“I did, once,” said Mary. “But tell me what you remember about him. I have a particular reason for asking.”
“I was head chambermaid then, so I rarely saw gentlemen guests. My father was still alive, bless his soul. ‘It’s not my place to criticize Dr. Jekyll’s guests,’ he would tell me. ‘But that Mr. Hyde just makes me feel like taking a shower, with plenty of soap!’ He spent most of his time with your father in the laboratory. But I saw him once or twice, creeping down the stairs as he did, with an evil look on his face. The sight of him made me shiver. I remember it to this day!”
“I saw him once,” said Mary, thoughtfully. “He was standing outside my mother’s bedroom door. He had his hand raised, as though about to knock. But he turned and saw me, then lowered it and gave me such a look—almost of guilt, but also a sort of glee. He grinned, and I remember being frightened and running back to my room. Later, I told Miss Murray that I had seen Rumpelstiltskin.” She looked back down at the documents spread over the sofa. “What do you remember about the murder?”
“Shocking, it was!” said Mrs. Poole. “That old gentleman, Sir Danvers Carew, beaten to death with a cane. Such a brutal crime!”
“And Mr. Hyde was implicated,” said Mary.
“Oh, I don’t think there was any question of his guilt! It was a dreadful time. The police coming around, questioning us all as though we were criminals. I’m convinced it hastened your poor father’s death. But Hyde disappeared, and hasn’t been heard of since. Good riddance, I say!”
“Until now. Look, this is what Mr. Guest gave me.” Mary held the account book out to Mrs. Poole, turned so the housekeeper could see the list of figures, and repeated what the solicitor had told her.
Mrs. Poole looked down at the book, then back up again at Mary. Astonishment was written on her face, and for a moment, she could not speak. Then, she said, “I don’t know what to make of that, miss.”
“I don’t know what to make of it either. Except that my mother knew where Hyde was, and was sending him money each month. Could he have been blackmailing her?”
“With what, miss? Your mother hadn’t a secret in the world.”
“But I think my father did. I’ve been reading one of these letters.” Mary picked up the letter and stared at it, frowning. “There are references I don’t understand—scientific references, in part. But I’m starting to think that my father was involved in some strange things, Mrs. Poole.”
“Well, he was always a secretive gentleman. Shall I take your plate, miss? I’d like to wash up before banking the stove for the night.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mary. “I’m being inconsiderate. Sometimes I forget it’s just the two of us now—and you’re the one actually doing all the work. If only you would let me help.”
Mrs. Poole removed the plate and cutlery in a way that expressed her complete disapproval. She has always had the remarkable ability to show exactly what she thinks without saying a word. It’s a very annoying trait. No, you may not add a comment here, Mrs. Poole.
“I hope you don’t stay up too late,” said the housekeeper. “And do light the gas when it gets dark. I don’t want you ruining your eyes.”
“I won’t stay up,” said Mary. “But I want to finish looking through these documents. I have a sort of idea . . . Mrs. Poole, wasn’t there a reward offered for information leading to the apprehension of Hyde?”
“A hundred pounds, it was. Why, miss? Do you think you could get that hundred pounds by turning him in? It’s been so long. Surely they won’t pay that much now.” Mrs. Poole did not specify who they might be.
“I don’t know,” said Mary. “But I think I know who to ask. It was so long ago, but I still remember . . .”
She did not finish her sentence. Mrs. Poole carried the tray out, shutting the parlor door behind her. Mary wondered what secrets her mother had taken to the grave. An idea was starting to form in her head, a course of action. Tomorrow . . .
But no, she would not think about that yet. She still had the rest of the documents to read through. Perhaps they would tell her more about what had happened all those years ago. She picked up her father’s notebook and continued where she had left off. The fire had burned low by the time she finally put the documents back into the portfolio, then rose and went upstairs to the bedroom she had slept in since leaving the nursery.
Once in bed, she could not get to sleep. The house was so silent! There had always been noises: her mother waking in the night, Nurse Adams going down to heat some milk. The house felt so empty around her. Mrs. Poole was two floors down, in the housekeeper’s room by the kitchen. She was tempted to go down and sleep in Alice’s bed, just so she could hear Mrs. Poole snoring through the wall. But she was Miss Mary Jekyll, of 11 Park Terrace. A lady might feel fear, but she must not give in to it, or so her governess had taught her. So she stared into the darkness until she finally fell asleep, and dreamed of a leering Mr. Hyde walking through the lamplit streets of London, brandishing his murderous cane.
MRS. POOLE: I do not snore!
MARY: I don’t remember dreaming any such thing. How can you say I dreamed it, if I don’t remember?
CATHERINE: You don’t remember not dreaming it, do you? Well then. You must have dreamed something. I can’t just write, Mary dreamed something but she doesn’t remember. You have absolutely no sense of drama.
MARY: Well, I don’t tell lies, if that’s what you mean.
The next morning, after an early breakfast of toast and tea, she asked Mrs. Poole for the key to the laboratory. With a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she crossed the courtyard at the back of the house and unlocked the laboratory door, which had been locked for—how long now? Since her mother had become too ill to be cared for by the servants and Mary had hired Nurse Adams. That must be . . . seven years ago. Even before that, it had only been entered by the maids, for an annual cleaning.
