The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter

by Theodora Goss

  Even as a little girl, Mary had not cried easily. She had learned long ago that life was difficult. One had to live it with courage and common sense; it did not reward sentimentality. At the memory of her mother lying on her pillow, looking more peaceful than she had looked for years, Mary put her head in her hands. But she did not cry, as she had not cried at the funeral.

  DIANA: Because our Mary never cries.

  MRS. POOLE: Miss Mary is a lady. She does not throw fits, unlike some as I could name.

  MARY: It’s not my fault I don’t cry. You know perfectly well it’s not.

  CATHERINE: Yes, we know.

  Mary’s “earliest convenience,” as Mr. Guest had put it in his letter, did not occur until a week later. First, there was Nurse Adams to see off, and Joseph and Enid, and finally Cook. One afternoon, Mrs. Poole came into the morning room where Mary was going through the accounts at her mother’s desk and said, “Alice is gone.”

  “What?” said Mary. “What do you mean, gone?”

  “I mean that she’s taken her things and gone off, without saying goodbye. She did all her morning work just as usual, without saying a word. I went into her room a minute ago, to tell her tea was ready, and there’s nothing there. Not that she had much, but it’s empty.”

  “Well, no doubt her brothers came for her. Didn’t she say it was all arranged?”

  “Yes, but she could at least have said goodbye. After the way I took her in and trained her. I never expected ingratitude, not from Alice! And no forwarding address. I would at least have liked to send her a card at Christmas.”

  “She’s very young, Mrs. Poole. I’m sure you were thoughtless yourself when you were thirteen. No, come to think of it, I’m sure you weren’t. And I’m sorry about Alice. We’ll probably get a letter from her in the next few days, telling us she’s safely home and how nice it is to be back in the country. All right, I’m done here. It’s time to face Mr. Guest. It’s raining again. Could you bring my mackintosh?” She closed the account book and sighed. The last thing she wanted to do today was meet with the solicitor, but what had to be done should be done as soon as possible. Or so Miss Murray, her governess, had taught her.

  Mrs. Poole met her in the hall, holding her mackintosh and umbrella. “I wish you would take a cab. You’ll be soaking wet, and when I think of you walking those streets alone . . .”

  “You know I can’t afford a cab, and I’m just going to Cavendish Square. Anyway, this is the nineties. The most respectable ladies walk alone. Or ride their bicycles in the park!”

  “And look like horrors,” said Mrs. Poole. “I hope you’re not thinking of wearing a divided skirt and getting on one of those contraptions!”

  “Well, not today, at any rate. Do I look sufficiently respectable to your discerning eye?” Mary glanced at herself in the mirror and adjusted her hat, more out of habit than because it needed adjusting. She was not trying to look smart, and if she had been trying, it would not have worked anyway. Not when I look as though I’ve seen a ghost, she thought.

  “You always look respectable, my dear,” said Mrs. Poole. “You’re a born lady.”

  MRS. POOLE: Well, I never! I have never in my life called Miss Mary anything so disrespectful as “my dear.”

  DIANA: Oh, stuff it! You do it all the time without noticing.

  “A lady should be able to pay her butcher’s bill,” said Mary. Twelve pounds, five shillings, three pence: that was her current bank balance. She had written it neatly in the account book, and now she could not stop thinking about it. The number kept chiming in her head, like a clock always telling the same time. On her mother’s desk in the morning room was a stack of bills. She had no idea how she would pay them.

  “Mr. Byles knows you’ll pay him eventually,” said Mrs. Poole. “Hasn’t he been supplying meat for this household since before your father died?”

  “That was when there was a household to supply for.” Mary buttoned her mackintosh, picked up her purse from the hall table, then hooked the umbrella over her arm. “Mrs. Poole, you really should reconsider . . .”

  “I’m not leaving you, miss,” said Mrs. Poole. “Not in this big house, all alone. My father was butler here under Dr. Jekyll, and my mother came from the country with Mrs. Jekyll. Your mother’s nurse, she was. Same as I was yours when you were in pinafores. This is my home.”

