idea, Watson, but you do not know the man as do I. Moreau won’t be taken alive, I can promise you.”
“But his notes!” Challenger cried. “They could be used for worthy ends! They could lead us to the horizons of science, medical breakthroughs once believed impossible, the very secret of life itself! Who could turn his back on that? With Moreau’s knowledge, my place would be secure and undeniable!”
“I knew it!” Holmes snorted. “So all you really want is to bask in glory and gloat over your peers. I believe, sir, that you are the walking definition of hubris. You are no better than Moreau. There is no place for one’s self-interest in this situation. The man must be caught and tried—”
“For what?” Challenger asked. “Tormenting animals is no crime, and letting a little pain get in the way of scientific advancement—”
“He is wanted in a case of piracy. Challenger, you must know there are humane ways to conduct such research, and Moreau refuses to use them. Think about those creatures we saw last night. Could they speak like men if Moreau hadn’t moved into the final realm of his inquiries? He may have gone so far as to be experimenting on men themselves! If that isn’t a crime of some sort, I—”
“The narrower the vision, the greater the outrage,” Challenger said, rising. “I can see, as always, I and I alone should investigate these matters. Good day to you, sir!”
With that, Challenger marched off, leaving me aghast. Poor Jones, who remained hidden behind his menu for safety, finally dared peek out.
Sherlock Holmes and The House of Pain Page 6