he burst into the room.
“There you are, Watson! Put on your coat and hat, and we’ll be on our way.”
Outside the inn was a waiting trap and driver, and we got inside.
“I thought of someone whom we haven’t spoken to,” I said. “Millicent Stokes, the woman who reported Harris missing and found the blood in front of the barn.”
“I questioned her before you arose,” answered Holmes, while the driver guided his horse through the cobblestone streets. “As I had thought, she had no relevant facts to add to our investigation, but I would have been remiss if I hadn’t consulted with her.”
“Oh,” I replied, crestfallen. For an instant I felt as if I might have actually stumbled upon an idea that Holmes had somehow overlooked.
“You’ve no doubt visited the aquarium at Regent Park,” said Holmes, abruptly changing the subject.
“Certainly,” I replied, “As a school boy I went quite often. I was fascinated by watching the fish, as are most children.”
“Today we will be visiting what I surmise will be a miniature version of that great ‘fish house,’ as it’s called by the public. We’ll be paying a call on Dr Phillip Paxton.”
“Presumably, this is in connection with the case.”
Holmes laughed. “Surely you don’t think all this salt air has made me balmy, do you Watson? I believe that Dr Paxton’s scientific expertise may be able to shed some light on this case.”
Then Holmes fell silent, as the carriage went up an incline. A few minutes later, we came to a stop in front of Phillip Paxton’s manor house. Judging by its fine stone work, it looked to be at least three hundred years old. Holmes instructed the driver to wait for us, even though it might be some time till we returned. The driver nodded, and Holmes and I walked toward the house.
As we did, I couldn’t help admiring the breathtaking view of the ocean below. The house’s huge door was answered by a gruff looking butler, who looked more in build as if he belonged in a pugilist’s ring than in a gentleman’s residence.
When Holmes mentioned that we were acting in an official capacity on behalf of the local constable, the man’s expression softened, and we were invited into the great hall and seated on chairs that looked as old as the house itself. The servant asked us if we’d like some tea. When we politely declined, he bowed and left.
The great hall had high stone walls on which were hung medieval tapestries, crossed swords, and a family coat of arms. Ancient, ornately carved wooden tables stood against a number of the walls, as did oversized vases which held dried plants. The only anomaly was—where one might traditionally have expected to see framed oil portraits of ancestors—there were elaborate paintings of fish. I saw tuna, herring, sole, bluefish and cod.
Before I had time to fully contemplate their significance, a man in his sixties wearing a white surgeon’s coat walked into the hall.
“I am Dr Phillip Paxton,” he said, “and you must be Sherlock Holmes. Of course, I have read a number of your cases. And this must be your chronicler, Dr Watson.”
“We’ve come to discuss a matter with you, with which you may be of some assistance,” said Holmes.
“Indeed,” said Dr Paxton. “I’d be most pleased to help in any way I can. But first, would you please indulge me? I insist upon showing you my little laboratory.”
We went down a wide corridor. On the walls hung more paintings of fish. Within a moment we were in a vast gallery which contained massive glass aquariums which—as Holmes had predicted—easily rivalled the ones at Regent Park.
“Here are my friends,” said Dr Paxton, gesturing at the first aquarium.“These are some of the local species: mackerel, cod, and bluefish.”
We passed one tank after another, each one larger than the last, till we came to a stop in front of an aquarium that was the size of a house. Inside it, grey seals swam about as if they had not a care in the world. A muscle-bound man appeared with a ladder, and placed it on the side of the tank. He then took a bucket, climbed up, and dumped fish into the water.
Dr Paxton watched the seals for a moment, then turned to Holmes and myself.
“I’m researching every aspect of these beautiful creature’s lives. I’m sure, Mr Holmes, if your reputation is accurate, that you may have heard about my, uh, differences with the institute.”
“Small-minded thinkers, no doubt,” said Holmes.
“Ah,” said Paxton, “I see that you grasp the situation fully. But here I have no one to answer to, no need to please would-be benefactors. Those relics back in London scoffed at any idea that didn’t fit into their narrow views of the world. Science should not have to bow before the feet of bankers in order to march forward.”
“Well put,” said Holmes. “I need not remind you, it was only a short time ago that Mr Fulton’s steam engine was the subject of similar derision by the same sort of self-appointed experts.”
Dr Paxton seemed very pleased by Holmes’s comments, as he took us to one more aquarium. This was double the size of the previous one. In it were dolphins.
“Bottle-nosed dolphins,” said Holmes. “Magnificent animals. There are those that contend that they possess a certain innate intelligence.”
With this, Dr Paxton’s eyes lit up. “You surprise me, Mr Holmes.”
“I have found that many worthy ideas start at the fringes of society that are initially rejected by the mainstream,” said Holmes, “only to be eventually accepted by the very same naysayers and disbelievers, who then attempt to claim credit for them.”
“I suspect that law enforcement’s gain is science’s loss,” said Paxton as he led us back through the glass gallery.
“This is the entirety of your sea menagerie?” asked Holmes.
“Yes, excluding those organisms on the slides under my microscope.”
It was an amazing collection, I thought. I couldn’t imagine that there could be another one like it, in private hands, in all of England. We returned to the great hall and sat down. Then Holmes produced the photographs he’d shown me on the train.
“Before you view these, Dr Paxton, I must warn you of their graphic nature.”
“I’m a man of science, sir,” said Paxton, blinking.
“Very well,” said Holmes, “if you’ve read the local newspaper in the last few days, you’ll have heard of the human arm that was found on the beach, not far from here.”
“I’m afraid I’m much too involved in my work to keep up with the news.”
“I’d like you to look at these photographs and give me your professional opinion. Is there any sea creature you know of that could have done this to a man?”
Holmes gave Paxton the photographs. Paxton studied them carefully, then said, “There are no teeth marks that would indicate a shark, rare as such an attack is on humans. Even so, it would not be so smooth a cut as this.”
“Could a whale have been responsible?”
“I dare say not. Once again, in the few documented cases I know of there would be signs of biting and the skin and bone would be jagged. Even piranhas—which are native to South America and are never found in these cold waters—would leave traces of their tiny, razor-like teeth. I see no evidence of anything of the sort here. I know of no fish or ocean mammal capable of inflicting such damage in precisely this way.”
Paxton returned the photographs to Holmes, who stood up promptly and said, “Thank you, Dr Paxton, you’ve been of invaluable assistance. Come, Watson, our driver awaits.”
We returned to the village and stopped in front of the inn, whereupon Holmes told me to