The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (132 page)

I had scarcely dressed next morning when Holmes burst into my room full of excitement.

“Your surgeon friend at London Hospital, Watson, his name is
Treves
is it not?”

“Yes. Sir Frederick Treves. You saw him yesterday in the hospital corridor, if you recollect—”

“Of
course
I recollect,” he snapped, “but, though the name was faintly familiar to my ear, I failed to assemble all the pieces…”

“Eh? All the pieces?”

“I take it that until yesterday you had not spoken to Treves in some time? That would seem plausible, since you work at different hospitals. It is unlikely, then, that you have heard about his recent charge.”

“No, I confess I haven't.”

“A unique charge, to say the least. Come along, there's a cab waiting at our kerb. No! You must skip your tea, old fellow—one of the penalties for being a slugabed!”

He half-dragged me down the staircase and flung me into the waiting hansom. We dashed off in the direction of London Hospital.

“Now, Watson,” said he, drumming his fingers on his knee impatiently, “don't you recall that yesterday when you introduced yourself as a friend of Treves the head nurse assumed you were visiting another patient…”

“I think I do remember…she said they had seen enough of the curious…”

“Yes!” he beamed. “And also, you may recollect that Treves himself, whilst speaking to a colleague in the hallway, mentioned that
women have been known to faint
!…' ”

“…since time immemorial, I'm afraid!…”

“Dash it, Watson, you really are slow sometimes!”

“I beg pardon—”

“At first I thought it coincidence that Anna Tontriva should be confined in the same building that contains the solution to our problem. But upon reflection it makes sense, since London is the closest hospital to the circus grounds…”

“Whatever are you talking about, Holmes?” I said with a yawn, for I was not entirely at my best without my morning cup.

“Never mind, Watson, you'll see the answer for yourself soon enough. Here we are. I'll meet you inside directly I pay the cabbie.”

Shortly afterwards Holmes joined me at the head nurse's station, where he enquired for Treves.

“Mr. Holmes? He is expecting you. Yes, Doctor Treves received your wire. This way please.”

She led us to the rear wing of the hospital, where, set off by two sets of doors from the remainder of the building, was a suite of rooms which looked out onto an enclosed grassy courtyard. Being vaguely familiar with the hospital, I had heard this referred to as Bedstead Square. It was an isolation ward, and usually used to house lunatics temporarily before they were transferred to asylums. The nurse bade us sit down in the first of the rooms, and after several minutes' wait, Treves entered the room and drew up a chair opposite us. “Hullo again, Watson. Mr. Holmes, I received your urgent wire this morning. Surely your keen powers are much as Watson has proclaimed, for we've done our level best to keep Merrick's confinement here a secret.”

“I'm sure you have, sir. And may I express my sincere admiration to you and Mr. Carr Gomm. Your advertisement in the
Times
, I take it, was successful.”

“Oh quite. Merrick now has the means to sustain himself in comfort here for the remainder of his life, thanks to the generosity of the British public. He was unaware of his newfound fortune until yesterday, for we didn't want to disappoint him were it not to materialise. But now he knows he can stay here for good, and is most joyous. Now you, Watson, have not heard of John Merrick?”

“Not until this very minute.”

Treves paused for a moment before continuing.

“Are you familiar with
neurofibromatosis
?”

“Recklinghausen's disease?”

“Right you are! It's known by both names. As you no doubt know, it causes a proliferation of cells around the delicate connective tissue surrounding nerve endings. It usually affects only the nerves and skin.”

I nodded. It was indeed a rare disorder; in my dozen or so years of practice, I'd seen half as many instances of it, if that.

“But in the strange—and tragic—case of John Merrick, the disease has run rampant over his entire body with alarming consequences. Not only that, but it has affected his
bones
as well, with the most monstrously deforming results…”

“Doctor Treves, is Merrick free to come and go as he pleases?” asked Holmes.

