Chapter Six
As we rode from the docks back to our lodgings, Holmes maintained an irritable near-silence. Twice he began remarks upon extraneous subjects, but in each instance let his sentence die incomplete, and in such indifferent fashion that no reply seemed called for. This was so at variance with his customary manner of speech, and with his usual ability to divert his thoughts at will from professional matters, that it confirmed my impression of his having been profoundly disturbed by the riverfront murder.
"Holmes," I offered, with the idea of diverting him, "have you given any consideration to watching Her Majesty's Jubilee procession? There are people asking outrageous prices for the mere privilege of sitting an hour or two in a window of a room along the route. With half a dozen strangers as company, I suppose."
"Bah, I have no time," Holmes muttered. His tone was scarcely civil, and he continued to stare from the window of the cab as if hidden among the passers-by there were some arch-enemy who had just managed to escape him.
As we alighted from the cab in Baker Street, a ragged urchin darted toward Holmes from a nearby doorway, where he had evidently been in wait.
"Got yer message, sir," this small and rather unsavory person reported, giving his hatless forelock a touch that bore some resemblance to a military salute. "I been to the Northumberland, and neither the boots nor the maids remembers any particular gentleman wot would answer the description, sir."
"Well done, Murray." Holmes dropped coins into the grimy hand that shot out to accept them. "And what news of the dogs and rats?"
"Market in stray dogs is quite steady, sir. In rats—to tell the truth, I ain't been able to find out. None of me chums with connections along that line has been where I could discover 'em. I'll be going right off to 'ave another look."
Holmes dismissed the lad with a nod. When we had ascended to our rooms, I ventured to inquire whether the state of the market in dogs or rats might have any bearing upon any of his cases with which I was acquainted.
Stuffing his pipe with dark shag, Holmes only grunted in reply, and passed over to me without comment a visitor's card that had been left while we were out. The name it bore was that of Peter Moore, the American manufacturer of medical and scientific goods. The back bore a short written message:
Will call again in an hour or so. Am very anxious that everything possible be done to find John Scott.
After passing me the card, Holmes stood for a little while brooding out upon the warm spring afternoon beneath our window. Down in the street, children shouted in merriment over some game; a bird gave voice, and the sun shone warmly. The horror of the docks seemed to belong to another world, and shortly my friend managed to shake off the black mood that had threatened to engulf him, and turned to me with a small smile.
"My apologies, Watson. Your question is of course a fair one, and I only wish that I were certain of the answer. My thought is that the equipment belonging to Dr. John Scott can be of real use only to a medical experimenter. And, as we have seen, it is not logical that the items were stolen, with considerable risk, effort, and expense, in order to be sold. Then does it not follow that they were taken simply to be used?"
The murder had rather driven thoughts of Miss Sarah Tarlton's problem from my mind. "But by whom, Holmes? Surely none of the regular laboratories would stoop…"
"Of course they would not. But someone has. And if we can find out where these unknown experimenters are obtaining their subjects, we might be close to learning their identity and the nature of their work. So this morning I carried out a quick survey of all the legal, respectable suppliers of experimental animals in London, and convinced myself that none of them has lately enjoyed a marked increase in business.
"What, then, of the illegal or informal sources? To test them I dispatched young Murray, and several of his associates in this year's active corps of the Irregulars; with the results that have just given you cause to wonder."
Holmes knocked out his pipe into the fireplace, and reached for his violin. But before beginning to play, he faced me with a distant, abstracted look. "Has it occurred to you, Watson, that our two most recent cases have something in common?"
"The warehouse from which John Scott's things were removed is no great distance from the dock where the body of the unfortunate woman was found."
"True. But I had in mind a feature odder than mere geographical proximity."
"An involvement with out-of-the-ordinary medical materials."
Holmes nodded. "Precisely."
"Something of the sort did cross my mind," I admitted, then located a paper in my coat pocket, and brought it out. "Here is the copy you gave me of Peter Moore's inventory of the material taken from the warehouse. I have looked into it, and find no specific mention of any shirt like the one on the pier."
"Quite true." Gazing abstractedly past me. Holmes drew from his violin a thin, wild note. "But then Peter Moore did not have time to catalogue all the equipment before it was removed. Watson—"
"Yes?"
"Would a peculiar shirt of that type be likely to be of any use to a scientist studying plague?"
"In some cases, the victim may be driven to the maddest violence by delirium and excruciating pain."
"The human victim."
"Yes, of course."
Holmes put down his violin as abruptly as he had taken it up. "I find, Watson, that the time for concentrated mental effort has not yet arrived. Or perhaps I am simply not capable of it at the moment."
"My dear chap!"
"No, no, I am not ill. But this business of the killing on the docks…" Once more Holmes let his words trail off.
"I can see it has affected you. Is it possible that you recognized the victim?"
"I did not."
"Do you think Lestrade will find the escaped madman he is looking for?"
"I trust he will." Never before had I heard such genuine fervor in Sherlock Holmes' voice when he was wishing his professional rivals success. "If he fails to do so… then I shall have to take a hand, in earnest. And I tell you, Watson, that I would rather not."
Holmes turned to face me directly as he spoke these last words, and in his speech and manner there was such an unusual depth of feeling that I stepped forward and laid a hand upon his arm. "I think it will be better, Holmes, for you to take a holiday. London in summer is not the most—"
"Bah!" He shook me off impatiently. "Do not talk to me now of holidays. Perhaps after this affair on the docks is settled." As if to himself he added: "Oh, but it is an offense to sanity."
"You mean the killer is insane? But that is surely not uncommon in a murderer."
"I do not mean the killer's motive; or not that alone." Holmes paused, looking at me as if with a kind of silent pleading.
At last I prompted: "I must say that the case of John Scott does not appear to me any plainer."
He smiled lightly. "Nor to me, as yet. But that is because that puzzle is incomplete. When I have more of the pieces in hand, I feel sure that they will fall together. But in the puzzle of the killing on the docks, I fear, Watson, that one of the pieces may be of the wrong shape. And what shall we make of that, hey?" Holmes' manner was now grown positively feverish. Emotions I could not identify had him in their grip. "And if the two cases should be connected, Watson, where does the connection stop? What if the whole world is destined to be the wrong shape, after all?" I was now genuinely alarmed. "Holmes, you must abandon this case at once. As your doctor, I insist that you must put it aside and rest."
"No, Watson." What effort of will it may have cost him I shall never know, but in a few seconds my friend managed to appear fully in control of himself and as formidable as ever. "With regard to other work, I shall take your advice. But it is absolutely impossible that I should abandon either of these two cases until they are solved, or until I am convinced at least that it is safe and proper for me to do so."