“Although Lestrade has expressed himself so rudely, I’m afraid he’s right,” said Holmes. “There has been a confession. A madman by the name of Renfield claims he committed the murders. We’re on our way to Purfleet Asylum to interview him.”
“A confession!” said Mary. “Then perhaps what we’ve found doesn’t matter after all.”
“And what have you found?” asked Holmes.
“S.A.,” said Diana. “It’s some kind of society.”
“We believe it may refer to a Société des Alchimistes,” said Mary. “Have you heard of it, Mr. Holmes? My father belonged to it, and so did two scientists named Rappaccini and Moreau. I believe they corresponded regularly about the activities of the society. We found a letter from Dr. Rappaccini to my father in which he mentions experimenting on girls.”
“Moreau—I’ve heard that name before,” said Watson.
“Intriguing,” said Holmes. “This may have nothing to do with the murders, Miss Jekyll, but I would like you to tell me as much as you know about this society.”
“Holmes!” said Lestrade. “There’s no time if we’re going to make it to Purfleet and back before the end of the day.”
“Well then, Miss Jekyll will simply have to come with us. You won’t mind a rather long trip, will you? We need to take a train from Fenchurch Street. You can tell me what you discovered on the train. Watson, will you hand me my coat?”
“Absolutely not!” said Lestrade. “Holmes, this is too much, even for you. Much as I dislike Miss Jekyll’s interference, and Miss Hyde in general, I will not take them into a madhouse.”
“Then they can wait outside,” said Holmes. “Miss Jekyll, are you coming?”
“Yes, of course,” said Mary. “I’ve never been to an insane asylum.” Yet another thing she had never done before. But this was different from going to Whitechapel or inside a society to save fallen women. This would be the sort of place her mother might have been sent, or ended up, if she had not died. Once again Mary remembered her mother in those last days. Did she truly want to go to such a place? On the other hand, she did not want the mystery to be solved without her. And now there was this new mystery, of the Société des Alchimistes.
“I’m not afraid of madmen,” said Diana. “I used to see them all the time, wandering around Whitechapel. They would sleep on the stoops or in the park. Sometimes they were the only ones who made sense.”
“I apologize, Miss Jekyll, that you haven’t at least had time to dry off,” said Watson. “You see how things are around here—I’m afraid this is standard procedure for Holmes. Are you certain you’re willing to undertake this journey?”
“Yes, it’s quite all right,” said Mary. “I would like to tell you both what we’ve found. And we need your help—but I’ll tell you more about it on the train.”
“Very well then. Mrs. Hudson has prepared some sandwiches, and I have tea in a vacuum flask. We are technologically up to date, you see! Well then, let’s accompany Inspector Lestrade to the station.”
Without having sat down, Mary and Diana were once again out the door. On Baker Street, they crowded into the police carriage. She was relieved that Lestrade was sitting across from her, next to Holmes rather than her and Diana, although she had to see his cross face all the way to the train station. At least the sergeant who had been waiting for him in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen sat outside, next to the driver. The main thoroughfares were so crowded at that hour that they did not speak about the case—they could barely have heard themselves above the continual din of London and the clacking of wheels on Oxford Street.
They were just in time to catch the train to Purfleet, and Mary was relieved to see Watson purchasing tickets for her and Diana. Well, they were helping with the case, after all. There was no reason for her to feel ashamed that she could not afford the expense herself. She had been dreading the long train ride with Lestrade, but he wanted to smoke on the journey. She breathed a sigh of relief when he decided to share a second-class compartment with his sergeant. She and Diana would travel first class with Holmes and Watson.
Once they were sitting in a first-class compartment, Watson unwrapped a packet of sandwiches in waxed paper. “Cheese and Mrs. Hudson’s special chutney,” he said. “I believe she brought the recipe back with her from India. Did you know her husband was in the army? He died in the Indian Mutiny.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Mary. How strange that Mrs. Hudson, that perfectly ordinary Englishwoman, should once have lived in India! Had she seen cobras and tigers? And fakirs? Mary could not quite remember what fakirs were, but surely Miss Murray had mentioned them during a geography lesson. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson seemed a much more romantic figure.
