The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter

by Theodora Goss

  I am pleased to report that my Beatrice is flourishing. After a series of initial setbacks, due I think to incorrect dosage, she is as healthy as a weed—although I admit that I had a fright, several months ago, and almost lost her. But she recovered, and I have never seen a child look more radiant. How joyfully she plays in the garden! I have decided that botany is the most appropriate area of study for her, and I believe she has a naturally scientific mind, although in the feminine mode of course. She cannot look at the plants as dispassionately as I do, but thinks of them almost as her sisters. She is sad that she cannot enjoy the insects, particularly the butterflies, but they perish from her breath.

  Our colleague Moreau was right to conjecture that the female brain would be more malleable and responsive to our experiments. I am fascinated by his research, but it seems as though he is never satisfied, and must continually try new techniques, with new experimental material. How I lament the scientific ignorance that hounded him out of your England. What he could have done with the resources and funding of a medical school! However, he is sending Montgomery to present a paper at the meeting of the Société in Vienna next month. Will you be attending as well? I look forward to hearing about your own experiments in transmutation, although I fear, dear colleague, that what you are undertaking is too dangerous. A scientist should not experiment on himself. He should be a dispassionate observer, and for an experimental subject, young, malleable flesh is best. You have a daughter, have you not? Surely she is old enough for you to begin the process, in whatever direction you decide will yield the most promising results.

  Do please let me know if you will indeed be presenting a paper in Vienna. I am getting old, but will brave the roads to see you.

  My very best regards,

  Giacomo Rappaccini

  “I don’t understand,” said Diana.

  “Well, I don’t either,” said Mary, looking once again at the envelope. “Dottor Giacomo Rappaccini, with a return address in Padua—that’s not S.A. There’s no seal on this envelope—you can see the circle where it was, and a little bit of red wax, but it must have fallen off when the envelope was opened. And all this about Darwin and transmutation and their scientific experiments . . . Although it does suggest that a theory of mine may be correct.” She sat silent for a moment, looking at the letter in front of her.

  “Well?” said Diana. She waited, then stood and walked over to the sideboard, where she piled the rest of the sandwiches onto a plate. She poured herself a cup of tea, put in four lumps of sugar, then carried the plate and saucer, with the cup balanced precariously on it, back to the sofa. She set them down on the floor and sat on the sofa with her legs crossed under her, drawn up into the nightgown. “Are you going to explain your theory or not?”

  Reluctantly, Mary told her what she had told Mrs. Poole earlier that evening: about the possibility of a chemical transformation, the possibility she did not want to admit . . . that her father was indeed Hyde. After all, wasn’t that transmutation? The transformation from a respectable gentleman to a suspected murderer . . . “Look for yourself,” she said, showing Diana the laboratory notebook, flipping to the relevant pages.

  “Well, that’s it, then,” said Diana, through a mouthful of bread and paste. “I told you, didn’t I? Sister.”

  “It’s not that simple,” said Mary. “I don’t know if that’s the experiment this letter describes. Perhaps the notebook refers to something quite different.”

  “He has gained the power to transform at will, and I cannot stop him,” said Diana, tapping the page with her finger and leaving a smear of paste. “That’s plain enough, isn’t it? He let out Hyde, and Hyde was taking over. You just don’t want to believe your father was a murderer.”

  “Of course not!” said Mary, rubbing the paste off as best she could, although a grease stain remained on the paper. “How do you feel, knowing yours is?”

  “I don’t know yet,” said Diana. “He’s a suspected murderer, as far as I know. But I always thought he was a bloody bastard. Look at the way he abandoned my mother. She died in St. Bartholomew’s, where they dumped her in a grave with the patients who had died that week, so they could prepare her bed for someone else. I’ve never had your high opinion of our father.”

  “You shouldn’t say that, even if it’s true,” said Mary. “We should not judge until we understand what happened. All this about Darwin, and Moreau—that’s another scientist, I’m guessing, like Dr. Rappaccini. And these experiments . . .”

  Diana snorted. “I don’t care who they are. Bastards, the lot of them, most likely.”

