Sherlock Holmes-The Army of Doctor Moreau

by Guy Adams

He smiled, once more the alpha male. “You will see soon enough. He is a greater man than he ever was.”

  We arrived outside what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. As far as I could tell we were somewhere in the area of King’s Cross. I considered making a run for it the minute the door was opened, but one look at the eyes of our feline driver changed my mind. I knew that my chances of getting out alive would drop dramatically once we were inside the building, but if this brute lived up to his natural heritage he would be fast as well as strong. There was no chance I’d be able to outrun him.

  I was grabbed by the shoulder, and I could feel thick claws pierce the material of my jacket. If I pulled away he meant to make sure I left a piece of me behind!

  “I can’t promise you will be comfortable,” Mitchell said. “But I doubt you’ll have to endure my company for long.”

  “Well that’s a relief.”

  He stared at me, seemingly at a loss as to why I was being so rude. That’s the problem with lunatics—they’re not awfully self-aware.

  “I had hoped that you might be able to assist me,” he said. “As a medical man you would have been an extremely beneficial companion.”

  “As a medical man I couldn’t lift a scalpel to help you.”

  “You say that now, but let us see if you can maintain that dismissive attitude once you see what I have achieved.”

  I was led inside the building, and my first impression was of the foul stench that clung to its ancient brick walls. I remember during my time in Afghanistan entering a barn that had been used to house a herd of goats. The sun had baked the inside of that barn, making the air hot and fetid, and filled with the aromas of hair, food and waste. I had been forced to run for the open before the atmosphere caused me to vomit.

  This building was much larger, of course, and therefore the smell was not so strong. Still, I couldn’t help but think back to that Afghan hut.

  The floor was filthy, littered with torn bedding, half-chewed bones and dark stains I didn’t wish to guess at. For all Mitchell’s talk of civilisation, it was clear his animal army hadn’t stepped far from their feral behaviour.

  Mitchell clearly sensed my disgust. No doubt it showed clearly on my face.

  “I am not here to strip away what makes our animal friends what they are,” he explained, “unlike Moreau with his determination that they should be made vegetarian, stripped clean of their urges and needs.”

  “Fear the Law -” I said “- Isn’t that what you shouted when you wanted them to behave? Doesn’t sound like real freedom to me.”

  “Well,” Mitchell squirmed slightly, “I’ll admit I have had to maintain some sense of order, just to ensure we’re all working towards the same goal. It’s in their best interests.”

  “That’s what all dictators say.”

  He led me down several flights of stairs then through to a small side room, the central feature of which was a large column covered with a heavy black sheet.

  “Here,” he said, “then you will finally understand the miracles I have created.”

  He tugged at the sheet, revealing a tall glass water tank. Inside, floating, fully clothed, was Lord Newman, the Prime Minister.

  “Dear God, man!” I shouted, circling the tank to try to find a method of opening it. “He’ll drown!”

  “If he were going to drown,” Mitchell replied, “he would have done so long ago.” He pulled his fob watch from his waistcoat and checked the time. “Our noble guest has been in there for nearly an hour.”

  “Impossible.”

  “See for yourself, he still lives.”

  I pressed my face up against the glass, looking the dignitary in the eyes. His long hair and beard, so often criticised by the opposition as undignified, looked decidedly so now, bobbing around his pale face like seaweed fronds. His thin lips were tightly pressed together, as if he were holding his breath, and yet his skin showed none of the ruddy tones one would expect from a man deprived of oxygen. As I looked, his hair parted and just for a moment I glimpsed the organs that had newly grown on either side of his throat—narrow, fleshy slits that rippled as they allowed air bubbles to filter between them.

  “Dear God!” I exclaimed. “You’ve given him gills!”

  “Only indirectly. I injected him with the serum I have prepared, that Holy Grail of governmental research. He has simply adapted to his environment the quickest and simplest way his body could think of.”

  “But that’s …” I couldn’t finish my sentence. I was simply too in awe of the sight in front of me—the absurd, grotesque impossibility of it.

