Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

In actuality, the subject of co-writing a novel never came up. But then Mitchell clearly had other things on his mind. He spent the first five minutes convincing himself I wasn’t a spy for the Russian monarchy —it would seem he had been writing a piece on them that had ruffled some Tsarist feathers. Eventually it was my mentioning Mycroft that finally calmed him down.

“That’s a name that rarely brings good news,” he said, “though at least he was never boring.”

Sentiments mirrored by Sherlock, I noted.

“I haven’t heard from him for years. I did him a small favour once—brought certain matters to a head in order to serve his purpose.” He smiled. “We all have to do our bit for Queen and country after all.”

Rather than spin a similar tale to the one I had offered Norman Greenhough, I simply explained to Mitchell that I wanted to know everything he could tell me about Moreau. I gave no reason but equally offered no excuse. Given that he had worked with Mycroft in the matter, I saw no need to be circumspect. He laughed, which had certainly not been the response I was expecting.

“I can tell Mycroft hasn’t sent you now,” he said, “he would never countenance such straight talking! The man’s a veritable oyster when it comes to information. I suppose you must be the John Watson?”

I admitted as much. The stress on the definite article always made me feel bizarrely embarrassed—it was something I was asked rather a lot. I had never grown used to the notion that I was deemed to be famous by the general public. But then, most famous people probably never do. They see themselves from the inside and therefore know they are the very epitome of normality and drudgery.

“I suppose therefore—” he smiled “—I’m a writer. You must forgive me but we do a lot of supposing—that you’re involved in an investigation with Mr Sherlock Holmes?”

Once again I admitted he was right, but still chose not to elaborate.

“You’re going to make me keep guessing, aren’t you Doctor?” he smiled.

“Isn’t that what journalists excel at?” I replied, returning his smile.

“I suppose it is.” He took a cigarette from a small case he kept in his jacket pocket and offered one to me. Realising I would be better off trying to get along with the man than continually rebut him, I took one and we smoked for a minute while he ransacked his shelves.

“That was a fascinating period,” he said, sucking contemplatively on his cigarette. “Terrifying of course, but Moreau was quite the most fascinating man I had ever met.”

“And surely one of the most reprehensible?”

“Oh yes—” he smiled “—that too. But then I spend a great deal of my time in the company of truly loathsome human beings. Most of the work I’ve done has been getting under the skin of the real monsters in our society.”

“I suppose I could say the same, Holmes certainly could.”

“And are you digging away beneath just such a surface now?”

I realised I couldn’t expect him to offer me much unless I showed myself to be at least partially willing to share.

“Our current investigation overlaps with the work of Moreau,” I said. “He casts a long shadow and it would be extremely useful were we to be able to understand him a little better.”

“Understand him? Oh I doubt you’ll ever do that. He was quite beyond such a thing as comprehension. I simply followed in his wake and tried to conceive of his goals. Of course, at the time, it was by no means certain he actually had any. He talked big, naturally. All scientists do in my experience—they all intend to make us live forever or crack the Earth open like an egg. Still, I found it hard to believe that the things he did within that laboratory had a viable goal. Back then, of course, I had very little scientific knowledge at all, so it’s hardly surprising that his work was beyond me. From what I heard later it seems likely that he wasn’t quite as pointlessly mad as most people originally thought.”

“Where did you hear about his later work?” I was by no means certain that he should know of such things, though if he had worked with Mycroft I dare say he was privy to more information than most.

“You hear most things in my line of work, Doctor,” he said, “especially when you’ve been doing it for as long as I have. I heard all about Edward Prendick and his story of having met Moreau in the South Pacific, about the creatures he met there …”

“And did you believe any of it?”

“I can honestly say I would be willing to believe anything with regards Moreau, he was an extremely capable monster.” He suddenly jumped up from his seat. “I kept all of my notes from the time I spent working with him,” he said, moving over to his desk and picking up a large folder. “They’re not pleasant reading but you’re welcome to borrow them should they be useful.”

“You’re too kind.” This was more than I had hoped for.

“No, it comes with a price—would you keep me informed? I know you can’t tell me everything, but I would appreciate being involved as much as you can allow. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time I’d worked with the government!”

I was by no means sure this was a deal I could afford to accept, but the opportunity to take his notes was a hard one to turn down.

“As soon as I can reveal more,” I said, “I will. I’ll even ask Mycroft if you can be put in the picture. How would that be?”

At the mention of Mycroft his face soured a little. “Perhaps it would be better not to appeal to him,” he said. “I’ve found myself somewhat at odds with him in recent years.”

“He can be a hard gentleman to get on with.”

Mitchell nodded. “And I often find myself in, shall we say, legally complex positions.” He grinned at his phraseology. “As a journalist you sometimes have to tread delicately to get the story you want. I’ve done nothing that I’m ashamed of, I hasten to add, but I can understand why Mycroft felt it necessary to distance himself from me. He does have to maintain a whiter-than-white reputation.”

He handed the file over. “Never mind, tell me what you can when you can, I’ll settle for that. If there’s a story in it down the line I’d like to be ahead of the game.”

“Understood.”