  The door opened. “Miss Mary, do you need anything else? Have you actually eaten any of those sandwiches, or has that scamp eaten them all?”

  “I don’t think I can eat right now, Mrs. Poole,” said Mary, putting a hand to her head and running it through her hair. “Do you know why my mother saved these documents?”

  “Perhaps she wanted you to have them,” said Diana. She started on her third sandwich.

  “While it pains me to agree with Miss Diana, and you are not to eat all the sandwiches, no matter what Miss Mary says, she may be right. Mr. Utterson burned your father’s papers after his death. Perhaps your mother saved these so you could read them someday.”

  “I always wondered why she—went mad.” Mary might as well say it. Because that was what had happened, hadn’t it? “This . . . her husband turning into a monster. Well, it would explain a lot of things.” Mary ran her fingers through her hair again, then tried to pin back the strands that were starting to come out of the bun at the nape of her neck.

  “That’s terrible, miss,” said Mrs. Poole.

  “This letter is from Italy, from a Dr. Rappaccini. Have you heard that name before, Mrs. Poole? I believe he corresponded with my father regularly.”

  Mrs. Poole wrinkled her forehead. “I have heard that name before. The question is, where?” She was silent for a moment. “Wait, I seem to remember . . . it’s in the kitchen! I’ll be back in a moment.” She left the door open behind her. Mary and Diana stared at each other. The kitchen? Diana shrugged.

  In a few minutes, Mrs. Poole was back with a copy of the Gazette in her hand. “Here it is!” she said triumphantly. “Goodness, it’s dark in here. Why haven’t you turned on the gas? I’ll do it, and then I’ll be able to see. . . . Yes, that’s better. ‘Beatrice Rappaccini, the Beauty who Breathes Poison. Appearing 10:00 a.m. and 12:00 noon Wednesdays and Fridays at the Royal College of Surgeons. Admission free with advertisement for all who would like to witness this scientific marvel. Otherwise, a shilling for adults and sixpence for children.’ I was going to ask for Friday off, to see her.”

  “Breathes poison!” said Diana appreciatively. “Wish I could do that!”

  “Beatrice Rappaccini,” said Mary. “Wasn’t that the name in the letter? Mrs. Poole, you’re right, I should have something to eat. Of course you can have Friday off, you can have any day off you like. But Diana and I are going to see her tomorrow, 10:00 a.m. sharp. We can get there and back by noon, when we have an appointment with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

  “He’s got a thing for you,” said Diana, grinning.

  “He most certainly does not,” said Mary, indignantly.

  “Then why did he hand you out of the cab so carefully, Miss Jekyll?”

  “Oh, you mean Dr. Watson. Well, I don’t think he does either. Give me a sandwich—you’ve taken all of them! You’re like a goose, you know that? They’ll eat and eat until they’re sick.” Mary took a sandwich off Diana’s plate and bit into it. Paste, not her favorite, but it would have to do. Suddenly, she realized that she was very hungry.

  “Mrs. Poole, can you pour me another cup of tea, and then one for yourself? I think we’re going to be awake for a while yet. I know, I know, you have to wash the dishes, and sweep the floor, and bank the oven. But for goodness’ sake, sit down for a moment and listen. I know you would never ask, but I want to tell you what happened today.”

&nbs
p; With visible reluctance, Mrs. Poole sat in one of the armchairs by the fireplace and clasped her hands on her lap, waiting. Mary recounted, as succinctly as she could, the events of that day, from the moment she had knocked at the door of 221B Baker Street to the moment Watson had deposited them once again at 11 Park Terrace.

  DIANA: And wasn’t she properly horrified that her Miss Mary had gone gallivanting around London like that! I still remember how she looked at you.

  MARY: I do too! But you didn’t say anything, Mrs. Poole.

  MRS. POOLE: Not my place, miss. You young ladies will do as you wish, whatever I think. And however foolish it may be.

  “So you see,” Mary continued, showing Mrs. Poole the letter, “my father was a scientist. He was involved in a series of experiments—and not just him, there were others as well. This Rappaccini, and a Moreau.”