  Suddenly Lord Newman convulsed, his whole body twitching like a fish caught on a line.

  “Damn,” said Mitchell, stepping closer to the glass. “I was so sure he would last longer than the rest.”

  “Longer than … What are you talking about man? What’s happening to him?”

  He convulsed again and a shocking gobbet of blood burst from between those tightly pressed lips. It hung in the water for a moment, then sunk, immediately followed by another, and then one more. Soon his whole body was thrashing, and the water grew increasingly pink as he haemorrhaged.

  “Every time,” said Mitchell, “the body goes so far and then breaks down.”

  “You’ve got to get him out of there!” I shouted, looking around for something I could use to break the glass. I moved no more than a couple of feet before the leopard creature gripped me by the arms and raised me slightly off the floor. I thrashed in his grip, just as Lord Newman thrashed in the tank, neither of us to any positive effect.

  “There’s no point,” said Mitchell, staring through the glass as Lord Newman slowly vanished in the murky soup. “He’ll be dead in a few moments. It’s almost akin to tissue rejection, as if the whole body begins to reject itself once the changes bed in. Fascinating—” he looked away “—but so terribly disappointing. He was to be my spokesman for the brave new age. Mind you,” he grinned, “I didn’t vote for him, did you?”

  “Inhuman bastard!” I was beside myself with rage, not caring that the claws of the creature were tearing holes in my upper arms.

  “Oh yes,” said Mitchell, “isn’t that the point?” He looked once more at the water in the tank, still and red now, and the hirsute silhouette that floated within. “Shame. Still, if at first you don’t succeed...” He looked at me, and the ferociousness of his lunacy burned hot in those eyes. “Let’s hope you manage to last a little longer, eh?”

  I was carried out, and dragged down the adjoining corridor to another small room.

  Mitchell pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. “You’ll have to forgive the smell,” he said. “This is the secure area where we keep our animal friends when they first come into our care. They are understandably disorientated at first, and sore from their surgeries. We find it best to keep them somewhere dark and peaceful until they have come to their senses.”

  He opened the door and once more I was hit with my memories of that Afghan barn, before I was thrown inside and the darkness consumed me.

  I landed painfully on my knees, and rolled to my side in what felt like damp straw.

  My arms burned from where the creature’s claws had drawn blood.

  At that moment I could have happily killed Mitchell—he seemed to be the most terrible, loathsome beast of all.

  Eventually I began to calm down, though the image of Lord Newman’s death lingered with me in the darkness. I was simply unable to see anything else.

  After a while, as much as I tried to nurture my moral indignation, my thoughts turned instead to my own predicament. Clearly I was to share the same fate as the Prime Minister. Perhaps not the water tank—I had a feeling that Mitchell would always be eager to experiment afresh—but certainly something like it. Perhaps I would be buried alive, left to writhe like a worm until I ruptured into the soil. Or would I be dissected—forced to regrow myself ad nauseam like a lizard that has shed its tail?

  I have often had ca
use to imagine death. Indeed, in the months since Mary’s passing I almost wished it on myself. But not like this. I could never have imagined anything approaching the horror of a death like this.

  Still, as the hours went by, I could see no other way out of it. All I could hope for was that an opportunity to break free might present itself. Certainly, I would rather die at the hands of one of my animal pursuers, cut down as I made a break for the open, than become a scientific horror of the kind I had witnessed.

  And then the moment came. I heard footsteps advancing on the door to the room, the sound of the key in the lock.

  “It’s now or never,” I said. “Get ready John, old man!”

  But Mitchell had not come for me. Instead he had brought me company.

  “Go on!” he shouted and, just for a moment in the light thrown from the open doorway, I saw Holmes, Challenger and Mann stumble into the room. Then the door was shut and all was dark once more.

  “Holmes?” I shouted. “I might have hoped to see you on better terms.”

  “Ah!” my friend’s voice replied. “Is that you Watson? Not the most convivial of surroundings is it?”

