“Yes, it was first performed by a student named Victor Frankenstein, who was inducted into the society by his chemistry professor. Frankenstein sought to create a man out of corpses and bring that man to life. He succeeded in his experiment. But that was a hundred years ago. I do not understand why anyone would want to reproduce his experiment now.”
“Frankenstein!” said Watson. “I remember that name. Was there not an account—written by the wife of the poet Shelley, I believe? Frankenstein: A Biography of the Modern Prometheus, or some such. I remember reading it in my university days. But Miss Rappaccini, that was a popular novel, not a scientific treatise. It gave me a proper fright, but as a medical student, I considered it the worst kind of bunk.”
“No,” said Beatrice. “It is no more bunk than I am. The public may have considered it fiction, but the members of the Société knew that Frankenstein had existed, and he had created a monster. At least, so my father told me.”
“And if I remember correctly, that monster destroyed him,” said Watson. “I had nightmares afterward for a week. I kept thinking the corpse from my anatomy class would rise up off the dissecting table and come after me!”
“Ah, I see I shall have to do some reading,” said Holmes. “Popular thrillers have never been in my line. But it seems as though we are back at this mysterious society. You were right after all, Miss Jekyll, in that train of inferences you made.”
Mary tried not to smile, but she could feel herself blushing.
DIANA: You can’t feel yourself blushing. That’s lady novelist talk.
“I think you’d better tell us as much about this society as you know,” Holmes continued, then waited, looking at each of them in turn.
Sometimes interrupting each other, Mary and Beatrice recounted what they had learned about the Société des Alchimistes. Mary, after some hesitation, pulled the letters from the portfolio and handed them to Holmes. They did not cast her father in a positive light, but if they could help elucidate this mystery, it was her duty to show them.
“This information suggests two lines of inquiry,” said Holmes, after examining the letters. “We’ve spoken to Molly Keane’s and Susanna Moore’s associates. We must do the same for the other women, who were murdered before I took on this case. Why were they chosen, and why were those particular limbs taken? There’s a pattern here, particularly in those two brains, belonging to the two governesses. In my experience, they are usually intelligent, underappreciated women, doomed to lives of inconsequence. Why would they, in particular, have attracted our killer and his accomplice? Today, Watson and I will go to Whitechapel and see what we can find out. But first, I will send a telegram to Dr. Balfour asking for an appointment. I want to take another look at that asylum. I suggest you ladies spend the day recovering from last night’s exploits.”
“And Renfield? What about him?” asked Mary.
“I shall leave Renfield to Lestrade. I’m convinced he was induced to make that confession, but who induced him? And who helped him escape? That’s the man I wish to pursue, not the poor lunatic. He must have known Renfield, been familiar with his habits. I hope Watson and I will learn something at the asylum that enables us to identify the true culprit.”
Mary nodded. She felt disappointed to be left out of things. Was this the end of her involvement with the investigation? She hoped not. But she did have Diana and Beatrice to take care of.
After Mrs. Poole had let Holmes and Watson out, Mary watched them walk down Park Terrace until they were out of sight. Then, she returned to the parlor. There would be breakfast dishes to clear, accounts to settle. A household to run.
Beatrice rose from the window seat and said, “I did not want to say this in front of the gentlemen, but there is a third line of investigation, in addition to the two Mr. Holmes laid out. When they arrived, I was about to tell you that I too have a letter to share. I received it a month ago, or rather, I found it in Professor Petronius’s desk. He had no intention of delivering it to me, I’m sure.”
Out of her bodice, she drew a letter, much creased. She unfolded it and read the following:
“My dear Miss Rappaccini,
You may recognize my name, as I immediately recognized yours. By chance, I saw a copy of your advertisement in the Gazette, and would like to make your acquaintance in person.
I am currently with Lorenzo’s Circus of Marvels and Delights. We are touring throughout the countryside, but will be in London, performing in Battersea Park on the South Bank, from the beginning of May to the end of June. How curious that we should be in the same line of business! Or perhaps not so curious, after all. I do not know your circumstances, so will wait to hear from you. But I very much look forward to meeting.
Yours sincerely,
Catherine Moreau”
“Well, that’s a long way of saying nothing,” said Diana. “Who is Catherine Moreau, and why does she need investigating?”
“I think she did not want to say anything important in this letter,” said Beatrice. “She thought it might be read, as of course it was. But don’t you see? Her name is Moreau. She must be related to Dr. Moreau, my father’s friend and a member of the Société until his unfortunate death. Perhaps she is his daughter. She clearly recognized my name and wants to meet.”