“Here, have some tea. It will warm you up.” Watson poured tea from the flask into collapsible cups.
“And while you’re drinking it,” said Holmes, “you can tell me what you’ve been doing since we all stood over the corpse of Molly Keane together. I believe the two of you have been on adventures of your own, have you not, Miss Jekyll? I’m looking forward to hearing about them. And in return, I will take you to see a homicidal maniac.”
CHAPTER VIII
The Man Who Ate Flies
While the train traveled through the countryside, Mary recounted the adventures of that morning. She described the letters in Latin with their red seals. She hated admitting to Mr. Holmes that she could not read them. And yet why? Most women could not read Latin. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Her account would have taken less time if Diana had not kept interrupting. “Yes, but that’s not relevant,” Mary would reply to her descriptions of Charles Byrne and the two-headed baby in the specimen jar.
Holmes listened in silence, staring out the window. Mary could only tell that he was paying attention by his stillness. When she told the story of Beatrice, Watson exclaimed, “The poor girl!”
“So you see,” she concluded, “we need to rescue Beatrice Rappaccini, not only for her own sake, but also so she can tell us about this mysterious society.”
Holmes turned to look at her, with a serious expression on his face. “Are you prepared to take responsibility for her, Miss Jekyll? Remember that she is dangerous, even deadly. Will you take her into your own home?”
“I—don’t know,” said Mary. “I haven’t thought that far. But surely she needs to be rescued. Our duty that far is clear, is it not?”
“Of course it is!” said Watson. “Holmes is right—we must make certain she poses no risk to the general public. But of course she must be rescued.”
“So you are both determined,” said Holmes. “Well, don’t let Lestrade know you’re about to let a poisonous woman loose in the city of London. He won’t take it well, I assure you.”
“She won’t be loose, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “I’ll take care of her somehow, I promise.”
“Just as long as you don’t put her in my room,” said Diana. “I don’t want to die in my sleep.”
Mary ignored her and continued. “Here’s how I see the mystery we are trying to solve. The death of Molly Keane, and perhaps the other girls, can be connected to this Société des Alchimistes. The watch fob in her hand, the seal on the letters, and Miss Rappaccini’s words create a logical trail from the body in Whitechapel to the society. We know the society was conducting experiments on women—young women. We know that at least three scientists were involved: my father, Dr. Rappaccini, and a colleague of theirs named Moreau.”
“I just remembered where I’ve heard that name!” said Watson. “It was in my medical school days. He was a professor—had to leave his post because the anti-vivisection league made a fuss about some experiments of his. I don’t remember what they were exactly. I always thought anti-vivisection was a lot of nonsense. I’m as fond of animals as the next man, Miss Jekyll, but human knowledge must progress. We cannot stop scientific research.”
“I wonder if you would have approved of Dr. Moreau’s research, Watson,” said Holmes. “I remembered the case as soon as Miss
Jekyll mentioned his name. That was why I suggested she accompany us on this journey. Moreau was grafting together parts of animals, hybridizing in order to create new species. The experiment over which he lost his post involved surgically altering the brains of pigs so they would become capable of human speech.”
“Human speech!” said Watson. “That is indeed shocking. I had no idea.”
“All his papers were burned after his departure,” said Holmes. “The medical school wanted to keep the incident as quiet as possible. I learned about it only because around the same time, the dean called me in on another matter, of drugs missing from the school’s pharmacy. The thief, I determined, was a man named Montgomery, a medical student who had gotten into the habit of betting on dog fights and was selling those drugs to pay his gambling debts. He left the school before we could confront him, but his guilt was clear.”
“Montgomery!” said Mary. “He was in the letter too. He was going to present a paper for Dr. Moreau at a meeting of the society in Vienna.”
“Ah, Miss Jekyll, I wish you had told me that at once,” said Holmes. “Or brought the letter with you so I could read it for myself.”