  “And don’t forget Darwin,” said Diana.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Mary. “Don’t you know who Mr. Darwin is? Did they teach you nothing at St. Mary Magdalen? No, never mind, I’ll explain later. The issue is, they were involved in a series of experiments, and somehow my father learned to transform himself into Hyde. As Hyde, he murdered Sir Danvers Carew. I thought perhaps Hyde could be the murderer of Molly Keane, but that seems impossible now. If he was my father, then Hyde is dead, and there is no connection between the two murders—except this.” She pointed to the seals on the two envelopes.

  “So what do we do now?” asked Diana. “Look for S.A.?”

  “Yes, although at the moment we have no idea what S.A. means. Why was my father receiving letters in Latin from S.A.? Did it have anything to do with his scientific experiments? Tomorrow, we’ll talk to this Beatrice Rappaccini. Tonight, Diana, I want you to tell us anything else you know about Hyde.”

  Mary sat back. She and Mrs. Poole looked at Diana, expectantly.

  CHAPTER VI

  Diana’s Story

  Diana stared at Mary and Mrs. Poole. “How would I know anything about Hyde? I mean Dad. He died before I was born.”

  “But your mother told you about him,” said Mary. “She told you about his connection with my father, didn’t she? What else did she tell you? Think back—anything you remember could be important.”

  “Oh hell!” said Diana. She shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and finished her tea. Then she leaned back on the sofa and said, “She told me he was a proper gentleman, with an account at the Bank of England. And he had a house in Soho, furnished like a gentleman’s house, with paintings on the walls. And he frightened her, toward the end. He was always talking about life and death, about how the dead could be brought back to life. She thought he might be into spiritualism.”

  “How the dead could be brought back to life?” said Mary. “Do you mean ghosts, or corpses?”

  “How should I know?” Diana looked down at the plate on the floor, but it had no more sandwiches on it. “Corpses, I think. Yes, he told her that with the right chemicals, corpses could be brought back to life. If they weren’t long dead, that is. He told her someone had done it with frogs.”

  “Frogs?” said Mrs. Poole. “That’s ungodly, that is.”

  “Why would anyone want to bring a dead frog back to life?” said Diana. “I’m still hungry. Are we done yet?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Mary. “Diana, this is important. Go back to the beginning. And I really mean the beginning. Tell me everything you know.”

  DIANA: Why do I have to write this part of the story? You’re the author. Write it yourself, like you’re writing everything else, and then say I wrote it. Isn’t that what authors do?

  CATHERINE: Because this is what we agreed on. You would each write your individual stories, and I would make them sound right. I would fit them into the whole, so they made sense.

  DIANA: Well, why do I have to go first? Let Mary go first.

  CATHERINE: Because the whole story is Mary’s story. She doesn’t need to write a separate section. But you do, so sit down at that desk and write. And don’t get up every five minutes to argue with me. The sooner you start, the sooner you’ll finish.

  DIANA: Don’t expect me to do all the he said she said, and those fancy descriptions.

  CATHERINE: Write it however you want to. But start writing!

  “My mother was the long-lost queen of Bohemia. When she was a baby, she was stolen out of her cradle by a priest in league with her wicked uncle, who was attempting to usurp the throne. He had become regent after his brother’s untimely and suspicious death. He thought that with the rightful although infantine ruler out of the way, he could crown himself king. The priest spirited her out of the castle by night, and then his confederates, who were also priests because we know that all priests are liars, carried her over the border into whatever country borders Bohemia. Where is Bohemia, anyway? They traveled by carriage and ship, eventually arriving in England, where they sold her to a poor family. . . .”

  CATHERINE: Diana, if you don’t start over again and tell the truth, I’m going to bite you.

  DIANA: I’d like to see you try!

  MARY: Do you really want to tempt her? This is Catherine we’re talking about.

  CATHERINE: And write the way you speak. That sounds like one of your horrible penny dreadfuls.

  DIANA: Oh, all right. Though they’re no worse than the books you write. Ouch! All right, you didn’t need to do that.

