The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter

by Theodora Goss

  “Here, Miss Jekyll,” said Watson, moving the stack of books from the armchair nearest the door. She sat down, noting the cigarette burns on the arms, and put the portfolio on her lap.

  “It was almost fourteen years ago,” she said. “I was seven years old.”

  “Yes, I remember a daughter. And a mother.”

  “My mother died recently,” said Mary.

  “My condolences,” said Watson, bowing to Mary. “But no, I don’t remember the case, Holmes.”

  “Thank you.” Her mother’s death was the last thing Mary wanted to discuss at the moment. She turned to Holmes and said, “At the time, there was a reward . . .”

  “I was not involved with the case directly, but you would have read about it in the newspapers. The murder was marked by its particularly vicious nature and the high position of the victim. Sir Danvers Carew was a member of Parliament, a personal friend of Gladstone, and a prominent supporter of Irish Home Rule. The facts, in brief, were as follows.” He swept aside a stack of books on the sofa, sat with his elbows on his knees, and tented his fingers together, then stared at the wall just over Mary’s head as though actually seeing the events he was describing.

  “Sir Danvers was found brutally beaten to death on a street in Soho. His head had been bashed in with a cane—the cane was actually found broken beside him. His purse and watch were still on him, but he had no other identifying papers, except a letter in his pocket addressed to a solicitor named Utterson. This Utterson was summoned and identified the body. The police already knew who had committed the murder: a housemaid who was looking out onto the lamplit street, waiting for her admirer, had noticed a man she recognized as Mr. Hyde. He lived in the neighborhood, with a woman who was said not to be his wife. She observed him walking along the street, stopping once under a street lamp to check his watch, which is how she could identify him so clearly—until, at the street corner, he met Sir Danvers Carew. A conversation, and then an altercation, ensued. Hyde struck the man over the head, then continued to beat him until the body lay still on the pavement. Utterson told the officer that Hyde was employed by one of his clients, a Dr. Jekyll, who lived near Regent’s Park. Not far from Baker Street, and I observe that Miss Jekyll walked here, although not through the park, I think. The mud of Regent’s Park is quite distinctive, since it contains matter from the flower beds. No, that is ordinary Marylebone street mud, splashed from the gutters.”

  Mary looked down at her boots. Well, next time she would gather more distinctive mud for Mr. Holmes! Seriously, did they need to go into all the particulars of the Carew murder? She was starting to lose her patience.

  “But I take it there was a difficulty,” said Watson. “Or you would not be describing the case in such detail.”

  “You know me well,” said Holmes. “Utterson led the officer to Hyde’s Soho residence, around the corner—but the man was gone. Although the police combed London, and indeed all of England for him, he could not be found. It was as though he had disappeared into thin air. I was sufficiently intrigued that I decided to look into the case for myself. Whatever else can be said about them, our English police are nothing if not thorough. It is difficult to escape them so entirely. I had no official relationship with the police at that point. But my brother Mycroft knew Jekyll, so I asked for an introduction. He was willing enough to discuss the matter with me. He told me that Hyde had been a sort of assistant to him, helping with his scientific experiments. However, he claimed that he had not seen Hyde since the murder. Shortly afterward, Jekyll committed suicide.”

  Yes, that was what Mary had remembered last night: a tall man in her father’s study, walking back and forth on legs like scissors, and old Poole telling her not to interrupt because her father was talking to an important gentleman, a detective. She had deduced that it must be the famous Mr. Holmes, whose cases were featured so often in The Strand.

  “Holmes!” said Watson. “Consider Miss Jekyll’s feelings!”

  “I’m perfectly fine, thank you,” said Mary. “But I would like to know if there is still a reward? You see, I may have some information. . . .”

  “I’ve always wondered about that case,” said Holmes. “Hyde was never found, and eventually Scotland Yard stopped looking. I did not pursue the matter further or inquire into the cause of Dr. Jekyll’s suicide. As I mentioned, it was early in my professional career, and I had other cases to attend to.”

  “Mr. Holmes!” said Mary. “Is there or is there not a reward for information leading to the apprehension of Mr. Hyde? One was advertised at the time of the murder, but I do not know if, after all this time . . .”