She did not know what she expected to find, but perhaps her father had left something, anything that would answer the questions she had begun to ask, after looking through the documents in the portfolio.
The laboratory, which had once been an operating theater, was lit by a domed skylight. The gray light of a rainy London day streamed in over wooden desks and seats arranged in tiers, as in an amphitheater, so students could watch anatomical demonstrations. Now, they were covered with a thick layer of dust. On the central table, once used for operations, her father had performed his chemical experiments. She still remembered what it had looked like, so many years ago, covered with equipment: a Bunsen burner, two microscopes, mortars and pestles in various sizes. Equations had been scribbled on the chalkboard behind him. The shelves on either side of the room had been filled with books. She had seldom been allowed in the laboratory, but sometimes he had called her in to observe his experiments. The table of elements with its symbols that meant so much when you understood them, the colored flame of the Bunsen burner when he passed various chemicals through it, more to amuse her than for any practical purpose, had always seemed magical to her. She had laughed and clapped at the performance. . . .
Now, there was nothing. The theater was entirely empty.
She mounted the steps of the amphitheater, up to a second half-story where her father’s office was located. The door was almost off its hinges, as though it had been forced open. A window that looked onto a back alley was covered with dust, and there were cobwebs in the corners. The office was still furnished: a desk and chair, a sofa, a mirror in one corner. Glass-fronted cabinets that had once held chemicals, now as empty as the bookshelves in the laboratory. But here, too, was a thick layer of dust. She looked in the desk drawers . . . nothing. As she was descending the steps back down to the first floor, Mrs. Poole poked her head through the doorway.
“Well, miss? Did you find anything?”
“No, nothing. Do you know what happened to my father’s papers? I remember his desk being covered with them. . . .”
“Why, miss,” said Mrs. Poole, looki
ng around the dusty theater with professional disapproval, “everything was burned after your father’s death. I still remember that night, although it was so long ago. My father and Mr. Utterson breaking down the door to the office, and then my father telling all the servants that Dr. Jekyll was dead. An accident, he told us, but we all whispered the word suicide. And Mr. Utterson up with your mother half the night. The next day Mr. Utterson and my father carried him out themselves, in a plain wooden box. That made us certain it must have been suicide. Why else were none of the servants invited to the funeral? It was just Mr. Utterson and your mother, and he was buried without even a proper stone to mark where he lay, just that plaque in St. Marylebone. After that, everything was cleared away—all the chemicals, the papers, even the books. Your mother bore it all so well. It was later she broke down, from the strain, I suppose.”
“So the documents my mother deposited at the bank are all I have left,” said Mary. All she had left of her father and the mystery of his life . . . and death.
“I suppose so, miss. Will you be wanting anything else? Now that you’ve opened this room, I want to give it a good airing out, and then I’m going to bring my broom in here, and as many cloths as I can find. Just look at this, will you?” Mrs. Poole drew her finger along the top of a desk and held it up. It was gray with the dust of years.
“Just my mackintosh and umbrella, if you don’t mind. Yes, I’m going out again. I have an errand to run this morning.”
“To that bank, miss?”
“Not quite yet. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”
MARY: If I had known then what I know now . . .
JUSTINE: Would you have acted any differently? I think not.
MARY: But I might have felt differently. Although I don’t suppose that makes much of a difference. You know, when I was a child, I thought my father was a magician. I thought he was the most wonderful man in the world.
JUSTINE: What happened later doesn’t have to destroy that memory of him.
CATHERINE: For goodness’ sake, Justine. You are way too forgiving.
Twenty minutes later, Mary rang the bell at 221B Baker Street.
Miraculously, just as she had reached the front door of the building, the rain had finally stopped. It had been a short walk around the perimeter of Regent’s Park. She had stopped for a moment in St. Marylebone Church to kneel in one of the pews and had tried to pray for her mother . . . and yes, for her father as well. She had stopped by the plaque on the wall that said only Henry Jekyll, Benefactor. She did not even know where he was buried, although Mr. Utterson had assured her that it was in holy ground. Wherever his spirit was now, she hoped he was at peace. But she had been distracted from her prayers by the mysterious payments, the letter she had read last night, the laboratory notebook. If only it were all clearer!
Had she come to the right place? She would find out soon enough.
MARY: You’re making me sound like the heroine of a popular novel. That’s not at all what I was thinking at the time.
BEATRICE: What were you thinking, then?
MARY: How much it would cost to buy new boots. If I was going to be walking around London, I would need a stouter pair, and wasn’t sure if I could afford it. That’s what I was distracted by, if you really want to know. The state of my footwear.
Mary, who was not thinking about the price of boots because that is so boring, shut her umbrella, awkwardly because she was carrying the portfolio Mr. Guest had given her under one arm. She stood waiting while the rings reverberated, trying to brush mud off the hem of her dress and wishing she could have worn a walking suit—but she could not afford one in black. Not that it was much use; she would get just as muddy on the way home. As though to reinforce the point, a cart rumbled by, its wheels running through a puddle and sending up an arc of muddy water that narrowly missed her.