  “Damned disgrace,” Challenger shouted. “Treated like a blasted animal!”

  “If only his intentions were that kind,” I said.

  “Yes,” Mann agreed, “I have a feeling we’ll know worse yet.”

  So, this is where my insistence on having the inspector join us had led. His wife would likely never set eyes on him again, poor man. So much for your principles, you old fool, I thought.

  “It’s not good,” I said, before telling them of the fate of Lord Newman.

  “Unbelievable,” said Mann.

  “Just what I said, myself,” I admitted. “But I can’t really see a way out of our situation. He has an army of those beasts to fight against. We’re outnumbered, overpowered and trapped here in the dark.”

  “I know,” said Holmes, and I could swear that the man was smiling. “I’ve got him just where I want him!”

  Which is when the room shook in response to a nearby explosion.

  CARRUTHERS

  “Mr Carruthers,” Holmes said, “the role you play will be of vital importance, rest assured of that.”

  I can’t deny that was music to this old boy’s ears. If there’s one thing we Carruthers relish, it’s pitching our all against the odds. Whether it be hanging off a glacier in Asia, facing down a tiger in India or surrounded by the beady eyes of crocodiles in South America, Roger Carruthers has always taken a singular pleasure in staring death in the face and cocking his not inconsiderable snook at the beggar.

  Once Watson had left, Holmes explained his plan.

  “There is no doubt in my mind that Kane means to lead us into a trap but I see no better alternative than letting that trap be sprung in the hope that it leads us to our quarry.

  “What we need is someone with sufficient tracking experience to follow our trail at a safe distance. Kane is no fool and he would certainly be aware of a large party at our heels. He may also have accomplices set out to ensure we are not followed.”

  I nodded, agreeing with his supposition. “All of which it will be my job to avoid, follow you anyway and then bring the reinforcements?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And I suppose it’s my job to provide the reinforcements?” Mycroft asked.

  “Naturally,” said Holmes.

  So it was, that at nine o’clock both myself and Mycroft Holmes found ourselves dressed from head to toe in coachman’s coats, standing to one end of Baker Street.

  “Exciting, what?” I said.

  Mr Holmes couldn’t quite match my enthusiasm. “It’s cold and horrid. I make it a point of principle not to leave my armchair after ten o’clock.”

  “Then you have an hour to go!”

  “Ten o’clock in the morning. Movement is overrated, give me warm fires and a willing waiter over all this tiresome gadding about.”

  “Gadding about? You’ve barely covered a mile. I dread to think what you would make of some of my expeditions.”

  “Expeditions are ridiculous,” he agreed. “Find somewhere you like and then stay there. I can only assume there is something deeply wrong with a man who hasn’t the decency to settle. What’s wrong with you? Were you bitten by a comfortable cushion as a child?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh, though Mycroft, as dry as a Quaker, merely raised a bushy, white eyebrow.

  “Here he comes,” I said, nodding towards the large silhouette that was advancing on the front step of 221b. “Big feller, isn’t he?”

  Kane rang the bell and was shortly admitted. “Time to present ourselves as gentlemen of worthy employment,” I said, putting on my hat, picking up my whip and climbing into the driver’s seat of one of the cabs Mycroft had arranged.

  “Such an embarrassment,” Mycroft said, doing the same. “I promised faithfully to Mother I’d do no such thing.”

  His cab gave an audible creak as he clambered into position and we watched for sign of Holmes’ page boy. We didn’t have to wait long. The young lad was soon waving at us from the front step.

  “And off we go!” I gave the horses a nudge and we made our way along the street.

  I must admit I was somewhat concerned as to whether I would manage behind the reins, but the pair of horses Mycroft had found were the very epitome of good behaviour. It was therefore with some modicum of professionalism that I took both Holmes and Kane onboard my cab and headed off in the direction of King’s Cross.

  I tapped the brim of my hat to Mycroft’s chap, Fellowes, as we passed him and his small party of security officers. They were well hidden aboard what appeared to be a dray cart, and would surely be on our tail once we were a short distance ahead.

