Not being altogether able to recommend the experience of combat, I decided to try and change the subject.
“I wanted to talk to you about a series of press articles I remember from a few years ago,” I said.
“Oh,” he replied. “I rather hoped you were planning to offer me a novel.”
“Just short stories at the moment I’m afraid,” I said. “I haven’t the time for a full-length piece.”
“But the public love the serials,” he insisted. “They queue up around the block.”
“I’m afraid most of our cases just don’t really suit the format.”
“Couldn’t they be … well, padded out a bit?”
“I’d rather not.”
“You know—a few red herrings, trips to the country. Throw in another moor and they’ll be biting our hands off—they were as rabid as the damned dog during our serialisation of the Baskerville case!”
“I understand that, Norman,” I said. “But I really can only work with the case files I have. Besides, I think the stories read much better when they’re kept trim.”
“Our bank disagrees. What are you working on at the moment? Following up that business with the chef?”
“Chef?”
“Andre Le Croix. Famous chap, fat, did a runner on the opening night of his new restaurant.”
“Not really our sort of thing.”
“No, I suppose not. Shame though, I was one of the diners and the whole night put me out a couple of quid. You sure I couldn’t get you to hunt him down for me?”
“I’m not your personal debt-collection service, Norman. I’m afraid the current case is not for publication.”
“Top secret, eh?” he asked, a vicious glint in his eye.
The last thing I wanted to do was encourage him. “Not at all, it just wouldn’t make a very good story. Now, about these articles …” Which was when the coffee arrived, and my request was curtailed by the serving of drinks. I fielded the offer of sandwiches.
Finally, while Norman’s mouth was filled with salmon paste, I tried to get the information I was after.
“Dr Moreau,” I said. “Disgraced physiologist. Who was the reporter that broke the story?”
Norman swallowed, somewhat reluctantly. “What do you want to bring that lunatic up for?” he asked. “Thinking about him’s likely to put me right off my sandwiches.”
I apologised, and waffled about researching for a science-fiction story.
“Science fiction?” he asked, poking uncertainly at the indeterminate filling of another sandwich with the nib of his pen. “What do you want to write that sort of rubbish for? Grisly murders and heaving bosoms, that’s what the readers want.” He popped the sandwich into his mouth. “Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a bit of both myself.”
“I may not even want to publish,” I insisted. “But you know what it’s like when you have an idea—you just have to follow where the muse takes you …” This was unutterable guff but Norman swallowed it as easily as his ad hoc breakfast.
“Fella’s name was Mitchell,” he said. “He was a freelancer. Believe it or not I’ve published him myself. Though keep it under your hat—the three or four old pussies who write demanding to know who authored ‘The Adventures of Professor Q’ have been informed it’s a state secret.” He winked over the rim of his coffee cup as he took a big mouthful. “That sort of nonsense sells copies. I can give you his address if you like.”
“If you’re sure he wouldn’t mind?”
“My dear Doctor, you don’t know writers like I do—he’ll be over the moon to have such a famous personage on his doormat. I give it five minutes before he’s trying to convince you to co-write a novel with him!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In actuality, the subject of co-writing a novel never came up. But then Mitchell clearly had other things on his mind. He spent the first five minutes convincing himself I wasn’t a spy for the Russian monarchy —it would seem he had been writing a piece on them that had ruffled some Tsarist feathers. Eventually it was my mentioning Mycroft that finally calmed him down.
“That’s a name that rarely brings good news,” he said, “though at least he was never boring.”
Sentiments mirrored by Sherlock, I noted.
“I haven’t heard from him for years. I did him a small favour once—brought certain matters to a head in order to serve his purpose.” He smiled. “We all have to do our bit for Queen and country after all.”
Rather than spin a similar tale to the one I had offered Norman Greenhough, I simply explained to Mitchell that I wanted to know everything he could tell me about Moreau. I gave no reason but equally offered no excuse. Given that he had worked with Mycroft in the matter, I saw no need to be circumspect. He laughed, which had certainly not been the response I was expecting.
“I can tell Mycroft hasn’t sent you now,” he said, “he would never countenance such straight talking! The man’s a veritable oyster when it comes to information. I suppose you must be the John Watson?”
I admitted as much. The stress on the definite article always made me feel bizarrely embarrassed—it was something I was asked rather a lot. I had never grown used to the notion that I was deemed to be famous by the general public. But then, most famous people probably never do. They see themselves from the inside and therefore know they are the very epitome of normality and drudgery.
“I suppose therefore—” he smiled “—I’m a writer. You must forgive me but we do a lot of supposing—that you’re involved in an investigation with Mr Sherlock Holmes?”
Once again I admitted he was right, but still chose not to elaborate.
“You’re going to make me keep guessing, aren’t you Doctor?” he smiled.
“Isn’t that what journalists excel at?” I replied, returning his smile.
“I suppose it is.” He took a cigarette from a small case he kept in his jacket pocket and offered one to me. Realising I would be better off trying to get along with the man than continually rebut him, I took one and we smoked for a minute while he ransacked his shelves.
“That was a fascinating period,” he said, sucking contemplatively on his cigarette. “Terrifying of course, but Moreau was quite the most fascinating man I had ever met.”
“And surely one of the most reprehensible?”
“Oh yes—” he smiled “—that too. But then I spend a great deal of my time in the company of truly loathsome human beings. Most of the work I’ve done has been getting under the skin of the real monsters in our society.”
“I suppose I could say the same, Holmes certainly could.”
“And are you digging away beneath just such a surface now?”
I realised I couldn’t expect him to offer me much unless I showed myself to be at least partially willing to share.
“Our current investigation overlaps with the work of Moreau,” I said. “He casts a long shadow and it would be extremely useful were we to be able to understand him a little better.”
“Understand him? Oh I doubt you’ll ever do that. He was quite beyond such a thing as comprehension. I simply followed in his wake and tried to conceive of his goals. Of course, at the time, it was by no means certain he actually had any. He talked big, naturally. All scientists do in my experience—they all intend to make us live forever or crack the Earth open like an egg. Still, I found it hard to believe that the things he did within that laboratory had a viable goal. Back then, of course, I had very little scientific knowledge at all, so it’s hardly surprising that his work was beyond me. From what I heard later it seems likely that he wasn’t quite as pointlessly mad as most people originally thought.”