Sherlock Holmes-The Army of Doctor Moreau (7 page)

“Where to first?” I asked Holmes, sticking close by his side.

“I think a drink at the Bucket of Lies, don’t you?” he replied, moving easily through the crowd. I watched him stroll away from the waterside, the people naturally parting as he came towards them. He was like a large fish, I thought, sweeping the minnows aside in the current he pushed before him. He didn’t fade into the background, no matter what his advice, his personality was too strong for that, but he certainly appeared to belong. I thought again of Charles Darwin’s theories and wondered if Holmes might be the ultimate example of them; there seemed to be no environment to which he could not adapt, and which he could not dominate. I let that be some small consolation as we drew close to the tavern in question. After all, anywhere that Shinwell Johnson considered rough was likely beyond my scale of comparison.

As we moved away from the water, the streets became quieter. Ports ignore the clock, there is always someone disembarking or arriving, but once we were in the more residential areas, Rotherhithe’s citizens were fewer and farther between. By the time we were outside the Bouquet of Lilies, it stood out a mile, the sound of drunken cheering and singing the only sign of life in the surrounding area.

“Looks charming,” I said as we drew towards the front door.

“Oh,” Holmes said. “I’m sure we’ll manage to get through a glass of wine without having our throats cut.”

“Yes, because that’s always what I look for in a hostelry.”

We stepped inside and muscled our way towards the bar, moving between the drunken regulars. I honestly couldn’t tell whether
some of them were dancing or fighting. The place stank of stale beer and bodily fluids—from the look of the ale the barman handed to me, the two may have been one and the same. I took a mouthful of it nonetheless, conscious of the need to fit in. Given the state of most of the people in here they must have managed to ingest the stuff. Either that, or people stuck to the gin, preferring to lose their eyes rather than their stomachs. The floor had been cleaned once, I was sure, though maybe not during the reign of our current monarch. The clientele was not the sort to fret about such absurd niceties. Perhaps the stickiness of the floorboards even had its benefits, allowing the tired inebriate to maintain their vertical position like a fly stuck to paper.

I did not like the Bouquet of Lilies. Soon, thanks to Holmes, it would become clear that it didn’t like me all that much either.

“So,” he announced in a loud voice, “what’s this I hear about dead bodies then?”

As investigative enquiries went it was not Holmes at his most subtle.

“And who are you to be asking?” said a ruddy old man on Holmes’ left. He had a face that was bent terribly out of shape, not helped by a constant nervous twitch that set his cheeks and nose vibrating. He looked as though he was constantly being punched by an invisible assailant.

“Only curious,” Holmes replied. “Came in tonight on the
Spirit of Mayfair,
didn’t I? Heard some of the lads talking.”

“Spirit of Mayfair?”
asked another old soak, wiping away thick strings of saliva from his chin. He was so much like a bulldog I wondered if Moreau had made him.

“Aye,” Holmes replied. “Been away from home for the best part
of a year, haven’t I?” He drained his tankard, an act of almost Herculean bravery. “And built up one hell of a thirst in that time.” He nodded at the barman and handed over the empty vessel.

“Suppose you’ve the price of another pint?” the first man asked, twitching the mottled lump of scar tissue I took to be a nose, given its location on his face.

Holmes looked at him. “Maybe I have, if you keep a civil tongue and welcome an old sailor back to shore.”

“Can’t be too careful,” the old man said offering his long-empty tankard. “I’m not a man who likes people snooping around.”

“Ain’t snooping around,” said Holmes, “just interested. Who wouldn’t be? Bodies turning up with great chunks missing? You see all sorts out at sea but that ain’t the sort of thing you expect to come home to is it? Makes me wonder if this is London I’ve washed up in or New Guinea!” He laughed at that and the old man joined him, more out of eagerness to see his drink filled than sharing in my friend’s affected humour. Holmes passed him a full tankard. “So, you going to tell me about it or not? What’s going on? Some sort of animal is it? Bloke I met on the quay reckons someone’s let a tiger loose or something.”

“Ain’t no tiger,” the old man replied after taking a large mouthful of his drink. “Tiger ain’t going to chew you up and then put the bits what’s left in a sack is it?”

“Clever tiger,” I added with a laugh, wanting to do my bit.