Mary flushed. Of course she should have brought the letter. But she had not wanted to expose her father’s correspondence to the eyes of strangers. Even to the eyes of Mr. Holmes. She still felt an obscure desire to protect him. The portfolio was in the drawer of her mother’s desk, in the morning room. Somehow, she had wanted it to remain in that darkness.
“How could Mary have brought it?” said Diana. “She didn’t know this morning that you would be interested, and anyway, it’s been raining all day. Only an idiot would bring an important letter out in the rain.”
Mr. Holmes smiled. “You are correct, Miss Hyde, and I stand rebuked. I apologize, Miss Jekyll. Perhaps we can examine this letter at a later date?”
“Of course,” said Mary. She did not know whether to be angry at Diana for her rudeness or grateful for her support.
DIANA: I only said it because he was being an idiot.
MARY: You said it because you wanted to protect me. Because despite your insufferable behavior, you love your sister. That’s why.
DIANA: If you kiss me again, I’m going to hit you.
“As I was saying,” she continued, “this society was conducting experiments in transmutation . . .”
“And what may that be?” asked Watson.
“Transmutation was the goal of the medieval alchemists,” said Holmes. “They were attempting to turn base metals into gold. It sounds as though these modern alchemists are attempting something more complicated: Moreau’s experiments point toward a biological transmutation. He was attempting to create new species, to alter the fundamental material of life itself. But Miss Jekyll, remember that the only connection between the murders and this society remains the initials on a fob torn from a watch chain—initials that could have another meaning altogether. And we have a confession on our hands. Watson, I believe you made a copy of the telegram Lestrade received last night?” He added, with a shade of sarcasm, “Watson always takes notes, in case he wishes to write up one of our adventures later.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Watson. He drew a small notebook out of his breast pocket, opened it, and read, “RE WHITECHAPEL MURDERS RENFIELD A LUNATIC MISSING TWO WEEKS RETURNED LAST NIGHT AND CONFESSED TO MURDERS HOLDING AT PURFLEET ASYLUM PLEASE SEND POLICE INSPECTOR AS SOON AS POSSIBLE GABRIEL BALFOUR M.D. That does seem fairly definitive, Miss Jekyll.”
“How do you know?” asked Diana. “You haven’t even talked to him yet. How do you know he’s not making the whole thing up? He’s a lunatic.”
“That’s why we’re going to interview him,” said Holmes. “I believe we’re approaching Purfleet.”
And they were. The train drew into the station. Mary gathered up her belongings, as well as Diana’s. The girl was fourteen—couldn’t she keep track of her hat, at least? But Mary had to remind her to put it back on her head. She remembered all the times she had longed for a sister, someone to play with and later, someone to help with the household. And now she had one. A completely annoying one! Still, she could not help saying, “Here, hold still,” and straightening Diana’s hat, which was of course askew, before they left the compartment.
DIANA: I don’t see the point of hats.
MARY: They’re a social convention. One wears them because one is expected to, whether one needs them or not.
DIANA: How does that contradict what I just said?
JUSTINE: For once, I agree with Diana. I don’t see the point of following social conventions. Why wear a hat unless it is cold outside? An umbrella keeps the rain off your head, a parasol keeps the sun out of your eyes. Why follow social conventions if they’re silly?
CATHERINE: Because we’re unusual enough without drawing additional attention to ourselves.
Mary was so used to the crowds and smog of London that she looked in wonder at Purfleet, with its orderly shops and detached houses surrounded by small gardens. It was not the country exactly, but as they walked from the train station into the center of town, they passed the Thames, flowing between banks covered with grass and furze, so different from the embankment in London. On the other side of the road grew oaks and beeches, beyond which she could see a wilderness of marshland. The closest she had come to wilderness for many years was Kensington Gardens. She was delighted to have left the city behind, if only for a little while.
