Free Disquiet at Albany by N. M. Scott Page B

set at Albany put under twenty-four hour watch. I choose not to go into the many particulars. Suffice to say Ethby Sands is alive. He is due to attend this luncheon at the Criterion presently.’
    ‘Alive! That can’t be the case. I read his obituary in
The Times
only the other day, Holmes.’
    ‘Listen, he is being kept alive and youthful by an infernal serum compounded from the ancient bones of a long extinct giant tree-rat of Sumatra, not I might add the cute and fluffy caprices we saw cavorting about the stage in your show on opening night. The serum was developed at a location in Norfolk by a clever group of microscopic chemists under the leadership of Doctor Wu Xing, himself an unorthodox practitioner of alternative Chinese medicine with a clinic in Mayfair. Doctor Wu Xing saved him from being poisoned and additionally helped save his life, but at tremendous cost. The terrible side-effects of the previously untested serum are truly fearful to behold, the risks of addiction underestimated. Although no longer middle-aged and a young man again, his mind and metabolism are irrevocably altered. Doctor Wu blames overuse of the serum. Too high a dosage has at times created a change in the man’s physical self.’
    ‘My God, you mean he’s changed? Ethby’s changed into a raving, psychotic madman?’
    ‘How can I make you understand, Chymes? There can be no turning back. There is no known antidote, or cure. The animal proclivities grow ever stronger.’
    Out of the corner of my eye I observed a fellow wearing a hefty tweed overcoat, muffled up against the worst of the wintry weather, the chilly November fogs, with a thick wrap-around scarf, low-brimmed hat and pigskin gloves. It had to be Ethby Sands. He entered the Criterion, pausing over by the cashier’s desk. An immaculately liveried waiter instantly approached but the new diner would brook no disrobing and, with a peculiar lurching gait, came across to our table.
    ‘Hello Chymes, Holmes, Doctor Watson. You too, Lovell, Lemon; and there of course sits Doctor Wu. Delighted you could all make it at such short notice. Damn chilly this morning,’ he said good-naturedly, ‘The fog lies thick along the embankment and the circus is all snarled up with carriage traffic.’
    ‘Would you remove your gloves, Mr Sands?’ asked Holmes in a determined way, instantly getting up from his chair and cautiously sliding across to our fellow diner. I knew from experience my friend had already made a brief assessment of the chap’s character and had found something wanting. ‘I can’t abide people who will insist on lunching with their gloves on, especially in such a prestigious restaurant as the Criterion. Watson, your revolver. Clamp it against his spine, there’s a good fellow.’
    I leapt up and did just as Holmes requested, much to the amazement of Langton and Lemon, who sat with mouths agape, their meals temporarily abandoned, horrified at my lack of decorum and the impertinence.
    ‘No need for that, gentlemen. I was only about to take my seat. I did book the table, after all.’
    ‘Your gloves – remove them at once,’ snarled Holmes.
    ‘Forgive my bundled-up appearance. The fog affects my circulation. I am something of a valetudinarian and my aversion to this chilly, damp climate of ours inhibits me taking off my gloves, except in more comfortable, humid conditions such as a palm house.’
    ‘Your gloves,’ my colleague said impatiently, seizing the fellow’s wrists with all his considerable strength, trying to prise off one of Sands’s gloves, rolling the leather down the sleeve and causing a shriek of muffled protest.
    ‘My apologies. My, these are a stiff fit, and quite a large pair, too.’
    Despite a struggle, Holmes managed to unravel the pigskin leather and roll the stiff material down the wrist, exposing what should have been knuckles – what should have been a human hand.
    There was a shocked, numb silence about the table. Only Doctor Wu took it all