The old man stared at me. “Who’s this?” he asked. “He’s got a bigger beard than my old wife.”

“Mate of mine, ain’t he?” Holmes said. “But he don’t get out much.” Holmes gave me a meaningful stare. He changed the subject before the old man got too distracted. “All right, so it ain’t a tiger. Still, it’s got to be some sort of animal that done for ’em, ain’t it? Unless it wasn’t as bad a mess as I heard …”

“Oh, it were a mess all right,” the old man said. “You’ve never seen the like.”

Holmes scoffed. “Don’t be so sure, I’ve seen sights in my time that would make a horse sick. Just cos you landlubbers get yourselves in a twist.”

“The thing was in pieces,” the old man insisted. “It weren’t no body, it were a bag of butcher’s meat.”

“Like I say then, an animal.”

“How’s an animal put it in a bag you bloody idiot?” shouted the old man in exasperation at Holmes’ apparent stupidity. “It wasn’t no animal!”

“Maybe an animal did it then a bloke put it in a bag,” insisted Holmes. “I heard it had bite marks on it.”

“I don’t give a monkey’s what you’ve heard. I’m telling you it was Kane or one of his lot.”

There was a silence at that, a clear sense that those around us had been shocked at the mere mention of the man’s name.

Holmes let the awkwardness hang there for a moment before, with all pretence of innocence, saying, “Who’s Kane then? Local lad is he?” Nobody saw fit to reply. “Only if he’s got any work on offer I might be convinced to keep my feet on dry land for a while.”

Someone reached out and took Holmes’ drink from him.

“I’d get out while you still have legs to do so,” said a dry, rasping voice.

“I didn’t mean nothing,” said the old man, but then shut his mouth once more as he decided silence was his best option for survival.

“Touchy lot, ain’t you?” said Holmes. “Come on, Jim,” he said and pushed his way towards the door. Realising he meant me, and needing little in the way of encouragement, I followed on.

“Well, that went well,” I said with some sarcasm once we were back out on the street.

“I thought so,” agreed Holmes, offering a smile that, when framed by his bald, tattooed face, looked positively terrifying.

“What did you hope to gain by that?” I asked. “Other than having to drink two pints of that foul muck they had the audacity to term ‘ale’.”

Holmes suddenly stopped and yanked me to one side. To the side of the Bouquet of Lilies was a rough lean-to, a small covered area where the landlord kept a padlocked coal-house and a pile of logs. Holmes pushed me into the shadows just as a high-pitched whistling noise rang in my ears. I felt a cold rush of air go past my face as something flashed past and then came to a percussive stop in the upright post of the lean-to.

“Dear God!” I exclaimed, looking at the still-vibrating hilt of the dagger that had passed not a foot from my head. “That could have been the end of me!”

“Have patience,” said Holmes. “They probably haven’t finished yet.”

“I can’t see a thing,” I admitted, staring out into the shadows.

“Luckily for us, neither can they.”

Holmes plucked the knife free from the wood and looked at it. “Interesting,” he said, “a German knife.” He glanced at me. “We’ve had a lucky escape, the knife-throwers of Hamburg are incredibly accurate.”

“I am struck dumb by relief,” I muttered, somewhat exasperated by the way he was happy to show off, even while our lives were under threat.

We heard the sound of footsteps coming towards us. Holmes grabbed my arm and yanked me towards the street behind the pub. “Run!” he shouted. “Your life depends on it!”

Didn’t it always?

We made our way through the backstreets, the sound of footsteps never far behind us. I didn’t know if Holmes had a particular destination in mind. His passage seemed entirely random as we turned left, then right, then left again, weaving our way through the narrow passageways and terraces. More likely, I realised, he was trying to ensure that our pursuers never had a clear line of sight for long enough to throw another knife, like a soldier zigzagging before enemy fire in the hope of avoiding a bullet.

I was armed. Holmes may mock my willingness to risk the wrath of the law by carrying a loaded firearm on our excursions but I was damned if I was going to skulk around the roughest parts of Rotherhithe without some form of protection. It was little use to me at the moment anyway. I may have been a medical man more than a soldier but even I knew that in the time it took for me to turn around and find my aim I would likely have a knife in my chest. If we were able to find cover so that I could turn the tables then maybe we’d stand a fighting chance. Breathlessly, I suggested as much to Holmes. But he just shook his head and continued to drag me through the backstreets of Rotherhithe.

