Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

tacked along the wall. At the far end of the hallway stood a large wooden case, its trapdoor open and a glass beaker up-ended inside it. “The string tugged the trapdoor open which in turn tipped a beaker of what smells like formic acid onto the serpents.”

“No wonder they were in a bad mood.”

“‘No wonder,’ indeed. They would naturally have lashed out.”

“Aye,” said Fellowes looking at the dead snakes with some guilt, “them and me both.”

“It can’t be helped,” I said, cautiously opening another doorway off the hall.

“You sure you want to do that?” asked Fellowes. “Probably a pack of tigers in there.”

I opened the door. It led onto a small sitting room, with dusty chairs, an ill-kempt rug, and a long-cold fire grate. I estimated the room hadn’t been used for about fourteen weeks (give or take a few days). But then Mitchell was not likely to have entertained many guests.

“There is nothing here to interest us,” I said, and moved to the next door.

Opening this, I was faced with an entirely different sight. This had been Mitchell’s study, the room where he had met Watson.

“Check the other rooms,” I told Fellowes, to get him out from underneath my feet. “But be careful in case he has left any more specimens to greet us.”

“Righto,” he said, and began a slow circuit of the house.

Mitchell’s desk was virtually empty. A single sheet of paper was placed in its centre, like a portrait framed in a wide mount, to offer emphasis.

I picked the sheet of paper up, not entirely surprised to note that it was a letter addressed to me:

My dear Mr Holmes,

Sorry to have missed you but it was clear to me that if you were investigating it could only be a matter of time before you came knocking on my door. I flatter myself that I caused no suspicion in the mind of your colleague, Dr Watson, but am not so confident that I could manage the same with you. Your reputation is, after all, somewhat daunting.

It is no great imposition to leave. This has become my second home of late now my work grows apace. And what work it is! You will soon see what I am capable of, and not just me but the countless other species we share this planet with. For too long,

mankind has forgotten its place in the animal kingdom, Mr Holmes, we have forgotten that we are no more than another species of mammal, another mouth to feed on this packed Earth. We think we rule, but only because we have stamped out every other creature, choked it with our smoke and poison, buried it beneath our tarmac and brick. The richness that we have destroyed, Mr Holmes, the diversity that is lost to us—it is a crime greater than any of the petty affairs you have turned your attention to over the years.

But fear not, I am intending to redress that balance. I have learned from one of the greatest enemies of animal-kind, that abuser, that false god, Moreau. His methods are now turned against his intentions. He wanted to subjugate other species even further, make them work our factories, clean our streets, fight our wars. Well, they will fight, indeed they will, but the Army of Dr Moreau is not one he could ever have imagined, it is a force that will put the arrogant humans in their place once and for all. We are the future, Holmes. We are tomorrow. Fear the Law!

Yours,

Albert Mitchell

“What have you got there?” Fellowes asked, having finished his tour of the house. “Anything useful?”

I handed it to him. “In the sense that it supplies motive,” I said. “It never fails to irritate me that the things that will always obfuscate an investigation are the peculiarities of the human mind. How difficult it is to predict, how impossible to plan against when it will not follow a logical pattern.”

Fellowes handed the letter back. “Sounds nutty as a fruitcake to me.”

“My point precisely.” I put the letter in my pocket and began a more thorough search of the office. Mad or not, Mitchell was not stupid; there was no evidence that could lead us to his underground lair.

“Show me the bedroom,” I asked.

“Righto.”

Fellowes led me through to Mitchell’s chamber and I spent some time investigating the soles of his boots and the cuffs of his trousers. They were at least of some use, showing me several distinct mud traces that narrowed matters down. Still it was not enough.

“Nothing?” Fellowes asked.

“Nothing,” I conceded. “There is only one way to proceed. Straight into the lion’s den.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

I sent Fellowes off to report to Mycroft and returned to Baker Street expecting to find Watson, no doubt livid with irritation at my behaviour. Instead I found two other gentlemen entirely.

“Johnson!” I said. “You got my message then, I was concerned that it would arrive too late.”

“Nah, Mr Holmes, I got it all right, and I were only too happy to come, weren’t I?”

“Same goes for me,” said the other fellow, jumping to his feet and standing before me, nervously wringing his cap between his hands. I’m afraid he has a habit of that sort of thing. He has grown up to be somewhat in awe. Only natural of course, I was a dominant force in his childhood and inspired him to his current trade.

“Wiggins?” I said. “Good to see you, I heard of your success in finding the stolen ruby of Balmoor, congratulations!”

“It was a simple enough case, Mr Holmes, I’m sure you would have made short work of it.”

“No doubt,” I admitted, choosing not to mention that the location of the gem and the identity of its thief had been clear to me by the time I was halfway through reading The Times’ coverage of its loss.

Wiggins was a graduate of my Baker Street Irregulars. In fact he had always been their guiding hand, the others had looked up to him just as he had looked up to me.

For some time I had suspected he might consider a career in the police force, his enthusiasm for detective work was clear and I never doubted it was something that would continue to develop as he grew older. Thankfully he decided against such a mundane expression of his abilities and became a private agent instead.

One of the more predictable effects of Watson’s writings has been the burgeoning industry of independent detectives. They have always existed of course, merrily pandering to the public’s inane confusions with their limited skills. They were something I was quick to distance myself from, classing myself as a “consulting” detective, one that helped the official police force rather than just the braying public. Still, after my methods became so well known and my successes so widely discussed, the business of deduction became a boom industry. (I also believe the name “Sherlock” found a brief popularity amongst expectant mothers for which I can only apologise to the infants in question.) Private investigators sprung up all over the country ranging from large-scale operations with a sizeable staff to individual operators working out of their own parlours. It seemed that everyone had suddenly developed a skill for deduction and wanted nothing more than to share it. I had no doubt that the majority of such organisations were an exercise in wish-fulfilment and their owners would be out of business before the ink dried on their business cards.

If any private individual stood a chance at making a go of it though, it would be Wiggins, and I for one was pleased to see him try. I realised it might be appreciated were I to suggest as much to him. (I often forget these personal details when Watson is absent.)

“I was considerably impressed,” I told him, thinking the words through carefully, “and have no doubt that great things stand ahead of you.” I sat down in a vacant armchair. “That’s as long as you manage to survive the night of course.”

“I dare say all of us will have our work cut out managing that,” said Johnson, “but then, I never did take to the quiet life.”

“Dr Watson not here?” asked Wiggins.

“Not as yet,” I admitted. “No doubt he is sulking somewhere as he is wont to do. We’ll see him soon enough. Let me give you both some idea of what faces us.”

I prepared to give them all the details currently at our disposal. My brother might have wished me to show