Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I am only too aware that, having criticised Watson’s handling of my case notes, I am now in a decidedly precarious position. Though hardly so precarious as Watson, kidnapped from the street and at the mercy of a mad man and his terrifying menagerie.

As for whether I can satisfy his imaginary readers—of this, a case that will likely never be read—only time will tell. Certainly, I can do no worse. If his editor ever has cause to read it and is concerned that it is lacking in excitement I hereby give my permission for him to insert a superfluous boat chase or fist fight. I trust that what few intelligent readers my Boswell has left will have the good sense to skip such juvenilia and move straight on to the facts.

I must confess, the conclusion of the Moreau affair was somewhat tedious. From that point on it was little more than battles with inhumane monsters beneath the streets of London, none of the really interesting cerebral problems that feature in my better cases. Watson rarely talks about those, the affair of the Doomsday Book Murder for example, a conundrum solved entirely in repose on my chaise longue—fourteen hours of the most thrilling mental arithmetic, logical deduction and abstract contemplation. One day I shall write it up myself, as a beautifully cold and precise novel. It shall be the pinnacle account of my career.

But, for now, let us cover up our agonised boredom and talk of monsters and madmen.