Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER THIRTY

I cannot recall ever feeling as despondent about my relationship with Holmes as I did during the journey between the Diogenes Club and The British Museum. Certainly there had been many times when Holmes and I had failed to see eye to eye; I had been the target for considerable insults and slights over the years. But there had always been an underlying respect between us, an understanding that, for all his bluster and unreasonable behaviour, the two of us were a partnership. Now, for all his guff about my wanting to come to my own conclusions, all I could see was that I was being deliberately sidelined. He would tell me nothing and, to add further insult, he would not even involve me in the important aspects of the case.

In all honesty I felt like leaving Baker Street just as I had those few years ago, not to take up a new life as had been the case then, but simply to eradicate the irritations of the current one.

I had the cab stop at a telegraph office en route, glad at least that I had been able to bring Inspector Mann into the fold. I was aware of how my attitude towards the policeman’s feelings was the direct opposite of those of Holmes. I wanted to show Mann trust and respect, I wanted him to be involved rather than stuck on the periphery. I wanted to offer him the things I most wanted for myself. We are very simple creatures, are we not? Whatever the alienists say, the human mind is usually pretty predictable.

I arrived at The British Museum and was relieved at the ease with which I was able to pass through the door; arriving during its hours of opening made things a lot easier. Of course, I was naive to think that I would simply be able to stroll right into the Reading Room where the Science Club had taken up residence.

“Ah, is that Dr Watson?” asked an elderly voice. My heart sank to see the ageing caretaker sat in a chair outside the Reading Room door.

“Indeed it is,” I replied, determined to keep my voice cheery.

He carefully placed a wilting sandwich back into its brown paper nest on his lap, treating it with all the reverence you would expect were it an exhibit. It certainly looked old enough to be. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, once sure it was safe in his lap. “I am a highly contagious, respiration-borne virus. I can lead to pneumonia, bronchitis, encephalitis and ear infections. Fifty years ago I wiped out nearly half the population of Hawaii. What am I?”

I knew damn well what he was but was raised far too well to shout it in public. I therefore had little choice but to answer his question instead.

“Measles,” I replied, “otherwise known as ‘rubeola’. Now may I go in or do you wish to give me a physical examination first to make sure I haven’t got any?”

“No need to be like that, Doctor,” he replied, picking up his sandwich once more and offering up a particularly floppy corner to his wrinkled mouth. “We all have our role to play after all.”

And there he had a point—given how I had been bemoaning my involvement, how much worse would it have been to be this man? Sitting in doorways and knowing nothing but arguments and grumpy general practitioners. Still, he didn’t have to be such an unbearable prig about it.

I stepped inside to see the Science Club indulging in their usual chaos. Perry had fallen asleep amongst the book stacks, Cavor appeared to be trying to fold a rug into the shape of a typical paper dart, and Lindenbrook was drawing on the back of a bookshelf with some chalk. It seemed inconceivable to me that anything worthwhile could come out of such an obvious collection of lunatics. Later, Mycroft would admit that he paid the cleaner to gather all notes (copying those left on non-portable surfaces such as walls and floors) and hired a team of scientists to decipher their content. Apparently, by so doing, he has blueprints for an improved combustion engine, an entirely new number and the likely outcome of every single cricket match played at Lord’s cricket ground for the next three years—eclectic information, certainly, but groundbreaking nonetheless.

Of Challenger there was, irritatingly, no sign.

“Professor?” I called.

“Get down man!” came the man’s familiar roar and I dropped to the floor as a native spear passed through the space where I had just been standing and imbedded itself in the spine of Litefoot’s Lepidoptera volume three, E-G.

“I nearly had you then!” the professor laughed, bounding through the tables, another large spear in his hand. “I often find physical exercise keeps the brain firing!” he said, as if that was a perfectly adequate explanation. “I have been giving thought to the question of how waxing the feathers can improve the wind resistance.”

I might have suggested that he had enough to think about without branching out into the aerodynamics of pointed weaponry, but I was concerned he’d stab me with the other spear if I did. With Challenger no response was impossible. Instead, I brought him up to date with the investigation and extended Holmes’ offer for him to join us on the night’s mission.

“An expedition!” Challenger exclaimed. “What a splendid idea!” He leaned close. “And if nothing else it will get me away from these idiots!”

Looking over his shoulder, I could see that Cavor was climbing into his upholstered dart, looking for all the world as if he intended to try and fly it out of the building. Perry gave a loud snore, woke himself up and fell over in a cloud of tumbling books.

“I can see why that would appeal,” I said. “We’ll see you at Baker Street at eight, then?”

“I shall be there!”