Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

CARRUTHERS

“Mr Carruthers,” Holmes said, “the role you play will be of vital importance, rest assured of that.”

I can’t deny that was music to this old boy’s ears. If there’s one thing we Carruthers relish, it’s pitching our all against the odds. Whether it be hanging off a glacier in Asia, facing down a tiger in India or surrounded by the beady eyes of crocodiles in South America, Roger Carruthers has always taken a singular pleasure in staring death in the face and cocking his not inconsiderable snook at the beggar.

Once Watson had left, Holmes explained his plan.

“There is no doubt in my mind that Kane means to lead us into a trap but I see no better alternative than letting that trap be sprung in the hope that it leads us to our quarry.

“What we need is someone with sufficient tracking experience to follow our trail at a safe distance. Kane is no fool and he would certainly be aware of a large party at our heels. He may also have accomplices set out to ensure we are not followed.”

I nodded, agreeing with his supposition. “All of which it will be my job to avoid, follow you anyway and then bring the reinforcements?”

“Exactly.”

“And I suppose it’s my job to provide the reinforcements?” Mycroft asked.

“Naturally,” said Holmes.

So it was, that at nine o’clock both myself and Mycroft Holmes found ourselves dressed from head to toe in coachman’s coats, standing to one end of Baker Street.

“Exciting, what?” I said.

Mr Holmes couldn’t quite match my enthusiasm. “It’s cold and horrid. I make it a point of principle not to leave my armchair after ten o’clock.”

“Then you have an hour to go!”

“Ten o’clock in the morning. Movement is overrated, give me warm fires and a willing waiter over all this tiresome gadding about.”

“Gadding about? You’ve barely covered a mile. I dread to think what you would make of some of my expeditions.”

“Expeditions are ridiculous,” he agreed. “Find somewhere you like and then stay there. I can only assume there is something deeply wrong with a man who hasn’t the decency to settle. What’s wrong with you? Were you bitten by a comfortable cushion as a child?”

I couldn’t help but laugh, though Mycroft, as dry as a Quaker, merely raised a bushy, white eyebrow.

“Here he comes,” I said, nodding towards the large silhouette that was advancing on the front step of 221b. “Big feller, isn’t he?”

Kane rang the bell and was shortly admitted. “Time to present ourselves as gentlemen of worthy employment,” I said, putting on my hat, picking up my whip and climbing into the driver’s seat of one of the cabs Mycroft had arranged.

“Such an embarrassment,” Mycroft said, doing the same. “I promised faithfully to Mother I’d do no such thing.”

His cab gave an audible creak as he clambered into position and we watched for sign of Holmes’ page boy. We didn’t have to wait long. The young lad was soon waving at us from the front step.

“And off we go!” I gave the horses a nudge and we made our way along the street.

I must admit I was somewhat concerned as to whether I would manage behind the reins, but the pair of horses Mycroft had found were the very epitome of good behaviour. It was therefore with some modicum of professionalism that I took both Holmes and Kane onboard my cab and headed off in the direction of King’s Cross.

I tapped the brim of my hat to Mycroft’s chap, Fellowes, as we passed him and his small party of security officers. They were well hidden aboard what appeared to be a dray cart, and would surely be on our tail once we were a short distance ahead.

I did my best to eavesdrop on the conversation going on behind me, but they talked so quietly that I could barely grasp a word above the sound of the horses’ hooves.

Eventually we arrived at the station. I heard Mycroft approach behind me, and all our passengers disembarked.

I was under no illusion that this would be their final destination. Kane would work harder than that to disguise his master’s location. Still, we had made the first stage painlessly enough. I took the payment from Holmes with a suitably gracious smile and made a show of pulling away from the station and leaving them to it. I stopped outside the station exit, appearing for all the world like a cabbie waiting for his next fare. In fact, Mycroft had just such a problem, having to awkwardly discourage a potential client by insisting that he was heading home to his bed. He obviously sounded convincing enough—the fact he would like to do nothing more probably helped—and he pulled away to meet with Fellowes.