  “Yes, there was a reward,” said Holmes. “A hundred pounds for information leading directly to the apprehension of the murderer, offered by the family of Sir Danvers Carew. Whether the family would still be willing to offer that sum? I don’t know, but we can certainly enquire. It would be best to ask Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. I’m meeting him in an hour to discuss these murders in Whitechapel. These ’orrible murders, as the newsboys keep shouting. Watson, I’m afraid the mystery of Lord Avebury’s menagerie will have to wait. We have two mysteries on our hands, both more intriguing than a collection of missing animals. If Lestrade does not know, he can tell us whom in the family to contact. But about what? If you’ll forgive my saying so, Miss Jekyll, you don’t appear to be the sort of person who consorts with criminals or knows their whereabouts.”

  “And yet, I may know where to find Hyde,” said Mary.

  “Indeed?” he said, smiling. It was evident that he did not believe her. “Well then, Miss Jekyll. What can you tell me?”

  Mary spoke in her most businesslike tone.

  DIANA: Most businesslike? She always sounds as though she’s directing a meeting. I think what you mean is her bossiest tone.

  JUSTINE: Diana, you know what Mary tells you is for your own good. Someone needs to keep you from committing mischief. Like cutting up all our underclothes because Mary said you couldn’t come to Vienna this time.

  MARY: Not that telling her what to do ever works. And Mrs. Poole is trying to sew the pieces back together, but the last time I saw her, she was shaking her head. . . .

  DIANA: Works! I should think not. The day I listen to Mary is the day I eat my own boots.

  MARY: At least that would keep you quiet for a while.

  Mary spoke in her usual businesslike tone. “After my mother’s death, my solicitor”—not that Mr. Guest was her solicitor any longer, but it sounded more official—“informed me that she had been making regular payments to a Society of St. Mary Magdalen. One pound a week for the care and keeping of Hyde. Look.” She pulled out the account book and put it, open to the correct page, on top of the books that were already stacked on the table. Both men leaned forward. “I suspect he was blackmailing her with information learned during his association with my father. This morning, I searched in the directory—the Society of St. Mary Magdalen is a charitable organization in Whitechapel. I believe we shall find Hyde there.”

  “Now that is very interesting,” said Holmes. “And worthy of investigating further. Unfortunately, I may be tied up all day with Lestrade. These murders are spectacular—Fleet Street can’t seem to get enough of them, and each one appears on the front page, with the body part particularly emphasized. The victim without arms, the victim without a head . . . But I’m sure the solution will be a simple one, in the end. Spectacular cases are usually simpler, and less interesting, than they initially appear.”

  “A madman, certainly,” said Watson. “Who else would murder young women and take away parts of their bodies? The murderer is clearly mad.”

  “Yet even a madman has method in his madness,” said Holmes. “Watson, I would like you to accompany Miss Jekyll to this society. Try to determine whether Hyde is there—unobtrusively, of course. You can meet me afterward and tell me what you’ve found.”

  “The two of us?” said Watson. “Surely you wouldn’t send Miss Jekyll into Whitechap
el looking for a dangerous criminal! That is too imprudent even for you, Holmes. And consider the name of this society. It would be improper . . .”

  “I’m quite prepared to go,” said Mary. “And I’m fully aware of what the society’s name implies. I have read my Bible, and am familiar with the Magdalen. I could hardly live in London without realizing there are prostitutes on the city streets, or societies for their salvation. Really, Dr. Watson, I do read the newspapers.” Although she had lived in London all her life, she had never been to the East End, and Mrs. Poole had warned her what a den of iniquity lay there, in Whitechapel and Spitalfields. She was curious to see whether it was as iniquitous as she had been told.

  MRS. POOLE: It was most improper of him to send you there, miss!

  CATHERINE: I have not yet gotten to the part where he actually sends her, Mrs. Poole. Please don’t anticipate the action for our readers.

  MARY: If we are to have any readers. Do you think anyone will actually be interested in us, how we met, and our lives together?

  BEATRICE: There is always interest in monsters. I think Catherine knows that well.

  CATHERINE: Yes, I do.