  “But I have nothing to pay you with,” said Mary, hopelessly. “It was all I could do to give Cook and Joseph and the rest their fortnight’s wages. You can’t give me credit, like Mr. Byles. And a trained housekeeper could find another position, even at a time like this. I’m the one the employment offices don’t want. You should see these women, with their pursed faces, telling me I don’t know enough to be a governess—which is true—or that working in a shop ‘is not for the likes of you, miss’!”

  “It certainly isn’t,” said Mrs. Poole.

  “Or if I took a two-week typing course costing ten shillings, they might find something for me by and by. But I haven’t got ten shillings to spare, and I haven’t got two weeks! I called on Mr. Leventhal, but he says there’s no hope of selling this house, with the economic situation as it is. Unless, he says, a buyer comes along who will take on the expense of dividing it into flats.”

  “Flats!” said Mrs. Poole in a horrified tone. “Divide a gentleman’s residence into flats! I don’t know what the world is coming to. Well, perhaps Mr. Guest will tell you something to your advantage.”

  “That,” said Mary, “is highly unlikely.” She checked herself in the mirror again. Umbrella, mackintosh, gum boots. She was prepared for the deluge.

  And a deluge it was. The rain beat mercilessly on her umbrella. In the gutters, rivers ran dark and fast. London went about its daily business: shops were open, carts rumbled down the streets, newspapers boys called out, “Another ’orrible murder! Maid on her day out found without a ’ead! Read about it in the Daily Mail!” But the crossing-sweepers were soaked and glum, and the hansom cab horses shook their heads to get water out of their ears. The sidewalks thronged with umbrellas.

  As though God has decided to drown the world again, she thought, almost wishing He would. Sometimes she thought the world needed drowning. But she pushed the uncharitable thought away and took a quick look at her watch to make sure she would be in time for her appointment. Her boots squelched on the wet pavement as she made her way through Marylebone.

  Utterson & Guest, Solicitors, was located on one of the quiet, respectable streets near Cavendish Square. Mary knocked with the polished brass knocker. A clerk opened the heavy wooden door and led her down the long, paneled corridor to Mr. Guest’s office. While her mother was alive, Mr. Guest had come to the house, but the impoverished Miss Mary Jekyll was not important enough to warrant a visit.

  Mr. Guest was as tall and lean and balding as ever. He reminded Mary of a cadaver; she imaged the paneled office, with its rows of leather-bound books, as the coffin in which he had been interred. He bowed over her hand and said, in his cadaverous voice, “Thank you for coming in response to my letter, Miss Jekyll. And in this rain, too!”

  “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with my finances?” said Mary. She might as well be direct. He knew perfectly well that she had no money.

  “No, no, I’m afraid your financial situation remains the same.” Mr. Guest shook his head regretfully, but Mary could detect a certain relish in his tone. “Do sit down, as our business may take some time. I asked you here because I received this.” Mr. Guest sat behind his desk and pulled forward a leather portfolio that had been lying beside the inkwell. “I was contacted by your mother’s bank—not the Bank of England, but another bank at which she had opened an account, some sort of cooperative society in Clerkenwell. Without my knowledge, I might add.” Clearly, he did not approve of his clients opening accounts without informing him, particularly in such a disreputable part of the city.

  Mary stared at him in astonishment. “Another account? That’s impossible. Before
she died, my mother had not left her room for many years.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Guest. “But this account must have been opened before your mother . . . secluded herself entirely from the world.” In other words, went mad, thought Mary.

  “When the account was set up, your mother deposited a certain sum, stipulating that each month, a portion of it would be paid to a designated recipient. When the director of the bank saw the notice of her death in The Times, he very properly contacted me. I requested that he send me whatever information he could, and a week later I received these documents. They include the account book.”

  He unbuckled the portfolio, took out a book such as bank clerks use to keep their accounts in order, and placed it in front of Mary. She sat in the rather uncomfortable chair Mr. Guest provided for his clients, put her purse on her lap, and opened the book to the first page. At the top was written: DATE—TRANSACTION—AMOUNT—PURPOSE. Each transaction had taken place on the first of the month, and each was recorded in exactly the same way: Payment to the Society of St. Mary Magdalen—£1—For the care and keeping of Hyde.