Once I was sure that Holmes’ party had cleared the area, I hopped down from my cab, threw my coat and hat in the back and replaced them with a dark worsted jacket and a small pack. I needed to move lightly but also be prepared—I was heading into dangerous territory.

Checking to see that Mycroft had rendezvoused with his men, I made to follow Holmes.

It was vitally important that I keep my distance without losing sight of them, a difficult task in a city, most especially when one has to forego the usual bushcraft tracking. There was precious little in the way of compressed undergrowth or damp, imprinted earth here. Not that I hadn’t managed worse—you try and track a Sudanese native across the desert on a moonless night. See how sick you get of the taste of sand.

Once they had descended to walk along the rail tracks, my job was made considerably easier and I was able to hang back even further.

Holmes and I had agreed that they were unlikely to post anyone on watch until the actual tunnel entrance, though I had kept the old eyes peeled just in case. The moon was near full and my eyesight has long been used to working in low light.

I heard the sound of a manhole cover being lifted and cast aside.

There was precious little camouflage along that cutting, so I made the best use of the shadow, and drew close enough to have the party in sight as they descended underground.

While I waited I looked around, trying to decide where Kane would have left an accomplice. The most obvious vantage point was a signal box some short way past the tunnel entrance. Willing to wager on it being the chosen lookout point, I pressed myself into the undergrowth and worked my way behind it.

Peering through the dirty glass I could see a vague shape standing in the darkness and drew myself to the door as quietly as my years of hostile environments have taught me.

I was lucky in that the feller had his back to the doorway, eyes fixed intently on the tunnel entrance.

Accepting that one simply cannot march through the streets of London carrying a rifle, I had left the Remington at the hotel. I was nonetheless unwilling to go entirely unarmed. Mycroft had provided me with a Webley revolver, the butt of which I brought down with some force on the back of the lookout’s head. A somewhat unsporting move on my part and it didn’t sit easily with me. Still, one must sometimes forego morals in pursuit of the greater good.

I lit a match and glanced down into the face of a bizarre creature indeed. It had the short, snub beak of an eagle, its tiny black eyes no doubt perfect for observing in the darkness. It groaned as I rolled it over. Unwilling to kill unless absolutely necessary, I reached into my pack for some rope and bound and gagged the beast to the best of my ability.

Fairly sure that the coast would now be clear, I exited the signal box and made my way over to the tunnel entrance.

The manhole cover had been pulled partially back into place. I placed my ear to the slim gap and listened. They had moved some distance away.

I reached for my pack once more and set a match to the small lantern I had been carrying. Leaving it just to one side of the manhole, I descended a few steps down the ladder inside and listened once more. I could hear the faintest sounds of movement coming from my right.

Rising back up to the open air, I made a note of the direction I was walking in, folded it and placed it under the lantern. The breadcrumb trail had begun!

Back down in the tunnel, I waited a moment for the afterglow of the lantern to fade from my eyes. It would take them a few minutes to adjust, I knew, but if I used the wall to guide me then I should be able to draw close enough to Holmes and his party to keep them within earshot.

I must say that, despite the frankly awful smell, I found it intensely peaceful in those tunnels. There is something wonderful about having one’s senses deprived, relying on the hypersensitivity of others. I almost seemed to float along in the darkness, caring not in the least that I couldn’t see a thing in front of me, knowing simply that I was walking in the right direction and that I could no more get lost than water rolling down a drainage pipe.

I relished the fact that they were making more than enough noise to cover my pursuit. However sensitive Kane’s ears might have been, there was no way he could have heard me over the sound of Challenger’s frequent outbursts.

Then the first round of shooting began.