  “That is why I’m sending you to protect her,” said Holmes. “You have never seen Hyde, and she has—he was her father’s laboratory assistant. Miss Jekyll, do you think you would recognize him, after all this time? You were only a child, remember.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” said Mary. “One doesn’t forget a man like Mr. Hyde.”

  “Well then,” said Holmes. “The investigation is afoot. Miss Jekyll, you are responsible for determining whether Hyde is still alive. If he is, we shall attempt to apprehend him and secure your reward. Watson, you are responsible for insuring that Miss Jekyll returns safely. You are to do nothing—nothing, I tell you—but determine whether Hyde lives. After you have visited this society, we shall discuss what to do next.”

  “Very well, Holmes,” said Watson. “I would prefer to keep Miss Jekyll out of this, but of course if Hyde is alive, he must be apprehended. We can’t allow a dangerous criminal to conceal himself in London.”

  “Can we go now?” said Mary, looking at her watch. “It’s almost noon, and I’m sure it will take us a while to get there.” She had no idea how long it would take, or how they were supposed to get there—surely they were not going to walk? But she was tired of this endless discussion, particularly as to the propriety of her going. At least Mr. Holmes was being practical about it.

  MRS. POOLE: And most improper!

  CATHERINE: Yes, yes. You’ve made that point. Thank you, Mrs. Poole.

  “Shall we meet you back here, Holmes?” asked Watson. As he put on his coat, Mary noticed that he slipped a pistol into the pocket.

  “No, ask for me at Scotland Yard. If I’m not there, I’ll be with Inspector Lestrade.”

  So Mary’s day would include a trip to Whitechapel and Scotland Yard! This was certainly more interesting than sitting at home and worrying about money. She put the account book back into the portfolio and stood up. “We’ll report back to you this afternoon, Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson, are you ready?”

  “I’ll find us a cab on Baker Street. If you’ll follow me, Miss Jekyll?”

  Mary took her umbrella from the stand, turned back, and nodded to Holmes, who was smiling—she had no idea why—then followed Watson out the door. As they walked down the stairs, she suddenly wondered how much a cab to Whitechapel would cost, and how she would pay for it. She had exactly two shillings in her purse. Before coming to see Mr. Holmes, she should have gone to her mother’s bank, but of course she had not known she would be taking a cab this morning, and she had been eager to solve the mystery of Hyde. Anyway, she was still not sure how to get to Clerkenwell. Perhaps this afternoon, after their investigation, she could close her mother’s account and transfer the funds. Then, at least, such impromptu trips would not cause her so much concern.

  “Mr. Watson, about the fare—,” she began.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that, Miss Jekyll,” he said, opening the front door. “You’re assisting us in an investigation. All expenses will of course be borne by Mr. Holmes.”

  They emerged onto Baker Street to the rumble of cabs, and costermongers shouting “nice fresh ’addock!” or “apples ’alfpenny a pound!” To her left she could see the trees and lawns of Regent’s Park; to her right was the noise and bustle of the city.

  She thought of what she had read in her father’s laboratory notebook and the letters, what she had not told Mr. Holmes. There was no need for him to know, at least not yet. But there was no time to think about that now. Watson had waved down a cab and was motioning for her to climb up. She lifted her skirt and settled onto the leather seat, wondering what would be waiting for them in Whitechapel.

  CHAPTER III

  The Magdalen Society

  As the hackney cab drove east, the main thoroughfares grew more crowded, the cross streets narrower, darkened by lines of laundry hanging from balconies and windows. Mary was used to the leafy stateliness of Marylebone Road. Whitechapel High Street was completely different, a tangle of carts and omnibuses, with no trees to relieve the drabness of the buildings. The cabbie refused to take them into the twisting alleys of Whitechapel, so they got out and walked the rest of the way.

  Asking directions as they went along, of men smoking in doorways and women selling needles and other oddments from dingy storefronts, they walked until Mary had lost all sense of where they were. Finally, they came to a dismal square, with a park in the middle: a few trees shading a graveled area on which children attempted to roll a hoop. The park was surrounded on three sides by tenements with broken windows and shutters hanging awry. On the remaining side was a gray stone church that proclaimed itself St. Mary Magdalen on a board in faded lettering. Next to the church was a high stone wall, above which they could see the upper stories of a stone house covered with ivy. Over a gated archway in the wall were carved the words SOCIETY OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN.