“In what sense do you mean? Certainly in the legal or medical sense he is free to go wherever he pleases at any time. He is not bound here. Yet, considering his frightful appearance, he remains a voluntary recluse in these chambers since even a brief glance at his form has caused people to go into shock.”

“Was Merrick here three nights ago?” pursued Holmes.

“Now that you mention it, Mr. Holmes, that night he made one of his rare nocturnal excursions. He goes about after dark, and clothed in the most amazing rig of garments you have ever laid eyes on.”

“Is this part of the wardrobe?” enquired my companion, holding up the strange slipper he had found the previous night.

“Dear me, so it is! Where did you find it? Merrick will be most grateful, I'm sure. But come along, you may see him now, if your nerves and stomach can take it.”

He led us to a closed door and turned the knob. He was about to open it when he hesitated, turned to us, and spoke.

“I know you two gentlemen, considering your many dangerous adventures together, have stronger nerves than most people. Still in all, I must caution even you, Watson, who have seen so many medical oddities and loathsome sights, that you surely have never seen a human so horribly disfigured as the man who lies beyond this door. Likewise, Mr. Holmes, even considering the myriad smashed corpses you have examined closely—the countless maimed and injured on either side of the law—the person you are about to meet is all the more horrid and pathetic because he is
alive
, trapped inside his own monstrous form.”

He then opened the door and led us in. In the centre of the large room was a bed with a hospital screen round it. We approached this, and Treves drew back the screen partially, revealing a foot that was so hideous that, despite my inner steeling and Treves's words of warning, I could not suppress a short gasp.

The foot didn't in the least resemble a human one, as Holmes and I had surmised from inspecting the slipper that had covered it. It was a flat slab of lumpy flesh. The skin was of a warty texture, resembling a head of cauliflower.

“You can see, gentlemen, the extent of poor Merrick's plight. When he was first confined here, the attending nurse, who was not forewarned of his appearance, fainted dead away at the sight of him.”

With this, Treves then slowly slid the screen back to reveal the pitiable wretch who lay stretched upon the bed. His skin throughout was of the same lumpy, fibrous appearance as we had observed on his foot. But in addition, the limbs themselves were grotesquely twisted and gnarled.

The back was bowed as a hunchback's, and from his chest, neck and back there hung great masses of lumpy flesh. The head was most gruesome of all, for it was nearly twice normal size, and had protruding from it—where the face should have been—a number of bony masses, loaflike in shape and covered with the same loathsome, fungeous-looking skin. The projection near the mouth was huge, and stuck out like a pink stump, turning the upper lip inside out, leaving the mouth a cavernous fissure. This singular deformity gave the appearance of a rudimentary trunk. It, coupled with the cauliflower-like skin, was obviously responsible for the epithet of “elephant man.”

“Dear God…” I murmured, against my will, and found myself involuntarily looking away. But the next moment, I observed Sherlock Holmes, and felt ashamed at myself. For my companion, although obviously revolted by this disgusting specimen of humanity, bore not the look of loathing upon his face, but pity. Obviously, whatever personal reaction he had to viewing Merrick was eclipsed by his pity for the poor wretch. Once again I was struck by the compassion and sympathy that so clearly marked his character, and which lay so close under the surface of his cold exterior.

Treves asked us to shake hands with Merrick who, he assured us, despite his strange appearance,
enjoyed meeting people from the outside world, particularly when they showed no fright at meeting him. Holmes, typically composed, strode forward and extended his hand in greeting. To my amazement, I saw that one part, at least, of Merrick's body was completely free from the scourge that had transfigured him. It was his left arm, which he eagerly thrust in my companion's direction.

It was not only normal; it was beautiful. Finely shaped and covered with skin of a delicate, glowing texture, it was a limb any woman might have envied. The other arm, by contrast, resembled the rest of Merrick's body. In fact, there was no distinguishing between the palm and the back of the hand. The thumb looked like a stunted radish, whilst the fingers resembled twisted carrots.

