“No matter. I was a thing to be ignored. He gave me lowly tasks, manual jobs that suited my strong arms. Outside of those tasks I was ignored so I made the most of the fact. I hunted in the tunnels, learning the geography of the under-city, where I still make my home. Why would I rise to the city above? I belong down there, flushed away with the rest of the waste, hidden in the dark, forgotten.
“I worked my way through father’s library, reading—though not always understanding—his books and notes. I tried to better myself, to be more than he believed me to be. Perhaps I sought approval. Why lie? I know I sought it. But there was no approval to be found. He was too all-consumed with the children he made after me, refining his science, learning new techniques and experimenting with new ideas. I was no more interesting than a sketch on a piece of scrap paper, rolled into a ball and tossed to one side.
“Is it any wonder I wished for freedom?
“I began to appreciate the fact that I was almost invisible within the confines of those tunnels and chambers. I watched father work, noting his methods, trying to understand his plans. That understanding, with every stab of pain it brought upon this ruin of a brain I have, was knowledge hard-earned but I think I have his measure now. In fact I know I do. Because there’s one thing that will always retain its value, Gentlemen—knowledge, and with it I am wealthy indeed.
“Once I felt I had understood all I could, I decided the time had come to leave my father’s company. My time there would always have been short, he was never a man satisfied with the quantity or quality of materials, and sooner or later I would represent a greater value to him as organs and tissue as I did as—yes, the joke is clear—as his dogsbody. I would sit and feed the other creatures left to rot in their cells, watching as some of them diminished, driven mad by pain or infection, crippled further and further by scalpel or saw, and I resolved never to join them. Whatever the shortcomings of this grotesque form it—and the life within it—is all I have and I intend to keep hold of it for as long as possible.
“Father was not permanently in residence so leaving was never going to be difficult. He could sometimes be absent for days at a time. I couldn’t say whether he was gathering fresh subjects or simply going about a life outside that he kept hidden away beneath the streets. To be frank I didn’t care. I simply waited for his next absence and took my opportunity. Only too aware that my appearance would be a handicap, I adopted a rough version of the costume you see before you and made my way to the surface. Though I had never left father’s lair, the route was extremely simple; I had cause to be thankful of this sensitive nose of mine as it sniffed out his trail all the way to the surface.
“And what a world that now seemed to me! The noises were more grating, the smells sharper. It was a world that hurt just to be in it, a place that beat at the senses. I stumbled upon a small man selling roasted chestnuts and was nearly paralysed by the experience. As if his shouting were not enough, there was the roar of his fire, the crackle of the nutshells, the hiss and pop of coals fracturing, the chink of metal expanding in the heat. Then the smell, the smoke, the browning meat of the nuts, the sweat of the man—his stench alone was like a factory floor.
“It felt like being attacked. It was all I could do not to tear out his throat in response. My temper is not good, Gentlemen, as you will have no doubt remarked. Perhaps you begin to understand why?
“It was soon clear to me that I could not tolerate a normal life above ground. A piece of the underground was the place for me. I am a creature that suits shadow, am I not?
“But what could I do? How should I provide for myself?
“Oh I dare say you do not approve of my solution to that problem, but I have finished seeking approval from you or anyone else. Criminality is something I am suited to. I have the anger and strength for it. And yes, I have a lack of consideration towards ‘my fellow man’. For, let us be honest, there is no such thing anymore is there, Gentlemen? I am a species all of its own.
“Nonetheless, my business matters are sure to be beneath your concern, Mr Holmes. What do you care if the inventory of a ship becomes light once in a while? Is it any business of yours if the walking wounded of our society take to the opium pipe? Why should Sherlock Holmes, London’s greatest consulting detective, trouble himself if a little counterfeit money works its way into the system? I have very little blood on my hands, Gentlemen, and the few stains there are came from men who work the same business as I. It is not something that troubles me.
“And it must not trouble you if you wish my assistance in this matter, and you do, believe me, for who else do you know that can lead you straight to the door of the man you seek? Who else knows the details of what he is planning? Who else can salvage this mess before the country is brought to its knees?
“Gentlemen, I rather think you and I are going into business!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The brute leaned forward, those monstrous hands extended as he jangled the handcuffs that hung from them. His tale was done, his point made.
Holmes merely watched for a moment and then laughed.
“You are a confident fellow, Kane,” he said, “and I’ll warrant that your extraordinary life so far would have broken a lesser spirit. Still, I will tell you this: you ask what concern it is of mine that you pursue your criminal career. You talk of London’s greatest consulting detective?” The apparent lightness of tone faded from Holmes’ voice to be replaced by a steel that was as sharp and potent as a sabre-blade. “I am the foremost consulting detective in the country, Kane, no doubt the world, and your criminal activities are every bit my concern. Furthermore, the moment I wish them to end I could ensure it happened as quickly as that.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis. “You bet with an empty hand,” he continued, “and your pitiful attempts to intimidate me impress me not one jot. If you know a scintilla of useful information about your creator then you have yet to prove as much, certainly you will have to work hard to convince me that what you know is worth my turning a blind eye to so much as a day’s worth of your petty little enterprises.” He sat back in his chair and took a long puff on his pipe. “You will have to work much harder than this to preserve your scarred neck,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke towards the sensitive nose of our prisoner. “We have you captured and entirely at our mercy. If you wish to survive the encounter I suggest you begin to talk of something more useful than your own pathetic history.”
Kane roared and jumped to his feet, the chair he was sat on tumbling behind him. He pulled at his handcuffs but they held firm, not that his greatest strength lay at the end of his wrists. He snarled and those teeth of his dripped with malice.
There was a soft click as Holmes cocked the revolver he had just removed from his dressing gown pocket. With a raised eyebrow he uttered one world only, a word designed to enrage our captive even further: “Sit!”
Kane had little choice but to do so, though he howled at the indignity of it.
“That’s better,” Holmes replied. “As powerful as you no doubt are, a bullet through the skull would bring you to heel.”
I began to realise quite how much he was enjoying this. I hoped it didn’t see him get his throat torn out.