We emerged close to the river again, having evidently looped right around. Holmes grabbed my arm and pulled me behind a stack of empty crates. I reached for my gun but he held down my hand and placed his fingers to his lips. Within a few moments our pursuers appeared. The first was as hairless as Holmes appeared to be, a thick scar running its way through his pale skin from the top of his head to the corner of his lips. The second made a pretence at refinement, his suit and glistening watch chain such an unfamiliar sight in this environment that it was a wonder he was able to walk the streets unmolested. Or perhaps that said all one needed to know about his potential for violence: only a man confident in his ability to take on all comers would have the audacity to dress in such a manner.

The man with the scar had a knife in his hand, the partner of the one that had narrowly missed us earlier. He spun it in his hand, letting blade revolve after hilt like a deadly carriage wheel.

“Lost them,” said the dapper fellow.

“You give up too easily,” said his scarred comrade, and I noted the German accent as predicted by Holmes. “They must be hiding close by.”

“Probably.” The other man was struggling to catch his breath. “But I’m in no mood to keep chasing them. I’m not paid to run around the docks all night.”

“Lazy.”

The dapper man fixed his comrade with a mean-spirited glare. “Keep a civil tongue, Klaus,” he said. “I’m not beyond beating a bit of respect out of you should it be necessary.”

Klaus smiled and, thanks to the scar, it twisted all of his features
out of kilter. It was as if a painter had swept his hand across the face of a still-wet portrait. “You don’t want to pick a fight with me, Martin, I’ll cut your pretty face off.”

“Like someone once tried to do to yours?”

“Oh no,” said Klaus, running the tip of his knife along the thick ridge of his scar, “this was me. I get bored sometimes.”

Martin shook his head. “The people I have to work with.” He reached into his pocket and removed a silver cigarette case. Taking out a cigarette, he tapped it affectedly on the case, placed it between his lips and then replaced the case in his pocket. From a different pocket he removed a box of matches, lit the cigarette and exhaled a large, blue cloud of smoke. The whole business was so theatrical and affected, clearly designed to show Klaus how singularly unconcerned he was at the man’s threats.

“Let’s go and see Kane,” he said after another draw on his cigarette. “We’ll tell him that someone was asking after him.”

“And admit we lost them?”

Martin shrugged. “I’m not ashamed of it. They obviously knew where they were going. He doesn’t pay me to run around the streets all night.”

“Fine. Then you will tell him who it was that decided they not bothered to find them.” Klaus wore his accent like a badge, a brutal club to beat his grammar with.

Martin resorted to showmanship again, tossing his half-smoked cigarette at Klaus’ feet before pushing past him and walking off along the quay. “All right then,” he shouted back. “I will.”

Klaus ground the cigarette beneath his boot with far more violence than the job warranted, and followed on behind.

Holmes waited a moment longer and then whispered in my ear. “Now we have someone who can lead us to wherever this Kane fellow conducts his business,” he said. “Far more useful than a pair of crooks with one of your bullets in them, don’t you think?”

“Of course,” I sighed. “If someone had seen fit to tell me what the plan was in the first place …”

“I’ve already told you,” said Holmes, “no explanations, you can follow at your own pace.”

He slipped out from behind the crates and began following Klaus and Martin, keeping to the shadows.

Restraining the urge to shoot him myself, I did likewise.

There was something to be said for Martin’s insufferable ego—it made him an easy man to follow. He walked with confidence and swagger, never once feeling the need to check for others around him. He was the only important man in his world. He was an idiot. This fact was not lost on Klaus but he was clearly so angry at his colleague that he was also distracted from the path of common sense. Following them along the quayside was unproblematic, and when they came to the side door of a large warehouse, we hung back and watched as they stepped inside.

“It would appear Kane has a sizeable central office,” I said, glancing up at the building. “For a new organisation, he’s doing rather well.”

“Isn’t he,” agreed Holmes.

According to the large, white letters painted on the side of the building, it belonged to E.C. Kenton & Waldemar, who offered “Animal Feed and Farming Supplies”—all suitably innocuous.