Holmes grasped the normal arm and shook Merrick heartily by the hand. The wretch babbled something unintelligible, but it was obvious from general tone of the reply, and the excited twitching of his prostrate form, that he was delighted to meet my companion. I followed suit, and found that, once having become accustomed to the hideous appearance of the man, being in his company was not at all unbearable.

“As you can no doubt surmise,” said Treves in an offhand way, “Merrick's facial deformities render normal speech impossible. You can see that his speech has a slurred quality, and seems to issue from a deep cavern rather than from a mouth. I, therefore, will translate his responses to you, Mr. Holmes, as I have grown accustomed to his utterances and can discern their meaning.”

So for the next hour Holmes plied the man with questions. The man answered willingly enough, with a boyish enthusiasm and desire to please (he was, in fact, a very young man, though telling it from looking at him was, of course, impossible).

“Now, John, I want you to remember all you can about the last several days,” began Holmes. “First of all, where did you go Monday night, and why did you go there?”

The wretch babbled and snorted an unintelligible reply which Treves quickly translated.

“He went to the circus grounds to seek a job. Ah, Mr. Holmes, that would make some sense. You see, up until recently John was forced to make his ‘living,' if such it could be called, by exhibiting himself as an oddity at local fairgrounds and circuses, right, John?”

The man nodded his huge head slowly in sadness.

“But now, thanks to the public's concern and generosity, he need no longer worry about being gaped and jeered at. Obviously, he went to the circus unaware of his endowment, and reluctantly, yet he reasoned it was that or starve. Well you needn't worry any longer, my friend…”

Here Holmes and I stared dumbstruck as the man threw his head down upon his deformed chest and wept with joy and relief, the tears covering his monstrous face. I could almost have wept myself, so pathetic was the sight of this poor creature who had endured so much, without a friend or comforter in the world. And yet, were tears to come to my eyes, they would also have been tears of joy and renewed faith in the human heart: for now clearly John Merrick
had
friends and comforters, and his life as a public horror had drawn to a close.

“He went to the grounds that night,” Treves continued, “alone and in secret, as strictly instructed by the circus representative—”

Holmes and I glared at each other. We had little doubt as to the identity of the “representative.”

“And did you meet this man at the edge of the grounds?” pursued Holmes.

“Yes, he did,” continued Treves. “He was helped over the fence and led into a narrow tunnel in the tent. There he was told to remain, squatting in his great cloak, which conceals him in public, until the signal was given.”

“And what was the signal?”

“When the flaps were raised, Merrick was to fling off his cloak, rise up and wave his limbs about. Thereupon, he was told, the flaps would immediately close again, and he was to refasten his cloak and scurry outside again the same instant—returning to the hospital secretly, and telling no one of this ‘audition.' ”

“Was he paid, or offered employment?” I asked.

“He was paid two pounds for his appearance which is, as we know, remarkably good pay. If the owners decided to hire him, he was to be notified in a week. Otherwise, he was strictly instructed to keep the matter quiet, accepting the generous payment for his efforts.”

Merrick answered all the questions in a forthright manner, obviously blissfully unaware of the nefarious purpose to which his “appearance” had been put.

“Finally, John, can you please describe this representative who approached you?”

When we heard the description, which fit Vladimir Vayenko in every detail, we knew the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. However, so as not to upset Merrick, Holmes and I departed without further questions.

“Well, we've truly met a
monster
on this case, Watson,” remarked Holmes as he hailed a cab, “although it's not the poor follow who lies yonder…”

“The coward! Rather than face his rival directly, he chose to seek revenge by killing his loved one!”

“Yes. But I'm sure the revenge was
direct
as well. Love can turn quickly to hate, as you know. He never forgave Anna for throwing him away for Zolnay.”

“And to use poor Merrick as the means—after all the wretched soul has been through…”

“It is ugly in every respect, Watson. Also, considering his recent actions towards me, I'm convinced that, like most cowards, Vayenko is a bully.”

“Lucky for him he didn't choose to confront you on the ground!”