“Is that all?”
“That it's not,” Bill told me, approaching his climax with relish. “Most of it didn't 'ave no real shape, but there was a part of it as did — a pair of hands, human hands, a-stickin' out from the sides of it...”
In the end I got rid of the deputation with the assurance we would look into the matter. When I turned back from closing the door behind the last of them I perceived that all was not well with Alfred. His eyes were gleaming widely behind his glasses, and he was trembling.
“Sit down,” I advised him. “You don't want to go shaking parts of yourself off.”
I could see that there was a dissertation coming: probably something to beat what we had just heard. But, for once, he wanted my opinion first, while manfully contriving to hold his own down for a time. I obliged:
“It has to turn out simpler than it sounds,” I told him. “Either somebody was playing a joke on the village — or there are some very unusual animals which they've distorted by talking it over too much.”
“They were unanimous about the carapaces and arms — two structures as thoroughly incompatible as can be,” Alfred said, tire-somely.
I had to grant that. And arms — or, at least, hands — had been the only describable feature of the bolster-like object that Bill had seen at the Grange...
Alfred gave me several other reasons why I was wrong, and then paused meaningly.
“I, too, have heard rumours about Membury Grange,” he told me.
“Such as?” I asked.
“Nothing very definite,” he admitted. “But when one puts them all together ... After all, there's no smoke without—”
“All right, let's have it,” I invited him.
“I think,” he said, with impressive earnestness, “I think we are on the track of something big here. Very likely something that will at last stir people's consciences to the iniquities which are practised under the cloak of scientific research. Do you know what I think is happening on our very doorstep?”
“I'll buy it,” I told him, patiently.
“I think we have to deal with a super-vivisectionist!” he said, wagging a dramatic finger at me.
I frowned. “I don't get that,” I told him. “A thing is either vivi- or it isn't. Super-vivi- just doesn't —”
“Tcha!” said Alfred. At least, it was that kind of noise. “What I mean is that we are up against a man who is outraging nature, abusing God's creatures, wantonly distorting the forms of animals until they are no longer recognizable, or only in parts, as what they were before he started distorting them,” he announced, involvedly.
At this point I began to get a line on the truly Alfredian theory that was being propounded this time. His imagination had got its teeth well in, and, though later events were to show that it was not biting quite deeply enough, I laughed:
“I see it,” I said, “I've read The Island of Doctor Moreau, too. You expect to go up to the Grange and be greeted by a horse walking on its hind legs and discussing the weather; or perhaps you hope a super-dog will open the door to you, and inquire your name?
“A thrilling idea, Alfred. But this is real life, you know. Since there has been a complaint, we must try to investigate it, but I'm afraid you're going to be dreadfully disappointed, old man, if you're looking forward to going into a house filled with the sickly fumes of ether and hideous with the cries of tortured animals. Just come off it a bit, Alfred. Come down to earth.”
But Alfred was not to be deflated so easily. His fantasies were an important part of his life, and, while he was a little irritated by my discerning the source of his inspiration, he was not quenched. Instead, he went on turning the thing over in his mind, and adding a few extra touches to it here and there.
“Why turtles?” I heard him mutter. “It only seems to make it more complicated, to choose reptiles.”
He contemplated that for some moments, then he added:
“Arms. Arms and hands! Now where on earth would he get a pair of arms from?”
His eyes grew still larger and more excited as he thought about that.
“Now, now! Keep a hold on it!” I advised him.
All the same, it was an awkward, uneasy land of question ...
The following afternoon Alfred and I presented ourselves at the lodge of Membury Grange, and gave our names to the suspicious-looking man who lived there to guard the entrance. He shook his head to indicate that we hadn't a hope of approaching more closely, but he did pick up the telephone.
I had a somewhat unworthy hope that his discouraging attitude might be confirmed. The thing ought, of course, to be followed up, if only to pacify the villagers, but I could have wished that Alfred had had longer to go off the boil. At present, his agitation and expectation were, if anything, increased. The fancies of Poe and Zola are mild compared with the products of Alfred's imagination powered by suitable fuel. All night long, it seemed, the most horrid nightmares had galloped through his sleep, and he was now in a vein where such phrases as the ‘wanton torturing of our dumb friends’ by ‘the fiendish wielders of the knife’, and ‘the shuddering cries of a million quivering victims ascending to high heaven’ came tripping off his tongue automatically. It was awkward. If I had not agreed to accompany him, he would certainly have gone alone, in which case he would be likely to come to some kind of harm on account of the generalized accusations of mayhem, mutilation and sadism with which he would undoubtedly open the conversation.
In the end I had persuaded him that his course would be to keep his eyes cunningly open for more evidence while I conducted the interview. Later, if he was not satisfied, he would be able to say his piece. I just had to hope that he would be able to withstand the internal pressure.
The guardian turned back to us from the telephone, wearing a surprised expression.
“He says as he'll see you!” he told us, as though not quite certain he had heard aright. “You'll find him in the new wing — that red-brick part, there.”
The new wing, into which the poaching Bill had spied, turned out to be much bigger than I had expected. It covered a ground-area quite as large as that of the original house, but was only one storey high. A door in the end of it opened as we drove up, and a tall, loosely-clad figure with an untidy beard stood waiting for us there.
“Good Lord!” I said, as we approached. “So that was why we got in so easily! I'd no idea you were that Dixon. Who'd have thought it?”
“Come to that,” he retorted, “you seem to be in a surprising occupation for a man of intelligence, yourself.”
I remembered my companion.
“Alfred,” I said, “I'd like to introduce you to Doctor Dixon — once a poor usher who tried to teach me something about biology at school, but later, by popular repute, the inheritor of millions, or thereabouts.”
Alfred looked suspicious. This was obviously wrong: a move towards fraternization with the enemy at the very outset! He nodded ungraciously, and did not offer to shake hands.
“Come in!” Dixon invited.
He showed us into a comfortable study-cum-office which tended to confirm the rumours of his inheritance. I sat down in a magnificent easy-chair.
“You'll very likely have gathered from your watchman that we're here in an official way,” I said. “So perhaps it would be better to get. the business over before we celebrate the reunion. It'd be a kindness to relieve the strain on my friend Alfred.”
Doctor Dixon nodded, and cast a speculative glance at Alfred who had no intention of compromising himself by sitting down.