Prompt from SheWhoScrawls - An animal escapes from the London Zoo
AN: Inspired in part by Domina Temporis' December 6 response which in its turn was inspired by the works of Edgar Allan Poe.
The Adventure of the London Zoo
"For what does he look, good Doctor?"
"You know as well as I, noble Gregson," I replied.
We stood paces away from Holmes as he closely inspected the grated cage door of the great ape house at the London Zoo. Gregson, the noble inspector, that morning had sent for Holmes when confronted with evidence he could make no sense of. Holmes had thought we would find ourselves at the door of the home of Mr. Joseph Mallory, murdered in the night e'en with doors and windows shut fast and bolted. The murder had been recounted in every newspaper and broadsheet. The boys cried it out in all its blood drenched horror from every street corner, waving their wares in front of gentleman and laborer alike as whore will wave to conquering soldier. And yet we found ourselves in the cramped and stinking cells of London Zoo, examining the supposed workings of more than commonly clever beast.
"I know not how the dumb beast did it, Mr. Holmes," said Gregson. Stepping to the door he fingered the heavy chain. Ancient and rusted as it was, its strength remained. It had proved insufficient to its task, for the weakness of the traitor lock. "Look here, sir. Hairs."
Holmes ignored the inspector, finding the lock of greater interest. Therefore, desiring not to antagonize the inspector unduly, I stepped forward and examined his evidence. Between one link and another was pinched a reddish tuft of hair as unlike to that of a man's as a dog is unlike to a hen.
"No man left this," said I. "Clearly, this belonged to an ape. How came it to be upon these iron links do you think, Gregson?"
"Pinched from the brute's hand when it grasped the chains, Doctor," so said Gregson in full earnest and with agreeable tone.
"You know naught of apes, Gregson," spake Holmes, his voice derisive. He lifted the lock and upon his palm displayed it to the good inspector. "See you not what is here?"
"I see a lock, sir," Gregson said with asperity, but across his fine visage I observed a shadow of doubt pass. No more than a specter of irresolution, dissolving upon the instant of its birth. Unmistakable, however, for any who witnessed the moment.
"A lock it is, sir," Holmes agreed, and with a knowing look winked at me. "An iron lock. One of goodly craft, do you not agree?"
"I know not, Mr. Holmes," Gregson replied, casting his eyes over the thing's surface. "Iron it is and it would seem strong. But its provenance is unknown. Therefore its craft is unknown."
"Unknown to you. Not unknown to me." As I watched my friend turned the lumpish thing back and forth before our eyes, the better we might examine it. Upon his lips the thinnest satisfied smile. "I know its maker well. A goodly artisan who dwells with his honest wife above his shop on Fleet Street and has done so for some two and twenty years. A small man, I tell you, and yet his arms are like unto those Michelangelo gave his 'David'. Slim yet possessed of power. And like him, his product. No, good Gregson, this lock was never forced by the strength of one poor beast, though it be stronger than twice us three."
"You do not suggest the creature, crafty and dexterous though it be, learnt to pick a lock," laughed the noble inspector.
"I do not," laughed Holmes in friendly kind. "Nor do I say the beast had aught to do with this lock. Note you the shining iron that in the light of the sun gleams like fairest silver? Here where the hermaphrodite joined itself in unblessed union? And here where steel met iron and constrained it from its sin and o'ercame it in its righteous duty. A faithful lock it was, though now broken and servant to none save gravity and God, it gave up its purpose unwillingly."
"In that case, my good sir, the beast forced the lock with a bar of steel?" Gregson inquired, his confusion in strong contrast to his earlier surety.
"I said not," replied Holmes, his fingers closing over the insensible metal with sharp violence. "The beast had no part in the iron's constraint. A man this thing did. A man as mortal and frail as you or I, Inspector. And one with craft and the hint of guile."
"Holmes, you know more than you say," spake I. "Play us fairly. Speak and do not leave your friends in the dark without a candle. Illuminate our night."
"The brightest lantern will do no service to a man if he will not see, Watson!" cried Holmes o'er loud. "Follow me to the guilty cell. Follow and see what I have already guessed. And if you do not see, I promise, I shall endeavor to enlighten you both."
So saying he dragged upon the bars of the grate and the door swung open upon greased and well-kept hinges. Neither squeak nor groan did it give forth and this surprised me, for the rust of many years lay upon them, and the air of the passage, it was damp.
The cell of the ape we found in short order. It stood open and deserted, fouled straw upon its floor and the stink of the animal in the air. Beyond it through another iron grate could be seen the yard in which the ape had capered for the enjoyment and edification of the common crowds and the gentry of blessed London.
"Inspector, Doctor, in this cell can you see aught the beast might have used in place of key to work its will upon the lock of the door?" Holmes asked.
"I see nothing," said I, for in truth there was nothing.
"The lock was not opened with a key," Gregson vouched. "'Twas forced by the brawn of the ape, friend Holmes. The bolt in its house is bent and distorted. I say again, the lock was not opened with a key."