“Well, then we will go to the South Bank,” said Mary. Once again, the day had a purpose, an adventure in it. She felt a sense of excitement and relief. How ordinary her life had been, only a week ago! It certainly wasn’t ordinary now.
CHAPTER XI
The Marvelous Circus
The first consideration was how they were to dress. Mary had already given Diana some of her old clothes—thank goodness she had never given them away, although a few of the plainest had gone to the scullery maid, Alice. Beatrice was about her size and could wear one of her walking suits; certainly, she could not go out in the theatrical dress she had been wearing when she ran away from Professor Petronius. In her mother’s wardrobe, Mary found a veiled hat that her mother had worn before her illness. Veils were no longer in fashion among younger women, but older women sometimes still wore them, and behind the veil, no one would be able to tell Beatrice’s age. If Professor Petronius was looking for them, he might recognize Mary or Diana, but at least Beatrice’s face would be hidden.
With a pang of guilt, she took off her black dress. Her mother so recently dead, and here she was out of mourning! But a woman in mourning would stand out in the pleasure grounds of the South Bank. Passers-by would stare and wonder what she was doing. She worried that Mrs. Poole would disapprove, but when Mrs. Poole saw her in an ordinary walking suit, the housekeeper said, “Very wise of you, miss.” Mary breathed a sigh of relief. At least she had Mrs. Poole’s approval.
MRS. POOLE: As though she needed it! Miss Mary is a lady, and whatever she chooses to do is right.
MARY: I wish you would say that when we’ve accidentally smashed up something!
DIANA: Like the parlor, last week.
They took three omnibuses to get to the Thames embankment. They could have taken two, but as they were leaving the house, Mary thought she saw—what? Perhaps nothing. Leaning against one of the houses in the row was a beggar, hunched over in a peculiar way. But then beggars often were hunched over, weren’t they? The man was probably a drunkard. There was nothing unusual about his appearance—beggars appeared even here, in the respectable streets around Regent’s Park. But there was something furtive about him, in the way he looked at her and then immediately looked away again. Beggars usually—begged, didn’t they? Whereas he simply sat there, leaning against the wall, with his cap on the pavement in front of him. So she changed omnibuses twice in case they were being followed, although she wondered if she was being silly. Who would want to follow them, and why? Diana complained, but Beatrice nodded when Mary described the beggar she had seen and agreed that it was best to be cautious.
It was a long and tiring journey, riding on top of the omnibus when they could, or making sure Beatri
ce was sitting next to a window. By the end of the trip, she was heartily sick of Diana’s comments about how well she knew London and all the places she had been. But at last they alighted near the embankment and saw the Thames meandering seaward, with boats chugging up or floating down its muddy waters. Mary was very glad to see it.
They walked across the Chelsea Bridge and to the fields of Battersea Park. They did not need to ask directions to the circus: it was plain as plain could be—a circular red-and-white-striped tent clearly visible against the green fields, surrounded by smaller tents and wagons with LORENZO’S CIRCUS OF MARVELS AND DELIGHTS painted on them in garish colors.
As they drew nearer, they heard a man at the entrance to the circus tent call out, “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys! This way for Lorenzo’s Circus of Marvels and Delights! One penny admission, and a ha’penny for the little ones! Admission to the sideshow free with your ticket! Come see Atlas the Strongman lift two Englishmen on his shoulders! Come see the Cat Woman, brought from the jungles of South America! Half woman and half ferocious beast, but for a penny she will allow you to scratch behind her ears! Come see Sasha, the famous Dog Boy of the Russian Steppes, and the Two-Headed Calf of Devonshire, and the Real Mermaid! Come see the Zulu Prince do his bloodthirsty native dances, and the Giantess, taller than any man! If any man is taller, your money back, sir! Next circus performance in an hour, ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys! Buy your tickets, a penny and ha’penny!”
“What do we do now?” asked Mary. “Catherine Moreau’s letter said she would be here, but it never told us how to recognize her.”
“Buy tickets, of course,” said Diana. “She said she was with the circus, so let’s see the circus. Anyway, I want to see Sasha the Dog Boy and the Real Mermaid.”
“Yes,” said Beatrice. “I think that would be best, would it not? Although I will stand at the entrance. Once the performance begins, there will be many people—I do not wish to be around so many, particularly in my current state. We do not know how to recognize her, but perhaps she will know how to recognize us.”
