I assured him not.
“Oh good,” he said. “I’ve spent this month’s allowance on mercury you see, and was worried we were about to have something of an argument. I don’t really like arguments.” He smiled and wandered off, making a high-pitched whine that I would later discover seemed to form an undercurrent to most of his idle thoughts.
“Yes,” said Challenger, only too aware of the impression they had all made. “Well, genius often ousts the social niceties. It is so hard to fit everything into a brain after all.”
On this point he found himself in unspoken agreement with Holmes, who nodded and smiled. “One must concentrate on the tools one needs,” he said. “What use are social niceties when it comes to creating a new element, exploring a hitherto undiscovered jungle, inventing a new device?”
“Or identifying a pernicious criminal?” Challenger added with a wide grin. I found myself nervous to see so many of his teeth— I couldn’t help but imagine them clamping down on my leg like those of a voracious tiger.
“Indeed!” Holmes agreed.
There was the distant sound of a knock on the door and the elderly caretaker sighed and left the room. “Oh for the peaceful nights when it’s just me and the Egyptian dead,” he muttered.
“Ah!” said Challenger. “That will be our trigger finger.”
“I’m sorry?” I asked, confused as to his meaning.
“We are the brains,” he explained, “the scientific backbone of the operation. But the brain needs a strong arm, a fist, to enact its commands.”
He led us to the central table where several large maps of the city had been unfurled. “Mr Holmes—” he glanced at my friend “—that is, the other Mr Holmes, has charged us with the scientific part of the investigation. Despite our apparent irritations …”
“Nothing ‘apparent’ about it,” Lindenbrook muttered. “I think you’re horrible!”
“Despite that,” Challenger continued, “we have had some success in the past working together on Departmental problems. This is somewhat outside our field it must be said, but Lindenbrook and I do at least have a sound knowledge of zoology and practical experience of nature at its most bizarre and dangerous. Combining that with Perry and Cavor’s more abstract approach we hope to be able to theorise productively, narrowing down the zoological evidence. We are trying to identify the species involved and how such creatures might best be preserved in the metropolis.”
“That would certainly seem to be the obvious starting point for investigation,” Holmes agreed. “One doesn’t hide a menagerie in a city without leaving evidence.”
“That’s our hope,” Challenger agreed. “But then we’re approaching this from the point of view of the creature, or creatures. I assume you are planning on pursuing the man?”
“That would seem to be the obvious route for my skills to take, yes,” agreed Holmes.
The caretaker returned. “Gentlemen,” he announced, “Mr Roger Carruthers.”
The new arrival removed his hat and extended his hand to each of us in turn. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” he said. “You may be familiar with my recently published journal of life in the Andes?”
“Can’t say I am,” Challenger replied. “But you come highly recommended so I shouldn’t let it worry you.”
“Oh,” Carruthers replied, clearly disheartened. “It was rather well received. Perhaps my account of a journey along the Tigris, A Meander in Mesopotamia?”
“We don’t have time for popular reading,” Lindenbrook snapped. “We’re proper scientists, not the sort of bored housewives who get a thrill from the mention of intimate piercings in savages.”
“Well,” Carruthers replied, “I can assure you it was highly regarded in all walks of life. In fact the Royal Society said …”
“Oh, the Royal Society will say anything,” laughed Challenger. “But please don’t concern yourself. You are in the company of busy men, men whose researches often keep them away from the latest reading.”
“The problem will be one of stability!” Cavor announced, before emitting a strange whining noise. Carruthers stared at him, clearly convinced he had found himself trapped within a room full of lunatics, or worse—lunatics who had never read his work. I decided to take pity on him.
“John Watson,” I said, shaking his hand, “a fellow writer and doctor of medicine.”
“Of course!” he exclaimed. “Naturally I’ve read a great deal of your work!”
“Then you will be familiar with my colleague, Mr Sherlock Holmes,” I replied, gesturing to Holmes before Carruthers could inquire as to whether I was as familiar with his writing as he seemed to be with mine.
“Naturally!” Carruthers replied, shaking Holmes’ hand with such vigour I was concerned he may break it. Either that or my friend, not always at his best when faced with cheerful enthusiasm, might beat him off with his cane. Before this might happen, I introduced Carruthers to the rest of the gathered gentlemen, keeping him moving quickly enough that we avoided creating further arguments, even when—taking note of Challenger’s girth —Carruthers enquired as to whether he would be interested in membership of the West Highbury Gourmands, an eating club of which he was a founder member.
“Well,” he announced, having met everyone, “I believe you want me to shoot something?”
Expressed in such innocent simplicity, the statement had the effect of quieting the whole room, something I might have thought impossible. Noting this, Carruthers was quick to address any inadvertent embarrassment he may have caused.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I appreciate I may be oversimplifying matters. But I understood that time was of the essence, and thought it best we get to the point.”
“How refreshing that someone has that attitude,” said Holmes. “I began to think I might spend all night here.”
Ignoring a positively poisonous look from Challenger, Holmes crossed the room towards the door. “Watson and I will leave you to point Mr Carruthers in the correct direction. Should he shoot anything of scientific worth don’t hesitate to inform us.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“That was rather rude,” I said once we were back outside.
“Probably,” he agreed, “but I couldn’t bear one more minute in their stifling company.”
“I did wonder how long you would manage to sit still in there before erupting.”
We crossed into Belgravia, Holmes’ heart set on an Indian restaurant that lay close by. He ignored all attempts at conversation until we had passed through its nigh-hidden doorway and were sat at one of its opulent, red tables. The smells from the kitchen were heady and sharp, my stomach fairly trembled at the hot, spicy onslaught that would soon be heading its way.
“It has been far too long since we visited here,” Holmes announced as the waiter drew close. “Have the kitchens prepare enough for three hungry men,” he said. “We’ll entrust ourselves to his choice of menu.”
The waiter bowed in acknowledgement of the order and walked away into the gloom, sidestepping his way past the usual mix of retired colonels, medical students and young gentlemen on the wrong side of sobriety.
“Three?” I asked.
“Shinwell Johnson will be meeting us here,” Holmes explained. “Given where the bodies were found, it seemed sensible to avail ourselves of his local knowledge.”
I’m sure I have mentioned Johnson before. He gave frequent assistance to Holmes after the turn of the century. Originally a criminal of mean repute—with two sentences at Parkhurst to his name—he had repented of his ways and now acted as Holmes’ agent within the criminal underworld. He wasn’t a “nark”, as the vernacular has it, and he never dealt with the police. But he often kept Holmes abreast of movements within the various criminal fraternities, allowing him to know the underbelly of the city like no other. He was an extremely likeable chap once you got beneath the battered brim of his bowler and looked past the broken nose and scarred cheeks.