"Very good, Gregson," smiled Holmes approvingly. "And yet you are wrong. The ape had no part in forcing the lock. Look upon the floor. See you sign of the ape's tracks in the soiled gold of the straw? See you scuff or scratch upon the cold and hoary stone? I see none. Would you not agree, Gregson, noble and honest officer of the law, that the force to break the gripping of the bolt would require leverage in equal measure? Where is the sign of that, Gregson? Watson, where is the sign?"
"I see naught," said I.
"No sign is in evidence," did Gregson admit and so he sighed and paced, his head wagging in his perplexity. "How was it done, Holmes? How did the beast force the resolute iron?"
"Have you not heard me, Gregson?" demanded Holmes most hotly. "The ape had no part in gaining its liberty, save that it went from the cell and from the hall into the grounds of the zoo and beyond that into the streets of our fair city! Look here! Use your eyes if you know how! See you not this iron ring, its fastenings driven deep into the stone of the wall?"
"Verily, I do," growled the inspector, his face now clouding with the hot shadow of words that might burst forth in violent fury.
"Please, Holmes!" I interjected before harsh and unforgivable words could pass betwixt the twain. "You promised to enlighten us. Enlighten me, for I doubt not that there is some momentous thing you have divined."
"See the fresh crack below the anchoring spike?" Holmes asked, his eye upon Gregson. "See the boot print upon the wall? See the smoothing of the rough skin of the ring? Upon this metal was hung a hook."
"What hook?" asked I.
"Not of a fisherman, Watson," said Holmes and the eyes of noble Gregson did roll in their sockets with his frustration. With a quick, secret grin to me, Holmes spake on, "The hook of block and of tackle, Watson. Force mechanical was used to augment that of man's sinew and bone. The door was forced, the lock raped and rent. And the ape did then escape."
"To what purpose?" Gregson demanded, derisive mirth coloring his words. "Was it a thief that came in the night to steal away this brute beast? This beast of the African jungle that once roamed freely among the branches and trunks. The beast reckoned many times the strength of a man. To steal such a creature, long in tooth and talon, seems folly to me, for would not it pounce and drive a man's soul to Heaven, or more likely Hell in this case of criminal sin, damned by both holy church and noble state?"
"I dare say you can tell a hawk from a handsaw, Gregson," Holmes replied in even tone. "I think, though, you mistake a herring for a crime."
"I know not what you mean, Mr. Holmes," admitted noble Gregson.
"Then I bid you, with all my heart and full measure of good will, look to your Poe and guard your windows well," Holmes told him. "The murderer of Mr. Joseph Mallory, I warrant, has read his Poe, of brilliant Dupin and the Rue Morgue. Though he knows nothing more of the gentle and much maligned Orangutan than do you. The beast comes not from Africa, honest Gregson. South East Asia is the land it calls home. Look you to the parks, but send not your constables with rifles and clubs and warlike implements. Let not their heads be broken nor the unfortunate beast's blood be spilled in needless marshal strife! Rather, into a fruit place a sedative and by nightfall you may have your escapee at no risk to the lives of your valiant men."
"What know you of the murder of the honorable Joseph Mallory, good friend Holmes?" asked Gregson, most subdued. "Humbly, I ask your aid on behalf of the venerable Yard, sir. How does this cell and these iron locks relate to his horrid and bloody death? The scene in the bedroom, I have heard, is such as to rival the worst of he who wore the leather apron and stole away woman's womb. Tell me, I do beg."
"I know only what is reported in the papers we received from their printers this morn ere we were summoned hence," replied my friend, his tone matching the honor shown him. "Doors locked from within and on the ground floor, windows undisturbed. Upon the second floor where the master slept, the window was found smashed into so many shards of glittering glass. The servants in their attic rooms heard nothing to disturb their nightly slumbers until their master, in his desperation and agony, screamed out in torment and fear. I tell you, honest Gregson, tis no dumb brute did that deed. A beast of cunning, descended from murderous Cain, struck down the honorable Mallory."
"And who is this Poe and who this Dupin?" noble Gregson asked.
"Poe is a corpse," said Holmes. "Dupin is a fiction. Know you not the tale? Get thee to a library, sir. Ask after them there. To Baker Street we return, Gregson. Call upon me when the Rue Morgue is familiar to you. I will help where I may!"
Upon his heel Holmes did then spin and to the grated door and fresher air he strode.
"Fare you well, noble Gregson," said I, shaking the inspector by the hand in manly fashion.
"Fare you well also, good Doctor," replied the honest man, servant of the People. "I will call this evening and with me I shall bring Lestrade of good reputation."
"Welcome you will both be," I promised and we shook again.
Thence from the stinking house of apes Holmes and I returned to our lodgings, there to wash the smell from our persons and to partake of tobacco and good English tea. And in time, in company with noble Gregson and reputable Lestrade, we wove a net to capture the damned murderer whose vengeful spite drove him to kill with terrible violence a man of worth.
AN: I was watching Kenneth Branagh's 1996 production of 'Hamlet' while writing this. It was a lot of fun, but it was also a lot of work.