  “How in the world could he be hiding here?” said Mary.

  She and Watson looked at a sign on the gate, on which was written: A MISSION TO RESCUE OUR FALLEN SISTERS IN CHRIST. VISITORS PERMITTED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 2 AND 4, EXCEPT ON THE SABBATH. NO GENTLEMAN VISITORS AT ANY TIME.

  “It is what we expected, a society for fallen women. You can’t go into such a place, Miss Jekyll,” said Watson. Mrs. Poole, I’m not going to let you comment here. We all know what you think.

  “Why, because it wouldn’t be proper? I don’t think we have much of a choice,” said Mary. “I doubt they’ll let you in.” She walked up to the gate and rang the bell.

  In a few minutes, a woman appeared at the gate. She was dressed in gray wool, as plain as the habit of a nun, and her hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head as though she were afraid a strand might escape. She said, in a high and somewhat artificial voice, “I heard the bell as I was passing. These are not our regular visiting hours, as I believe the sign indicates. I’m Sister Margaret. Were you looking for anyone in particular?”

  “My name is Mary Jekyll,” said Mary, “and this is—”

  “Jekyll!” said Sister Margaret, her voice rising even higher, into a sort of screech. “You’d better come in at once. Mrs. Raymond will want to talk to you immediately.”

  She opened the gate, which shrieked as though it badly needed oiling, and motioned Mary, with rapid gestures, to come inside.

  “Who is Mrs. Raymond?” said Mary, hesitant to venture inside that stone wall. Why would anyone in this place want to talk to her? Was she being mistaken for someone else?

  “Mrs. Raymond is the director,” said Sister Margaret, as though the information were obvious. But that did not answer Mary’s question. Why would the director of such an institution want to talk to her? How could she know who Mary was? But no, she suddenly realized. This was not about her personally: it was the name Jekyll that had caused Sister Margaret such consternation.

  “Miss Jekyll, if I may i
ntervene . . . ,” said Watson.

  “Not you,” said Sister Margaret contemptuously, as though talking to a dog that had rolled in the mud. “No gentleman visitors. We don’t even make an exception for relatives.”

  “All right,” said Mary. “I’ll come talk to this . . . Mrs. Raymond.”

  Watson took her by the elbow. “Miss Jekyll, I don’t like this,” he said, so low that only Mary could hear him.

  “But I have to go,” said Mary, turning to him and speaking in the same low tones. “The director of this place obviously knows something about Mr. Hyde. I have to find out what. We know the money was coming here, and look at how Sister Whatever responded to my name. Can you hold these for me?” She handed him the portfolio and her umbrella. She did not like to relinquish the portfolio, but felt safer giving it to Watson than taking it into such a place, where Hyde might lurk.

  “All right,” said Watson. “But there’s something I want you to have.”

  As he took her umbrella, he slipped something into her hand. She looked down: it was the pistol he had put into his pocket—a revolver. “Do you know how to use one of these?”

  “Yes,” she said. And she did—Joseph, who had been a gamekeeper’s son in Lincolnshire, had taught her. She even had a revolver at home, in a desk drawer. It had been her father’s, and she had insisted that Joseph teach her how to use it, despite his protests that as a lady, she would always have someone to defend her. Even then, she had not been so sure that would be the case. Now she was grateful that she had insisted on those lessons.

  “If you’re not back in an hour, I’ll come after you. I don’t know the meaning of this, but Hyde was—perhaps is—a dangerous criminal. If he is on the premises, I want you to have some sort of protection.”

  Mary nodded. “I understand.” She did not want him to see that she was—apprehensive? Yes, that was the word.

  DIANA: Because you can’t frighten our Mary.

  MARY: Don’t be ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of being frightened. You frighten me all the time. Remember what happened in Vienna, when you almost burned down the mental hospital? And almost got yourself killed by doing the exact opposite of what Justine and I told you to do?