I was carried out, and dragged down the adjoining corridor to another small room.
Mitchell pulled a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked the door. “You’ll have to forgive the smell,” he said. “This is the secure area where we keep our animal friends when they first come into our care. They are understandably disorientated at first, and sore from their surgeries. We find it best to keep them somewhere dark and peaceful until they have come to their senses.”
He opened the door and once more I was hit with my memories of that Afghan barn, before I was thrown inside and the darkness consumed me.
I landed painfully on my knees, and rolled to my side in what felt like damp straw.
My arms burned from where the creature’s claws had drawn blood.
At that moment I could have happily killed Mitchell—he seemed to be the most terrible, loathsome beast of all.
Eventually I began to calm down, though the image of Lord Newman’s death lingered with me in the darkness. I was simply unable to see anything else.
After a while, as much as I tried to nurture my moral indignation, my thoughts turned instead to my own predicament. Clearly I was to share the same fate as the Prime Minister. Perhaps not the water tank—I had a feeling that Mitchell would always be eager to experiment afresh—but certainly something like it. Perhaps I would be buried alive, left to writhe like a worm until I ruptured into the soil. Or would I be dissected—forced to regrow myself ad nauseam like a lizard that has shed its tail?
I have often had cause to imagine death. Indeed, in the months since Mary’s passing I almost wished it on myself. But not like this. I could never have imagined anything approaching the horror of a death like this.
Still, as the hours went by, I could see no other way out of it. All I could hope for was that an opportunity to break free might present itself. Certainly, I would rather die at the hands of one of my animal pursuers, cut down as I made a break for the open, than become a scientific horror of the kind I had witnessed.
And then the moment came. I heard footsteps advancing on the door to the room, the sound of the key in the lock.
“It’s now or never,” I said. “Get ready John, old man!”
But Mitchell had not come for me. Instead he had brought me company.
“Go on!” he shouted and, just for a moment in the light thrown from the open doorway, I saw Holmes, Challenger and Mann stumble into the room. Then the door was shut and all was dark once more.
“Holmes?” I shouted. “I might have hoped to see you on better terms.”
“Ah!” my friend’s voice replied. “Is that you Watson? Not the most convivial of surroundings is it?”
“Damned disgrace,” Challenger shouted. “Treated like a blasted animal!”
“If only his intentions were that kind,” I said.
“Yes,” Mann agreed, “I have a feeling we’ll know worse yet.”
So, this is where my insistence on having the inspector join us had led. His wife would likely never set eyes on him again, poor man. So much for your principles, you old fool, I thought.
“It’s not good,” I said, before telling them of the fate of Lord Newman.
“Unbelievable,” said Mann.
“Just what I said, myself,” I admitted. “But I can’t really see a way out of our situation. He has an army of those beasts to fight against. We’re outnumbered, overpowered and trapped here in the dark.”
“I know,” said Holmes, and I could swear that the man was smiling. “I’ve got him just where I want him!”
Which is when the room shook in response to a nearby explosion.
CARRUTHERS
“Mr Carruthers,” Holmes said, “the role you play will be of vital importance, rest assured of that.”
I can’t deny that was music to this old boy’s ears. If there’s one thing we Carruthers relish, it’s pitching our all against the odds. Whether it be hanging off a glacier in Asia, facing down a tiger in India or surrounded by the beady eyes of crocodiles in South America, Roger Carruthers has always taken a singular pleasure in staring death in the face and cocking his not inconsiderable snook at the beggar.
Once Watson had left, Holmes explained his plan.
“There is no doubt in my mind that Kane means to lead us into a trap but I see no better alternative than letting that trap be sprung in the hope that it leads us to our quarry.
“What we need is someone with sufficient tracking experience to follow our trail at a safe distance. Kane is no fool and he would certainly be aware of a large party at our heels. He may also have accomplices set out to ensure we are not followed.”
I nodded, agreeing with his supposition. “All of which it will be my job to avoid, follow you anyway and then bring the reinforcements?”
“Exactly.”
“And I suppose it’s my job to provide the reinforcements?” Mycroft asked.
“Naturally,” said Holmes.
So it was, that at nine o’clock both myself and Mycroft Holmes found ourselves dressed from head to toe in coachman’s coats, standing to one end of Baker Street.
“Exciting, what?” I said.
Mr Holmes couldn’t quite match my enthusiasm. “It’s cold and horrid. I make it a point of principle not to leave my armchair after ten o’clock.”
“Then you have an hour to go!”
“Ten o’clock in the morning. Movement is overrated, give me warm fires and a willing waiter over all this tiresome gadding about.”
“Gadding about? You’ve barely covered a mile. I dread to think what you would make of some of my expeditions.”
“Expeditions are ridiculous,” he agreed. “Find somewhere you like and then stay there. I can only assume there is something deeply wrong with a man who hasn’t the decency to settle. What’s wrong with you? Were you bitten by a comfortable cushion as a child?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, though Mycroft, as dry as a Quaker, merely raised a bushy, white eyebrow.
“Here he comes,” I said, nodding towards the large silhouette that was advancing on the front step of 221b. “Big feller, isn’t he?”
Kane rang the bell and was shortly admitted. “Time to present ourselves as gentlemen of worthy employment,” I said, putting on my hat, picking up my whip and climbing into the driver’s seat of one of the cabs Mycroft had arranged.
“Such an embarrassment,” Mycroft said, doing the same. “I promised faithfully to Mother I’d do no such thing.”
His cab gave an audible creak as he clambered into position and we watched for sign of Holmes’ page boy. We didn’t have to wait long. The young lad was soon waving at us from the front step.
“And off we go!” I gave the horses a nudge and we made our way along the street.
I must admit I was somewhat concerned as to whether I would manage behind the reins, but the pair of horses Mycroft had found were the very epitome of good behaviour. It was therefore with some modicum of professionalism that I took both Holmes and Kane onboard my cab and headed off in the direction of King’s Cross.
I tapped the brim of my hat to Mycroft’s chap, Fellowes, as we passed him and his small party of security officers. They were well hidden aboard what appeared to be a dray cart, and would surely be on our tail once we were a short distance ahead.
I did my best to eavesdrop on the conversation going on behind me, but they talked so quietly that I could barely grasp a word above the sound of the horses’ hooves.
Eventually we arrived at the station. I heard Mycroft approach behind me, and all our passengers disembarked.
I was under no illusion that this would be their final destination. Kane would work harder than that to disguise his master’s location. Still, we had made the first stage painlessly enough. I took the payment from Holmes with a suitably gracious smile and made a show of pulling away from the station and leaving them to it. I stopped outside the station exit, appearing for all the world like a cabbie waiting for his next fare. In fact, Mycroft had just such a problem, having to awkwardly discourage a potential client by insisting that he was heading home to his bed. He obviously sounded convincing enough—the fact he would like to do nothing more probably helped—and he pulled away to meet with Fellowes.