When was the last time she had left London? Yes, the visit to her grandfather when she was a child. Her father had still been alive, and they had traveled by train for most of a day. She remembered watching the city disappear, and then green fields and hills proceed past the train window. In Yorkshire, there had been a large country house and an even larger garden, with quince trees. Each morning, the housekeeper had put glass jars of golden quince jam on the breakfast table. Mary had ridden a pony in the paddock, and her mother had shown her how to make a necklace of oxeye daisies. She had made one for her mother, but it was too small, and her mother had laughed, then worn it on her head as a crown. Was that the last time she remembered her mother happy? For there had been a quarrel—between her father and grandfather, she remembered, about evolution. Her grandfather had denounced it as blasphemy, and her father had called him—something dreadful, and they had left early.
“It’s lovely here,” she said.
“Give me London any day,” said Diana. “I don’t know how anyone can live in this racket. What is it, anyway?”
“Birdsong,” said Watson. “You would become accustomed to it in time, Miss Hyde.”
Diana snorted. They were walking together, some steps behind Holmes, Lestrade, and Sergeant Evans, who were discussing how best to approach the coming interview.
The asylum was beyond the town and past an old chalk quarry. Mary was tired when they arrived. It had already been a long day. Perhaps she should not have come? And this might be a false lead after all. The lunatic might be making it all up. She glanced at Diana, who complained often enough, but never seemed to tire. Well, there was no turning back now. Although what Mrs. Poole would think of all this, she did not know.
MRS. POOLE: I was worried sick because I had no idea where you were or when you were coming back. As far as I knew, you’d been poisoned by that Poisonous Girl in the advertisement. Imagine leaving the city without telling me!
MARY: I’m sorry, Mrs. Poole. Truly, I am. I can apologize again if you would like.
MRS. POOLE: That won’t be necessary, miss. Just don’t do it again. Unless you absolutely have to, I mean. I know how you girls get when you’re in the middle of an adventure.
“Holmes,” said Lestrade when they were standing at the front gates of the asylum, “I don’t want those girls anywhere near a dangerous lunatic. Do you understand? He’s already killed four that we know of. I don’t want an injury—or even a death—on my hands.”
“He’s confessed to killing four, which is an altogether different thi
ng,” said Holmes. “I understand your concerns, Lestrade, but I would like Miss Jekyll to be present at the interview. If this man had any connection with her father, she may remember him from her childhood.”
“So you’re still stuck on that, are you?” said Lestrade. “I won’t take responsibility for her, and if she comes, Watson stays out. This is a police investigation, damn it! Not a tea party. Anyway, he’ll need to watch that hellcat—Evans is not a nursemaid.”
The asylum grounds were surrounded by a brick wall topped with metal spikes. It was almost twice Mary’s height, and the front gates were spiked at the top as well. Mary wondered how the lunatic had gotten out. The place seemed impregnable.
They rang a bell, and an attendant in a white coat came running across the lawn. “Hello!” he called. “Is that Scotland Yard? We’ve been expecting you.” When he reached the gates, he looked at them curiously. Evidently, he had not expected Scotland Yard to bring two young women. However, Lestrade confirmed their identity.
The attendant opened one of the gates and ushered them in. He was a large, clumsily built man with a ruddy face and blond hair that looked as though he’d been running his hands through it. “Dr. Balfour will be glad to see you, Inspector. I’m Joe Abernathy, one of the day attendants. I was the one as found Renfield, wandering about the grounds.” He led them up a flagstone path across the lawn, toward the asylum. It was a building in the modern style, also of brick, and looked as though it might have been an ordinary if rather large house—but the windows on the third story were barred.
“I’m surprised your patient was able to escape,” said Holmes. “Those walls are high, and I imagine the spikes on top are sharp.”
“Oh, we’re not as secure here as we oughter be,” said Joe. “The wall is high enough between the road and the asylum, but on the other side is Carfax House, which has been empty these many years. It’s surrounded by woods—Carfax Woods, they’re called—and they stretch back a ways, wild and overgrown. The wall on that side belongs to Carfax, not the asylum, and it’s their responsibility to maintain it—but being as nobody’s there, it’s tumbled down in places. This isn’t the first time the old devil has gotten out, either.”
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