But who had sent them? Montgomery? It must be—he was the only man left to have worked with Moreau.
And then it hit me, and those sheets of Prendick’s manuscript fluttered from my hands as I realised what I had been missing all along. Montgomery was not the only other man to have worked with Moreau. There was another. One who would have had easy access to Prendick’s statement when he had first returned from the South Pacific, who would have found it only too easy to trace him and send him a copy of a newspaper and a veiled threat. There was one man who had hidden in plain sight throughout the whole affair. Knowing it—and like Holmes has said in the past, even without proof I did know it, it was nothing less than a fact to me— the sense of unity that washed over my mind was incredible. For all his loathsome behaviour, Holmes had been quite right, in that to have come to the realisation myself was something that quite simply took my breath away. I knew who had been behind it all.
It was something of a surprise to find he was climbing out of a carriage and walking across the road towards me.
“Hello Doctor,” said Mitchell. “I’ve been hunting for you ever since my operatives told me you were leaving The British Museum.”
“You!” I said, still somewhat in shock, both at my own realisation of the identity of the new “Moreau” and the fact that he was now right here in front of me. “All that time you helped him, undercover, writing your story, all that time, damning him in public, ensuring he was hounded out of the country … all that time …”
“I was thinking what I might gain from such fascinating work, yes,” Mitchell said. “But here is not the place for such conversations.” He gestured towards the driver of the carriage, who stepped down and walked slowly towards us. His bowler hat was pulled low, a muffler covering most of his face. But when he came right up to me I found I was looking directly into the eyes of a cat. The driver tugged the muffler down slightly, enough to reveal the shiny black skin and snarling fangs of a panther.
“I have need of your company,” said Mitchell. “Please don’t be so stupid as to refuse. My friend here could take your head off with one swipe of his arm.”
I had no doubt this was true. No doubt this was the very beast that had so viciously savaged Fellowes’ security officer.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, as the driver took hold of my arm and pulled me towards the carriage.
“Oh, a little leverage,” said Mitchell, following behind us, “and a man can never have too many living specimens to work on.”
As I was yanked into the darkness of the carriage, he stepped in behind me, and his smile was as animalistic as any of his creations’. “Just you wait until you see what I can make of you!”
PART FIVE
INTO THE LION’S DEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I am only too aware that, having criticised Watson’s handling of my case notes, I am now in a decidedly precarious position. Though hardly so precarious as Watson, kidnapped from the street and at the mercy of a mad man and his terrifying menagerie.
As for whether I can satisfy his imaginary readers—of this, a case that will likely never be read—only time will tell. Certainly, I can do no worse. If his editor ever has cause to read it and is concerned that it is lacking in excitement I hereby give my permission for him to insert a superfluous boat chase or fist fight. I trust that what few intelligent readers my Boswell has left will have the good sense to skip such juvenilia and move straight on to the facts.
I must confess, the conclusion of the Moreau affair was somewhat tedious. From that point on it was little more than battles with inhumane monsters beneath the streets of London, none of the really interesting cerebral problems that feature in my better cases. Watson rarely talks about those, the affair of the Doomsday Book Murder for example, a conundrum solved entirely in repose on my chaise longue—fourteen hours of the most thrilling mental arithmetic, logical deduction and abstract contemplation. One day I shall write it up myself, as a beautifully cold and precise novel. It shall be the pinnacle account of my career.
But, for now, let us cover up our agonised boredom and talk of monsters and madmen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
But I dash ahead of myself (no doubt in apathetic determination to have the matter done). First there was the examination of Mitchell’s house.
I had no doubt that Watson would soon realise that Mitchell was our man. After all, it was by far the most obvious solution. While Moreau had published frequently he had obviously never put pen to paper on the subject of creating animal hybrids. Whoever the current perpetrator was, he clearly modelled himself after Moreau and yet wished to preserve his anonymity (the pig’s mask could have simply been Grand Guignol but I was willing to bet that it was a practical consideration too). Therefore we were after someone who was known to us who had had direct experience working with Moreau. Of the four people to match that description, three of them were dead. It was hardly a complex conclusion to reach.
But why? That question still stood. An answer to that and a possible clue as to the location of his laboratory (for only a fool would entirely pin their hopes on a vicious criminal with the head of a dog) drew me to investigate Mitchell’s home.
Mycroft commanded Fellowes to accompany me. This was somewhat irritating as the man insisted on talking despite having nothing more to say. Trying to think clearly next to such a source of endless noise is like trying to play the violin next to a dynamite explosion. It was a long and irksome journey.
“Here we are,” I announced in relief as we reached Mitchell’s home. Fellowes had been talking about his favourite music-hall tunes, a phrase I considered an oxymoron, so the timing couldn’t have been better, as I had spent the last few minutes in mortal fear that he might begin singing some of them.
The house was part of a small terrace, one of those dreary suburban properties that clog up our city, the sort of place clerks live.
“Mitchell will have long gone,” I said to Fellowes as we walked up the front path. “He will have left shortly after Watson’s visit. Knowing that we were investigating the matter he will have known we would return to his doorstep soon enough, only an idiot would sit and wait for such an eventuality.”
Fellowes reached for the door handle. “Will we need to force our way in?” he asked.
I put a hand on his arm. “Perhaps, but let us proceed with caution, it would not be beyond Mitchell’s skills to have left a trap for us.”
Fellowes tried the handle. “It’s not locked,” he said, pushing the door open gently.
I hooked my cane around his arm and pulled him back from the doorway. “All the more reason to assume there’s danger,” I insisted. “Mitchell is making it as easy as possible for us.”
Fellowes nodded. For all his verbal diarrhoea he was a professional when it came to security. “Stand well back then, Sir,” he said, “and keep out of the direct line of the doorway.”
I had already done as much, naturally. I once had a suspect prepare a catapult of broken glass behind his office door, determined to shred the face of his pursuer should they visit. Luckily for me he was as competent a layer of traps as he was an embezzler. Lestrade was left to pick up the pieces when the trap triggered early, spraying the inside of the room with its load.
The door opened and nothing came flying out at us.
Fellowes, still inclined to caution, inched towards the doorway and looked to the floor for signs of a tripwire.
“It’s dark in there,” he said, “but there is something …”