Guy Adams - Sherlock Holmes - The Army of Doctor Moreau

“Father says we should be ourselves,” he said, “feed our animal side.” He snarled. “Very well. Run!”

I didn’t need telling twice, I got to my feet and, shakily, ran out of what was left of the passage and into the open warehouse.

All around was panic and screaming, some of the animals were cowering, some were running in circles. Not so Kane, Kane was in full control.

“Run, man!” he shouted, the words tapering into a howl like that of a wolf. “I wish to hunt!”

I looked around desperately for a weapon but could see nothing. I ran for the stairs that would lead me up to the main entrance, unknowingly passing right by Carruthers and Wiggins on the other side of the wall as they encouraged Mycroft and his security officers up from the underground entrance.

The stairs were hard going, my legs aching terribly as I forced them to move faster up each flight. Finally I was on the ground floor, and I made straight for the door.

Kane followed me outside, his feet pounding on the road as he chased me down the street. I risked a look over my shoulder and saw he had reverted even further. Dropping forward he was loping along on all fours, tongue lolling from between his teeth as he ran.

“Kill you!” he shouted, his voice even more of a canine howl now.

I ran towards the sound of traffic. As much as I didn’t want this thing to harm others I would stand a better chance of dealing with it myself if I could only get into the open.

I emerged close to the Euston Road, Kane at my heels.

“Kill you! Bite you! Suck your bones!” Kane lashed out at me with one of his massive hands and he caught me on the shoulder, sending me tumbling into the gutter.

He rose up and pounded his massive hands on his chest, howling up at the night sky.

I got to my feet, shuffling towards the main road.

“No,” he said, “no more run.”

He leapt for me and I managed to dart to one side, so he collided with a pair of bicycles chained up against a railing. He roared in frustration as the pedals and spokes dug into him. I kept running towards the main road, aware that I had bought myself maybe a few extra seconds, not much, but possibly enough.

I heard the wrenching of metal behind me, followed by a savage barking sound, and then that gallop of his fists bouncing off the road as he ran on all fours. I was scouring the ground as I ran, desperate to spot something I could use—my eyes alighted on the very thing. A dirty child’s ball left in the gutter. And with it a desperate idea!

The Euston Road was always busy with cabs and carts, trucks and coaches, all making their way to and from the station. Stopping at the junction, I turned to face Kane as he charged towards me.

“Kane!” I shouted, in my strongest, most authoritative voice, it was enough to give him pause. “Kane!” I shouted again, loud and firm. He looked at me, head cocked to one side. “Fetch,” I told him, tossing the ball over my shoulder and onto the busy road.

With a pitiful howl he chased past me and ran after the ball. That howl turned to a scream as an omnibus bore down on him, and Kane met with the lethal, grinding wheels of progress.

CHALLENGER

I could scarcely comprehend the coldness of Sherlock Holmes, to be told that his friend and colleague was dead, and all he could do was smoke. Damn the man, I thought, he’s a cold bloody fish !

Mann and I fought to pull away the rubble before us, even as we became aware of the sound of Mitchell trying to escape from his locked laboratory.

“Shouldn’t we deal with him?” I asked, staring at that chilly damned detective.

“I shouldn’t concern yourself,” he replied, puffing away on his church warden. “Give him a little more time and he’ll have dealt with himself. He said it was a concentrated formula so I can’t imagine he will manage to last long before …”

There was a terrible tearing sound from the inside of the laboratory, followed by a wet slap such as might be made by hurling a bucket of tripe at a wall. In a way I suppose that is exactly what it was.

“There we are,” said Holmes with a smile. “Problem solved.”

More hands were helping with the bricks now as Mycroft and his small force had appeared on the other side.

We could hear the sound of gunshots and I found myself wretched at the thought of those poor creatures being killed. I do not doubt that Fellowes and his men acted out of the public interest but, ultimately, the beasts were blameless. It was their humanity that did for them, not the part of them that was animal. What a terrible bastard Mitchell had been! Aye, him and Moreau before him. When would we humans ever learn? We are not the dominant species in this natural world, and the sooner we stop and realise it, the better we all shall be.

Soon the way was clear again, and we found ourselves face to face with Mycroft and none other than John Watson! He was looking distinctly the worse for wear, but alive for all that.

“I told you,” said Holmes, patting the doctor on his arm. “My Watson is hard to kill.”

“He seems to try often enough,” Watson replied.

“Right then,” said Mycroft. “Can we please get all this tidied up? I have a hot toddy I wish to be on the outside of.”

MYCROFT

I didn’t learn anything from the laboratory. I certainly didn’t take any of the chemicals I found there, and certainly will not suggest that Mitchell’s work is continued, albeit in a safer, more controlled manner.

And anyone who says differently will be shot as a traitor to the Crown.

MEDICAL NOTES

In my last book, The Breath of God, I sought to write something of a love letter to supernatural fiction (using the ultimate fictional rationalist to do so). This time my sights were set on the scientific romance, the escapist fun of deluded scientists, mad professors and the monsters mankind does so like to create.

In doing so I have once more raided the work of others so let me take this opportunity to parade the originals, like a man in the dock admitting to his thefts.

My main crime is of course directed at H.G. Wells’ novel The Island of Doctor Moreau. First published in 1896, Wells’ book is thoroughly discussed here and forms the background of everything you’ve just read. While the conceit of Moreau having been in the employ of Mycroft Holmes has no more justification than that it was fun and brought his brother easily into the matter, I hope the idea that Edward Prendick, the original story’s narrator, might lose his mind through his experiences seems a logical enough extension of the original.

When Wells wrote The Island of Doctor Moreau he had a point to make. I have resisted following in his footsteps. The Army of Dr Moreau is not a polemic, it’s a bit of pulp fun. Though it is somewhat depressing to note that, after so many years, I could still have preached had I wished. As a species we haven’t learned our lesson when it comes to the kindly treatment of our fellow creatures. What terrible animals we still are.

The other crimes I wish to take into consideration concern the members of Mycroft’s ludicrous think tank.

Professor Challenger is sure to be well known to most Holmes enthusiasts as he was another creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The aggressive giant lay at the centre of the novel The Lost World, that glorious romp of dinosaurs and lost tribes. The Lost World has inspired many books and movies, not least of all several direct adaptations. Looser offspring include Steven Spielberg’s Jurassic Park movies and (a personal favourite) 1969’s The Valley of Gwangi, where cowboys find their way into an isolated biological pocket in Mexico and come face to face with dinosaurs.