  Hyde! At the sight of that name, Mary gasped. It conjured an image from her childhood: her father’s friend, the man known as Edward Hyde—a pale, hairy, misshapen man, with a wicked leer that had sent a shiver up her spine.

  MARY: That’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?

  CATHERINE: Well, at any rate, he always made you feel uncomfortable. And he was insufferably rude.

  “That account is now yours,” said Mr. Guest. “As you can see, it was originally set up with a single deposit of a hundred pounds. Since then, money has been withdrawn monthly, for some purpose I do not understand?” He paused for a moment in case Mary cared to explain. But even if she had any idea what this was about, she would not have enlightened the solicitor. He continued, “It contains the sum left after last month’s withdrawal: I believe the current total comes to twenty-three pounds. Not a large sum, I’m afraid.”

  No, it was not, but Mary had a sudden vision of being able to pay the butcher, and the grocer, and of course Mrs. Poole. Perhaps they could even hire back Cook, who would not have to live with her sister in Yorkshire! And Mrs. Poole would not have to struggle with the oven, or producing edible meals from a cookery book she had never been trained to use. But no, that was too ambitious. Twenty-three pounds was significantly more than she had, but it was not enough to live on for any length of time—not at 11 Park Terrace. Still, some of the panic she had been feeling subsided. But the incredulity remained.

  “For Hyde?” she said. “How could my mother possibly have been involved with Hyde? I was only a child, but I still remember the police coming to our house, questioning my father about him.”

  “I was Mr. Utterson’s clerk at the time,” said Mr. Guest. “I remember the circumstances quite well, although fortunately I never met Mr. Hyde myself. That is of course why I asked you to come so urgently, although I hesitated to interrupt your period of mourning, Miss Jekyll.” He looked at her solemnly, but she thought that behind his professional mask, she could detect a smirk. He was the sort of man who would enjoy the misfortunes of others. “But there is more: your mother left these documents with the bank for safekeeping.”

  He pushed the portfolio toward her. It was filled with papers of various sorts: another book, envelopes that likely contained letters, slips of paper that seemed to be receipts. She started to pull the other book out of the portfolio, but saw the look of avid curiosity on Mr. Guest’s face. He had probably restrained himself from looking through his client’s private papers, although he would have liked to. Well, whatever her mother had wanted to hide, Mary was not going to show him.

  She closed and buckled the portfolio. “Thank you, Mr. Guest. Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all,” he said, with a frown—of frustrated disappointment, thought Mary. “May I ask, Miss Jekyll, what you intend to do in this matter?”

  “I shall close the account, of course,” said Mary. She would go to Clerkenwell—could one get there by omnibus?—and withdraw the remainder tomorrow. Thirty-five pounds, five shillings, three pence. She could not help thinking with relief of the new number.

  “That is certainly the best course of action,” said Mr. Guest. “Whatever the account was created for, I suggest you have nothing more to do with it. And if I may also mention—young ladies in your situation often find it a relief to place their affairs in the hands of those who are more worldly, more wise in such matters. In short, Miss Jekyll, since you have recently come of age, you may choose to marry. A young lady of your personal attractions would certainly prove acceptable to a man who is not particular about his wife’s fortune.” Mr. Guest looked at her meaningfully.

  Goodness, thought Mary. Surely he’s not proposing to me? She had an impulse to laugh, but after the events of the past week, it would come out sounding like hysteria. This had all been . . . a bit too much. “Thank you, Mr. Guest,” she said, rising and extending her hand. “I’m sure you’re very wise in worldly matters and all that. And I appreciate your advice. And could you please ask your clerk to fetch my umbrella and mackintosh?”

  It was still raining when Mary emerged from the solicitor’s office. She walked back through the crowded city streets, carrying the portfolio under her arm so it, at least, would not get wet. By the time she reached home, she was tired, wet, and grateful that Mrs. Poole had already laid a fire in the parlor.

  BEATRICE: Oh, your London rain! When I first came to London, I thought, I shall never see the sun again. It was so cold, and wet, and dismal! I missed Padua.