  “My mum never told me much about herself, although she always said she was a Londoner through and through, born with the sound of the ships going up and down the Thames in her ears. That was her lullaby, she said. She would have been a kitchen maid, most likely, if she hadn’t fallen in with a soldier when she was fifteen. It was a mistake, the greatest mistake of her life, she told me. ‘But I’ve never regretted it, sweetheart,’ she would say. ‘No, I’ve never regretted my Bonny Joe.’ That’s what they called him in the regiment. He was a Scotsman, from Glasgow, and as handsome, she said, as the day was long.

  “Well, there she was, fifteen and with child, and her father cast her out of the house, telling her to go sleep under the bridges with the other whores, where she belonged. And go sleep under the bridges she did, until she lost the child, from hunger and illness. It was a boy, and I always wondered, when I was sent to sit on a stool or had my hands rapped at St. Mary Magdalen, what my life would have been like if I’d had an older brother. But she was young and pretty, with a saucy tongue and long red hair from her Irish mother, so one of the houses by the docks took her in and paid her regular. And that was where she met my father, Edward Hyde.”

  DIANA: Now don’t you tell me I sound like a penny dreadful, because it’s the literal truth!

  “Tell us everything you remember,” said Mary, leaning forward.

  “It’s a sordid enough tale,” said Mrs. Poole, but she too leaned forward eagerly to hear it.

  MRS. POOLE: I did no such thing.

  DIANA: If she interrupts me, I don’t care who bites me. I’m stopping right here.

  MARY: Mrs. Poole, could you please—

  MRS. POOLE: Oh, I’ll go. I have no desire to read anything Diana writes about me. You are incorrigible, my girl.

  DIANA: Of course I am. And the sooner you realize it, the better!

  “It was run by a Mrs. Barstowe, and it was described in the Gentleman’s Guide to London as a superior place, catering principally to doctors, lawyers, and politicians. Barstowe’s had a reputation—it wouldn’t service men in trade, no matter how much money they had to spend. The girls were clean and could talk about the latest news—Mrs. Barstowe made them read The Times, The Financial Times, and Punch.

  “My father took a particular fancy to Mum—at first he tried a few of the other girls, but then he started asking for her regular. Maybe it was because he liked it rough and she didn’t mind—she said he never hurt her. And he was ugly as sin, but she didn’t mind that either. No man had meant anything to her since Bonny Joe left with his regiment. She had told J
oe about the child, and he had told her that he had a wife and three children already, back in Glasgow, with another on the way. ‘I can’t do anything for you, my love,’ he told her, ‘but give you my blessing.’ And still she loved him and only spoke well of him to her dying day. Love is a fool’s game, I think.

  “One day, Hyde said to her that he wanted a child, and if she had a child for him, he would take it and support it. Well, she didn’t want that, although he offered her a lot of money. She had her living to get, and she was done with trusting men’s promises.”

  CATHERINE: She told you all this when you were just a child?

  DIANA: She told me when she got sick, before they sent her to the hospital. I think she knew she wasn’t coming back. “Sweetheart,” she said, “I ain’t been the best mum to you, but this is a hard world, and I want you to know what people are like—men especially. They will lie to you as easy as blowing dandelion clocks, and that’s the best of them.” She told me so I would know, and she was right.

  BEATRICE: She told you because she loved you. I wish I could remember my mother, but she died when I was so young.

  CATHERINE: Could we not dwell on the subject of mothers, please?

  “Well, she found herself pregnant, and she thought he might have tampered with the protection she used. All the girls at Barstowe’s used protection, against the clap. Though he was an ugly gentleman, he was a clever one, she used to tell me. He was a scientist, and would talk about the strangest things, like those experiments with frogs. Raising things from the dead and turning things into gold, like that. She used to laugh at some of his ideas. Well, when he found out she was pregnant, he said he would support her and the child, and he put her in that house in Soho. He told her he hoped it would be a girl. She was surprised, because gentlemen usually want a boy, but no, he was particular and said if it was a girl, he would be most pleased.