For a moment, she wished she weren’t a lady, so she could swear at the driver.
MARY: Well that, at least, is accurate!
Why wasn’t anyone answering the bell? She rang again.
“I’m so sorry, miss.” The woman who opened the door had gray hair under an old-fashioned mobcap and had evidently been dusting. She still held the ostrich duster in one hand. “I was all the way up on the third floor. My hearing isn’t what it used to be, and the first time you rang, I thought I was just imagining it. And then you rang again . . .”
“I’m here to see Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment, but it’s important that I see him. Is he available?”
“Oh, you poor dear,” said the woman. Was she a housekeeper? No—this must be the famous Mrs. Hudson! “Mr. Holmes is upstairs, and I’m sure he’ll be able to help you, whatever trouble you’re in. He won’t mind being disturbed. Not, that is, if you’re bringing him a case, as I imagine you are. He does love his cases.”
Mary could not help smiling. Mrs. Hudson had obviously decided she was some sort of damsel in distress, anxious to see the great detective. Who probably would very much mind being disturbed, but Mary couldn’t help that.
“Thank you, Mrs. . . .”
“Hudson. Mrs. Hudson. I let rooms and do for the gentlemen upstairs. Or I would, if they ever let me. I have to warn you, miss, it’s a terrible mess up there.”
Mary followed Mrs. Hudson up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor.
At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson knocked. “There’s a lady to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she called through the door.
A shot rang out, and then another.
Mary flinched, both times, but Mrs. Hudson seemed not to notice.
She waited for a moment, then said, “It’s important, Mr. Holmes.”
Another shot, and then—
“All right, let her in.” The voice implied that whoever she was, she would be an infernal nuisance.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door. “In you go, miss,” she said to Mary. “And don’t let Mr. Holmes intimidate you. If anyone can help you with your problem, he can.”
Mrs. Hudson paused for a moment, in case Mary might reveal what that problem was. An angry father? An absconding fiancé? But Mary said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson,” and walked into the flat.
Yes, it was indeed a terrible mess.
On the mantelpiece, above the fireplace, were skulls, representing what Mary recognized as different physiognomic types, in a row from highest to lowest. The last one in the row was obviously the skull of an ape, but in an effort to be humorous, perhaps, someone had put a top hat on it. By the window stood a camera, from which an opera cape was hanging, probably for whomever was going to wear the top hat. The long table in front of the window was covered with equipment of various sorts, just as her father’s laboratory table had been: she could see a smaller portable camera, a Bunsen burner and microscope, glass jars filled with what looked like human ears swimming in liquid. Casts of hand- and fingerprints. Boxes of dirt in a variety of colors, from light red to black. Along the wall across from the fireplace were bookshelves, overflowing with books. There were books stacked on the floor, the sofa, and one of the armchairs. On the other armchair was a violin.
The man in the middle of the room was holding a pistol. He was tall, with a high forehead and the sort of nose they call aquiline. He looked, Mary thought, like an inquisitive eagle. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he was pointing the pistol at the wall.
DIANA: You’re not going to make him the hero, are you? Because that would be sickening.
BEATRICE: I think Mr. Holmes would make a very good hero.
DIANA: You would!
By the mantle, the wallpaper was pocked with bullet holes in a pattern: VR, VR, VR—Victoria Regina. For a moment, Mary wondered if she should have gone straight to Scotland Yard.
The second occupant of the room rose from behind a stack of books on the sofa. “What are you thinking, Holmes? You’ll scare the girl.” He was shorter, stockier, with a mustache. Unlike his friend, he was properly dressed, in a jacket
and tie.
“I’m not scared, Dr. Watson,” said Mary. “I’ve read your accounts of Mr. Holmes’s cases, and am aware of his peculiarities. Although shooting inside a flat seems somewhat theatrical, doesn’t it? Honestly, I thought you had made it up for dramatic effect.”
“Ha! She’s got you there, Watson!” said the man holding the pistol. “Or perhaps she’s got me. There’s nothing quite like the clear-sighted irony of a modern young lady to make one feel ridiculous. Although I swear this was a practical experiment, however it may appear. Well then, madam, tell me who you are and what sort of assistance you need this morning. Lost a pug or Pomeranian? I seem to be in the business of retrieving missing pets lately. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this, as you have so brilliantly deduced, is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
“No,” said Mary. Lost pug or Pomeranian, indeed! “I’m here to ask about a murder that happened fourteen years ago. I believe you were involved with the investigation. My name is Mary Jekyll.”
“Is it now!” said Holmes. He put the pistol on the table, next to the microscope. “Come sit down, Miss Jekyll. I remember the case, and your father, Dr. Henry Jekyll, although it was a long time ago. I was interested in chemistry, and he was described to me as the best man in his field. Not quite sound in his theories, perhaps, but the best. Do you remember the murder of Sir Danvers Carew, Watson? It was in the early days of our association, when I was just beginning to establish my practice as a consulting detective. Miss Jekyll must have been . . .”
Mary put her umbrella in the stand, beside a pair of fencing foils.
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 3