  DIANA: If you don’t like it here, you can go back there. No one’s stopping you!

  CATHERINE: Please keep your comments relevant to the story. And it is not my London rain. I dislike it as much as Beatrice.

  Mary changed out of her black bombazine into an old day dress, put on a pair of slippers, and wrapped a shawl that had belonged to her mother around her shoulders. She lit the fire with a match from the box on the mantelpiece. How shabby the parlor looked! She had asked Mr. Mundy, of Mundy’s Furnishings and Bibelots, what else she could possibly sell, but he had shaken his head and said there was simply nothing left worth buying. Unless Miss Jekyll wanted to sell the fine portrait over the parlor fireplace? But Mary would not sell her mother’s portrait.

  She sat on the sofa and pulled the tea table in front of her, then unbuckled the portfolio and pulled out the documents it contained. They would have been easier to sort through on her mother’s desk—she could not help thinking of it as her mother’s desk, although she had been using it for years to do the household accounts. But there was no fire laid in the morning room, and not much coal left in the cellar. Also, she did not want to face those bills again, not now.

  The book was, more properly, a notebook: her father’s laboratory notebook, she realized when she began leafing through it. She recognized his handwriting, the same angular hand that had commented in the margins of his books. The envelopes were addressed to Dr. Henry Jekyll, 11 Park Terrace. They must contain letters sent to him while he was alive, perhaps about his scientific experiments? He had maintained a large correspondence with other scientists in England and Europe. Scattered among the envelopes were miscellaneous receipts, mostly from Maw & Sons, the company that had supplied the chemicals for his experiments. She began to sort through the documents, barely noticing when Mrs. Poole brought in her dinner of a chop with peas and potatoes. She moved the documents to the sofa so Mrs. Poole could set it on the table, thanking the housekeeper absentmindedly.

  When Mrs. Poole came to clear away, she leaned back into the sofa and said, “You know, I think Mr. Guest almost proposed to me today? Or hinted that I should marry a man who could take charge of my affairs, since young ladies are so unworldly.”

  “And you running this house since you were old enough to sign your mother’s name!” said Mrs. Poole. “I’ve never held with men, and that’s a fact. Footmen are ornamental in white stockin
gs for dinner service, but not as useful as a good scullery maid. Although Joseph made himself useful enough, I’ll admit.”

  “If only I could afford a good scullery maid!” said Mary. “I hated letting Alice go, but she’s better off with her family. Mrs. Poole, could you sit down for a moment? I know, I know, it’s not your place. But please, there’s something I need to ask you.”

  Reluctantly, Mrs. Poole sat in one of the armchairs by the fire, with her hands folded on her lap, as though she were sitting in one of the pews of St. Marylebone. “Well, miss?”

  Mary leaned forward and stared into the fire. She did not quite know how to ask . . . but directly was always best. She turned to Mrs. Poole and said, “What do you remember about Edward Hyde?”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: I can’t tell you how much I regret allowing Mary and the rest of them to see this manuscript while I was writing it. First they started commenting on what I had written, and then they insisted I make changes in response to their comments. Well, I’m not going to. I’m going to leave their comments in the narrative itself. You, dear reader, will be able to see how annoying and nonsensical most of them are, while offering the occasional flash of insight into character. It will be a new way of writing a novel, and why not? This is the ’90s, as Mary pointed out. It’s time we developed new ways of writing for the new century. We are no longer in the age of Charles Dickens or George Eliot, after all. We are modern. And, of course, monstrous . . .

  CHAPTER II

  Consulting Mr. Holmes

  Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time!” said Mrs. Poole. “But I don’t think anyone who once saw Mr. Hyde could forget him. You were so young, just out of the nursery and into the schoolroom. Such a solemn child you were, calm and quiet, unlike other children, with big gray eyes that always seemed to be asking questions. Do you remember Miss Murray, with her globes and French grammar? You used to come see me when you were tired of conjugating or declining, or whatever you call it, and I would give you a bit of ginger cake. I don’t know if you ever saw him yourself, though he was here often enough.”