Mycroft met my incredulity with stony silence. Eventually he spoke. “Far-fetched or not, Prendick was telling the truth.”
I was quite unable to respond seriously to that. Even Holmes looked startled, staring at his brother through a slowly exhaled mouthful of smoke, perhaps to judge his sincerity. For myself I was in no doubt of that. Mycroft was not a man inclined to lie—though, on reflection, as a secret-service man he must have been perfectly adept at it. When talking to Holmes he was only too aware of the importance of precise facts. If he said a thing was the case, then it was. But how were animal-human hybrids even remotely possible? I couldn’t help but think he must have been mistaken. No doubt Moreau—a man clearly in love with both the scalpel and wild flights of imagination—had constructed a selection of faux creatures, like the monstrosities one hears of in American travelling shows. What had made such an impression on Prendick can have been no more than the absurd “fish-boys” and “bird-ladies” of the freak show. No doubt, to an untrained eye, such things might pass muster. I suggested as much to Mycroft but the large man simply shook his head.
“I can understand your scepticism,” he said. “As you are a man of medical science I would be disappointed should you offer anything else. However, I can prove the veracity of everything, and perhaps it would save time if you were simply to accept my words at face value!”
Which put me in my place.
“It is clear that Moreau felt that the answer to my scientific problem lay in continuing his exploration of vivisection. Perhaps he felt that animal attributes couldn’t be conferred upon humans on a chemical level, they must be grafted on with needle and twine. Either that or he simply couldn’t leave the scalpel alone. I think that’s equally possible.”
“Some people just can’t resist spilling blood,” I agreed. “There is a power in interfering with nature that some broken individuals should not be entitled to wield.”
“Whatever the truth of the matter, science can never move backwards. Once knowledge is acquired it can only grow, not vanish again into ignorance.”
“But, surely, if Moreau died …?”
“I am by no means sure he did. Prendick’s account is unequivocal on the matter. He says the beasts tore their creator apart. He and Montgomery disposed of the body themselves. Montgomery was attacked later and his body—presumed dead at least—was thrown into the sea.”
“‘Presumed dead’?” Holmes asked.
“I’m being as accurate as possible. We must bear in mind that we only have one man’s word to go on for any of it.”
“One man who I presume has stood up to rigorous debriefing,” I commented.
“Not that rigorous,” Holmes added. I looked at him and he qualified his statement with a brief smile. “He hasn’t talked to me.”
“Nor is he likely to,” Mycroft said. “Edward Prendick is dead. Bear in mind this all happened eleven years ago. Finding the hustle and bustle of town too much for nerves frayed by his experiences, he repaired to the countryside. He devoted himself to chemistry and reading, living the life of a hermit. Which is why it was a couple of days before his body was found.” Mycroft drained what was left of his coffee and perched the cup and saucer on the arm of his chair. “Evidence points towards his having committed suicide. Certainly that was the decision made by the courts.”
“You doubt it?” Holmes asked.
“Only because I cannot imagine a skilled chemist committing suicide by drinking acid. There are less painful ways to achieve oblivion.”
“It would seem unnecessarily agonising,” I agreed. “Surely a narcotic would be likelier. Were the remains so corrupt that positive identification was impossible?”
“He was not in a fine state, naturally, but the police were satisfied as to his identity. He was recognised by the postmaster, the man who it would seem knew him best as he regularly had to collect parcels of scientific equipment.”
“So,” Holmes said, “we have three people who might possess the knowledge to replicate these experiments in vivisection. All of them are, on the surface at least, dead. The fact that you refuse to accept that means these experiments are continuing—correct?”
“I have my suspicions,” his brother agreed. “You will have been following, no doubt, the news coverage of the Rotherhithe deaths?”
“Several bodies found in or near the river,” Holmes said. “Police reports stated that they were the result of gang violence.”
“Well they would, wouldn’t they?” Mycroft replied. “Nothing keeps the inquisitive nature of a populace down more than mention of gang violence.”
“It certainly bored Holmes at the time,” I admitted. “I tried to interest him in it but he refused to listen.”
“I don’t believe you ever mentioned it.”
This angered me. I was forever reading Holmes news reports in the hope of sparking his curiosity.
“I read out half the paper!” I insisted.
He shrugged. “If my memory serves, and it usually does, there was not one single crime I could have investigated.”
I wasn’t having that, and wracked my brain for that day’s top recommendations: “There were several burglaries; the assassination of Charles DuFries; that greyhound trainer, Barry Forshaw, vanished mid-race; the Highgate poisonings, the robbery on the 12.05 to Leamington and the kidnap of a Parisian furrier,” I said.
He dismissed the lot with the flick of his hand.
“Trifles!” he shouted. “Missing persons and pilferers!”
I looked to Mycroft. “For someone who complains of boredom so easily you have no idea how difficult it is to get him to engage in an actual case. On that particular day he threw the paper in the fire and got on with cataloguing his collection of dog hair.”
“Dog hair?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow.
“How else can one expect to recognise a breed by only a few strands?” Holmes replied.
Mycroft allowed that thought to hover in the air for a moment before continuing with his story. “If we can return to Rotherhithe? The bodies were in fact the result of animal attacks.”
“Ah,” I replied. “I think I can see where this might fit in.”
“Indeed, the pathology reports make it clear that the wounds are not the result of any one animal they can pin their reputations on.”
“And we discount the logical answer,” Holmes said. “That they were killed by multiple creatures. Why?”
“Because one would tend to think that if there really were a shark in the Thames we would have heard reports of one by now.”
“One of the creatures was a shark?”
“The latest cadaver had had its left leg bitten off by a blacktip shark, a species most commonly found off the coast of Australia.”
“Absurd!” I exclaimed.
“Fascinating,” Holmes announced, turning to look at me. “A few weeks ago you were willing to believe in the existence of demons and the efficacy of magic. Now, when presented with science— albeit of a peculiar and hitherto unheard of variety—you blanch at the thought. It says a great deal about you.”
“In the matter of The Breath of God I simply chose to accept the evidence of my own senses,” I countered.
“A cardinal error,” Holmes replied. “Unless aggressively trained, senses can be easily cheated.”
“So you believe all this madness about monsters abroad in the streets of Rotherhithe?”
“I neither believe nor disbelieve it.” He nodded towards Mycroft. “Much like my brother I am sure. I would not believe a thing until I absolutely knew it to be the case. However, we must accept that the widest reaches of scientific possibility may well turn out to be proven correct. Science is a fluid thing, Doctor. Like mercury spilled on the laboratory table, it chases away with itself. Often it is quite beyond us to restrain or capture it.”