I kept my Webley in my hand and waited, listening intently for every clue as to what was happening. Holmes and I had agreed that there was little I could do in this situation. The important thing was to remain hidden until Mitchell’s lair had been exposed. Once that was known (and the information passed on) then I was free to act as I liked but, until then, I was to reveal myself for no reason other than to protect my own life.

I heard the attacking creature splash into the water and the sound of excited chatter. Certainly the majority of them had prevailed then, I reasoned, and I continued to follow at a safe distance. At some point I must have passed the dead body of the creature that had attacked them, but in the darkness I had no way of knowing.

The next attack came shortly after and followed the same pattern —a volley of shots, the sound of the creature expiring into the water followed by enough chatter to let me know that at least some of the party had survived.

But then my ears picked up the sound of someone heading back in my direction.

I halted and, once again, kept my Webley ready. The last thing I wanted to do was use it. That would expose my presence all too effectively. But if they came upon me anyway, I would have little to lose.

They were carrying the lantern and it was only a few more moments before I recognised them as a friendly pair of faces.

“You must be Carruthers,” the younger of the two whispered, as faintly as he could. “Holmes told me you were back here. My name’s Wiggins and this ere waste of space is Shinwell Johnson.”

“Pleased to meet you both,” I said.

“Apparently we’re nearly there,” said Johnson. “Just a few more feet, according to Dog-Breath.”

“Then might I suggest you gather Mycroft and his chaps?” I said. “I’ll keep on Holmes’ trail for now in case I can be of any assistance, but the sooner we have the weight of numbers the better.”

“Righto.”

I worked my way past them and continued after what remained of their party.

Again, I was unable to see the beast they had killed, though I could certainly smell it, even over the effluent. It had a distinct hint of the ocean to it, like a fishmonger’s in high summer.

Not long after I had passed it, I heard the sound of shouting ahead and a light appeared from behind an ill-fitting curtain that hung on the wall.

Moving as close to it as I dared I could hear the sound of a man’s voice.

“You really should have stayed within the safe walls of Baker Street,” it said. “Now that you are all here I can do whatever I wish with you. My experiments can recommence with fresh supplies! You are entirely at my mercy!”

What a melodramatic old sock, I thought.

There were obviously a number of creatures on the other side of the curtain, and I waited to hear them file away before I pulled the fabric to one side and stepped through the ragged opening in the bricks.

I immediately felt something grab me and I turned with all the speed I could muster, bringing the revolver up and into the face of whatever had set its paws on me. It gave a short grunt but I wrapped my arms around its head, determined to muffle the noise, and swiftly wrenched its neck to one side. There was an awful crunching noise and the beast went limp in my arms.

The rest of the party had taken their light with them so I’ll never know what manner of beast I slipped past the curtain and into the water beyond. It had lank, greasy hair and chunky teeth but I could tell no more.

I could hear the sound of the melodramatic Mitchell, no doubt holding forth on quite how brilliant he was. I chose not to listen, rather hung back and started to ferret in my pack for the dynamite.

Holmes and I had agreed that in all likelihood a distraction would be needed; I can think of little more distracting than a whopping great explosion so set about arranging one.

It nearly happened early when young Wiggins snuck up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Sorry,” he said. “Johnson insisted he could manage so the stubborn oaf’s off to fetch Mycroft. I thought you might need a hand.”

“Considering I almost blew one of mine off when you made me jump,” I admitted, “I’m only too glad of the offer. Keep an eye on that lot while I finish setting these fuses.”

The building had clearly once been used for storage. Room after room of open space now filled with the detritus of those that had made their home here. Conscious of not causing enough destruction to either bring the whole lot down on our heads or block Mycroft’s arrival with reinforcements, I ran a length of fuse from room to room, setting up a network of small explosions that I hoped would cause the requisite chaos when the time was right.

“He’s locked them up,” said Wiggins. “Get a move on, cause they’ll be heading back this way any minute.”

“Ready when you are, old chap,” I told him. “Might I suggest you duck?”

At which point I lit the first fuse.