  I did my best to eavesdrop on the conversation going on behind me, but they talked so quietly that I could barely grasp a word above the sound of the horses’ hooves.

  Eventually we arrived at the station. I heard Mycroft approach behind me, and all our passengers disembarked.

  I was under no illusion that this would be their final destination. Kane would work harder than that to disguise his master’s location. Still, we had made the first stage painlessly enough. I took the payment from Holmes with a suitably gracious smile and made a show of pulling away from the station and leaving them to it. I stopped outside the station exit, appearing for all the world like a cabbie waiting for his next fare. In fact, Mycroft had just such a problem, having to awkwardly discourage a potential client by insisting that he was heading home to his bed. He obviously sounded convincing enough—the fact he would like to do nothing more probably helped—and he pulled away to meet with Fellowes.

  Once I was sure that Holmes’ party had cleared the area, I hopped down from my cab, threw my coat and hat in the back and replaced them with a dark worsted jacket and a small pack. I needed to move lightly but also be prepared—I was heading into dangerous territory.

  Checking to see that Mycroft had rendezvoused with his men, I made to follow Holmes.

  It was vitally important that I keep my distance without losing sight of them, a difficult task in a city, most especially when one has to forego the usual bushcraft tracking. There was precious little in the way of compressed undergrowth or damp, imprinted earth here. Not that I hadn’t managed worse—you try and track a Sudanese native across the desert on a moonless night. See how sick you get of the taste of sand.

  Once they had descended to walk along the rail tracks, my job was made considerably easier and I was able to hang back even further.

  Holmes and I had agreed that they were unlikely to post anyone on watch until the actual tunnel entrance, though I had kept the old eyes peeled just in case. The moon was near full and my eyesight has long been used to working in low light.

  I heard the sound of a manhole cover being lifted and cast aside.

  There was precious little camouflage along that cutting, so I made the best use of the shadow, and drew close enoug
h to have the party in sight as they descended underground.

  While I waited I looked around, trying to decide where Kane would have left an accomplice. The most obvious vantage point was a signal box some short way past the tunnel entrance. Willing to wager on it being the chosen lookout point, I pressed myself into the undergrowth and worked my way behind it.

  Peering through the dirty glass I could see a vague shape standing in the darkness and drew myself to the door as quietly as my years of hostile environments have taught me.

  I was lucky in that the feller had his back to the doorway, eyes fixed intently on the tunnel entrance.

  Accepting that one simply cannot march through the streets of London carrying a rifle, I had left the Remington at the hotel. I was nonetheless unwilling to go entirely unarmed. Mycroft had provided me with a Webley revolver, the butt of which I brought down with some force on the back of the lookout’s head. A somewhat unsporting move on my part and it didn’t sit easily with me. Still, one must sometimes forego morals in pursuit of the greater good.

  I lit a match and glanced down into the face of a bizarre creature indeed. It had the short, snub beak of an eagle, its tiny black eyes no doubt perfect for observing in the darkness. It groaned as I rolled it over. Unwilling to kill unless absolutely necessary, I reached into my pack for some rope and bound and gagged the beast to the best of my ability.

  Fairly sure that the coast would now be clear, I exited the signal box and made my way over to the tunnel entrance.

  The manhole cover had been pulled partially back into place. I placed my ear to the slim gap and listened. They had moved some distance away.

  I reached for my pack once more and set a match to the small lantern I had been carrying. Leaving it just to one side of the manhole, I descended a few steps down the ladder inside and listened once more. I could hear the faintest sounds of movement coming from my right.

  Rising back up to the open air, I made a note of the direction I was walking in, folded it and placed it under the lantern. The breadcrumb trail had begun!

  Back down in the tunnel, I waited a moment for the afterglow of the lantern to fade from my eyes. It would take them a few minutes to adjust, I knew, but if I used the wall to guide me then I should be able to draw close enough to Holmes and his party to keep them within earshot.