Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Once Kane had left, Holmes visibly relaxed and settled back into his armchair. He reclaimed his pipe and brought it back to life with a match. “An unnerving character, Watson,” he said. “Only a fool argues with the clear evidence of his own eyes. Still, to be face to face with such a beast. To converse with it …”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I admitted.

“It is a nightmare of flesh,” he concurred. “The sort of vision one might suffer after indulging in that opium pipe he made such light business of.”

“He made light business of a great deal of criminal behaviour,” I said. “It’s a wonder you let him leave.”

He shrugged. “What choice did I have? I no more trust him than I like him but the stakes are high and we must take every advantage offered. I strongly suspect that the minute we descend into that damp ‘under-city’ our lives will be fragile things indeed, but we must try. Who knows what that creature’s creator has planned? Are we dealing with a lunatic with ideas beyond his ability or, much worse, are we dealing with a man who can achieve the monstrous acts he claims he is capable of?”

“A serum that forces the human body to adapt? I cannot credit it.”

“In truth, nor can I but the risk of the consequences if we are both wrong is too great to bear.”

He settled to think for a moment, no doubt imagining the possible effects of such a chemical. What chaos it could wreak if let loose into the world!

I settled into the chair opposite him and reached for my own cigarettes. What manner of creature would Holmes become if exposed to such a concoction—a swollen brain hovering over a pair of massive, tobacco-hardened lungs? The thought of such a beast, despite the serious context, could not help but make me smile.

“And what of you?” he said, intruding into my thoughts. “A massive heart and stomach perhaps?”

“Steady on, Holmes,” I replied, “there’s no need to be offensive.” I didn’t acknowledge that he had guessed what I had been thinking. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. It was a damnable trick and not the first time he’d played it.

Which reminded me of how I had spent the majority of my day. “You may be able to read my more obvious thoughts, Holmes,” I said. “But even you will not be able to plumb the depths, I have a great deal to tell you!”

“Your investigations went well did they?” he replied.

I concede that for a moment I was more than a little put out. “My investigations?”

“Well obviously you’ve been looking into the matter, you’ve been out all day and were no doubt positively itching to prove your deductive capabilities.”

“Only because you have been so damnably smug of late!”

He raised an eyebrow. “Only of late?” He offered a smile. “You know my moods, Watson my friend, better than any other. I apologise for my recent behaviour. I would say that it won’t happen again but we both know that’s a promise I’ll struggle to keep.”

In a way Holmes was even more irritating when he capitulated; you wanted to rage at the man and all he could do was nod and admit he was annoying. If there was a better way of taking the wind from a man’s sails I didn’t know of it.

“You are quite the most irritating man I know.”

“I excel in all things then,” he replied and chuckled. “But come! Tell me of your adventures.”

Seeing little point in arguing further, I did as he asked. I picked up the folder containing Prendick’s account and the papers I had been given by Mitchell.

“Watson,” Holmes announced once I had finished, “if I ever suggest you are anything less than a marvel remind me of today, you have done extremely well.”

Despite my previous irritation I couldn’t help but be pleased. “I must admit that I was concerned that I was hardly farther forward than when I began,” I admitted. “The mystery seems thicker rather than clearer.”

“These matters are murky indeed,” he admitted, “but you have certainly gathered data that solves some of the loose ends. In fact you have given me most of what I need to complete my own deductions.”

“Complete them?”

“Indeed. Prendick’s death seemed deeply unsatisfactory to me and that is at last brought into clarity.”

“Unsatisfactory?” That seemed hardly a humane word to use in the context.

He tutted at my faint disapproval. “You know full well what I mean,” he said. “Viewed from a purely logical perspective—as I always must, these matters will not solve themselves by my emoting all over them—it presented a number of complications. Why was acid used? It immediately made one suspect that the body was not that of Prendick but rather someone else entirely, the acid an attempt to disfigure the corpse so extensively it would be impossible to tell.”

I admitted that the thought had occurred to me.

“Of course it had, Mycroft too I have no doubt. But it would seem from what Inspector Mann tells us that the face was perfectly clear. So why such a painful method?”

“I had wondered whether there was a degree of self-hatred involved,” I said. “He chose a painful method because he believed he deserved to suffer.”

Holmes shook his head. “Someone who wishes to suffer does not end their life.” He suddenly clapped his hands. “Of course! It was a preventative measure! He wanted to destroy his organs so that they would be of no further use. He was terrified of some part of him ending up inside another creature.”

“It’s a possibility,” I agreed.

“A certainty, he must have had a good reason to endure such suffering and it’s the only one that fits.”

I began to leaf through his account of matters on the island. “This is quite the most bizarre thing you’ll ever read,” I said.

“No,” said Holmes, fetching his hat and coat, “for one day you’ll write its sequel! Gather yourself, Watson, we should begin preparations for this evening.”

I folded Prendick’s account into my pocket and within moments we were in a cab and on our way to a hotel on The Strand.