Guy Adams: Sherlock Holmes: The Army of Doctor Moreau

Holmes scoffed at that and kicked at the leg of his chair with his heel. He was not a man who relished the idea of working as part of a team.

“I know how much you enjoy working with others, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “But you will simply have to accept that this is a wide-reaching matter and I have set all of my best men on it.”

“‘All’?” Holmes positively shouted this. “How many is ‘all’?”

“You need not be in each others’ pockets throughout the investigation but as well as an expert in hunting and tracking I have instigated a little … Well, let us call it a science club. I have charged the best brains in the country to look to the matter and offer their input. Who knows whether we will need biological assistance, or medical, or simply someone to approach the scientific aspects of the case in a more lateral manner? You’ll meet them later this evening. I’ve told them to expect you.”

“At the clubhouse?” I asked with a smile.

Mycroft chuckled. “Indeed, the most perfect place you could imagine for such a club. They are in residence at The British Museum.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I had visited The British Museum before of course. Most recently, I had taken Mary there for a dull afternoon when rain had forced us indoors and away from the lake in Regent’s Park. I say “dull” not because I had no interest in its collections, but everything has its time and place and reading about Egyptian excavations will never be a replacement for lolling on the water with the woman you love.

Holmes and I descended from our cab at five minutes to the appointed hour and made our way along Great Russell Street.

“I sometimes wonder,” Holmes said as we turned the corner into Montague Street, “whether this is not the repository of some of the greatest crimes of our time. Thefts far beyond the paltry affairs I concern myself with—national treasures, chunks of history, all whipped away to be stowed, under lock and key, in the name of education and empire.”

“But surely,” I replied, “archaeology is hardly theft. We have discovered some of the finest historical artefacts in the world, preserved them, learned from them.”

“They are rare lions,” he said, gazing up at the building, “torn from their natural jungle to rot away in the smoke-filled streets of an alien land.”

He was bordering on the poetic, something that always put me on edge with Holmes! It could be a sign of mania—either excessive exuberance or the most terrible depression. Not that I was completely immune to the atmosphere of the place. After hours, the building had a decidedly eerie quality. Gone was the hubbub of school parties and black-frocked nannies poking their unwilling charges through the doors. The light was dim and the shadows in the colonnaded entrance seemed unnaturally dense. Perhaps my nerves were still raw from our most recent case, but I will admit to being chilled by more than just the January air as we made our way towards the main entrance.

Holmes jogged up the steps to the main doors and rapped on the wood with the head of his cane. He turned and smiled, looking not unlike one of the rare lions he had mentioned earlier.

After a few moments there was the sound of a bolt being drawn and a lock being turned. The door opened a crack and the face of an elderly caretaker appeared in the gap.

“Mr Holmes?” the old man asked.

“Indeed,” Holmes replied, tipping his hat, “and my colleague Dr John Watson.”

“Of course, Sir,” the caretaker replied. “I was told to expect both of you.” He opened the door fully and there was a waft of hair-oil and dust. “You will forgive me, Sirs, if I check your credentials. Matters here are of such a delicate nature that it’s more than my job’s worth to let just anyone in.”

“You may have my card, certainly,” I replied, trying to keep the irritation from my voice. I could quite understand the gentleman’s need for security but I have never responded well to such behaviour.

“With all due respect, Sir,” he smiled, “a man’s card is easily attained. I had something more reliable in mind.” He turned to Holmes. “Tell me, Sir: ‘Whoever makes it, tells it not. Whoever takes it, knows it not. Whoever knows it, wants it not.’ What am I describing?”

I sighed and tapped impatiently at the steps with my cane. “We have an appointment,” I said. “We were not warned it was with the damned Sphinx.”

Holmes held up his hand. “I don’t mind.” Nor would he—any chance to show off his reasoning. He repeated the man’s riddle, shrugged as if it were child’s play itself. “I presume you are describing counterfeit currency?”

The old man smiled and stepped back. “Indeed, Sir, please be so good as to enter.”

Holmes did so but, as I prepared to follow, the old man interceded again. “Forgive me, Sir,” he said, “but you will likewise have to answer a question.”

“Dear Lord!” I rolled my eyes. “I can’t stand word games and riddles, this is utterly preposterous.”

“I wouldn’t dream of offering you a riddle, Sir,” he replied, “my questions are naturally intended to confirm a person’s identity and are catered very specifically to their skills.” He looked skyward, scratching his light beard as he thought for a moment. “Ignoring the phalanges and the metacarpus—” he leaned forward and smiled “—such are common terms and far too easy even for the layman—name four bones within the human hand.”

“Scaphoid, carpus, trapezium and ulna.”

I made to push past him but he held up his hand. “I think you’ll agree, Sir, that the ulna is located in the arm rather than hand.”

I was growing to hate this man. Though he was quite right. I never had liked exams, they flustered me. “Triquetral!” I shouted.

“Just so, Sir,” he concurred, allowing me past. “You could also have had capitate or lunate of course.”

If this irritating man didn’t get on with it, I would be sorely tempted to show him the bones in my own hand, with some force. Perhaps this showed for, once inside the building, the elderly fellow took pains not to delay us further.

“The other gentlemen,” he explained, “are waiting for you in the Reading Room. I try not to leave them alone together for too long —they are wont to begin fighting.”

“Fighting?” What manner of meeting was this?

“I am of the opinion, Sir, that there is nothing more violent than the scientific community. They are always so set in their ideas, ideas their colleagues rarely share.” Heading towards the main door of the Reading Room he gave a chuckle, releasing it suddenly and percussively, as if it were the product of pent-up wind. “And there are few in the community whose ideas are more divergent than this lot,” he said, opening the door just as a large volume of Homer’s verse came sailing through it.

“How dare you, Sir!” came a voice from inside, deep and loud, the sort of voice a boulder might possess if given speech. “Nobody dismisses the work of George Edward Challenger and leaves the room with his teeth still in his mouth!” The man was a giant. Never had I seen a man with a head so damnably large! If he kept it full he must be a clever man indeed. The rest of his body was built to carry such an intimidating skull, huge and muscular, with a paunch that showed his appetite was as big as the rest of him.

“Don’t be a barbarian!” cried a high-pitched voice from the shadows beneath a desk. The giant’s opponent was his opposite in almost every way. Though not particularly short he was wiry and spare, with gangly limbs that looked worryingly snappable when seen within a few feet of Challenger’s massive hands. The man’s small, pink face peered out, myopic eyes squinting through thick spectacles, a moustache twitching in fright like the whiskers of a dormouse. “I was merely theorising!”