Mary went to the ticket booth, next to the circus entrance, and bought them tickets: two adults and one child. Diana could still count as a child, couldn’t she? She was small enough to pass for one, and it would save them money. “Now what?” she asked, when she had given Beatrice and Diana their tickets. “We still have an hour until the next performance.” But Diana was already heading toward the sideshow.
“Beatrice,” she said, “how long would it take you to poison that girl?”
“You would poison your own sister?” asked Beatrice, sounding shocked. Mary could imagine Beatrice’s expression behind her veil. Was it because she was Italian, or because she was poisonous, that she did not understand sarcasm?
“No, I suppose not,” she said with a sigh. “Come on, we’d better follow her. I don’t want her getting lost.” It was noon, and between the tents, circus-goers were sitting on the grass, eating lunches they had brought or purchased at the various food carts. Mary realized she had completely forgotten to bring a lunch of any sort. She was not hungry, but Diana would be, soon. Her appetite was like clockwork—you could tell time by it.
They showed their tickets at the entrance to a smaller, rectangular tent, also striped red and white, that housed the sideshow. Inside, the tent was partitioned into sections lit by openings in the cloth ceiling. At this hour, it was almost empty. They passed from section to section, each labeled with the name of the performer inside. The first contained Atlas, the Strongman. They watched as he raised a series of dumbbells, winking at them, and then offered to carry them on his shoulders. Diana almost stepped forward, but Mary grabbed hold of her collar. “Two beautiful ladies, I could lift you easily!” he said to Mary and Beatrice, while Diana silently struggled. Mary shook her head and kept a firm grip on the fabric. “No? Well, how about the gentlemen?” Two university students wearing the scarves of their colleges volunteered, and Atlas lifted them onto his shoulders. The audience, such as it was, clapped politely.
Next was Sasha the Dog Boy, who seemed rather glum but barked and howled convincingly. “He doesn’t even look like a dog,” said Diana. “He’s just hairy, that’s all. I mean, he’s wearing a Norfolk suit. Dogs don’t wear Norfolk suits, do they?”
Better than both Atlas and Sasha was Astarte, the Cat Woman from the South American jungles. She looked like a cat, with cat ears set high on her head and yellow cat eyes. She was covered with a thick pelt of yellowish-brown fur, except on her face, and had a long tail that whipped around as she walked. She snarled convincingly and showed her sharp claws. But when any of the audience members paid an extra halfpenny, she would allow them to scratch her under the chin and stroke the fur on her back and arms. Then she would purr loudly.
“Oh, she’s a sight, isn’t she?” said Diana. “Do you think her mother was a woman and her father was a cat? Do give me a ha’penny, Mary. I want to go touch her.” One of the students had paid the halfpenny and was approaching her tentatively, clearly nervous about getting too close to those claws.
“That is not possible,” said Beatrice. “The laws of heredity do not allow such matings.”
The Cat Woman turned toward her. “You,” she said, in a low voice that sounded like a growl. “Yes, you, in the dark veil. You will come scratch me, will you not? Venite, puella florum!”
“Give me a halfpenny,” said Beatrice to Mary, holding out a gloved hand.
Wondering, Mary handed her one. After the student had taken his turn, Beatrice walked up to the Cat Woman, handed her the coin, and then leaned close, scratching her behind the ears. Mary could hear a murmur, and then the usual loud purr of the Cat Woman. What was Beatrice doing?
In a moment, Beatrice returned, and the Cat Woman was saying, “Anyone else wish to scratch behind my ears or under my chin today? You, sir?” She looked at the other student with her yellow eyes and smiled enigmatically.
“Let us keep walking,” said Beatrice. “I will explain when we are out of this tent.”
The two-headed calf was indeed two-headed, but otherwise looked exactly like a calf. The Real Mermaid was utterly unconvincing. “They could at least have hidden the seams on her fish tail,” said Diana. The Giantess had evidently retired with a headache, and the Zulu Prince performed his bloodthirsty native dances with abandon, but Mary could see that on the stool he occupied when not performing, he had left a copy of Middlemarch, with a stray ticket marking his place.
At last they emerged from the tent. “What was all that about?” asked Mary.
“The Cat Woman is Catherine Moreau,” said Beatrice. “She told me to find her tent and meet her there once the circus begins. Then the sideshow will close and she will no longer be on display. It’s the one next to the green wagon.”
“How did you know it was her?” asked Diana.
“She spoke to me in Latin,” said Beatrice. “I suppose Dr. Moreau must have taught her Latin, as my father taught me.” Mary felt a pang of jealously. Her father had never taught her Latin, never taught her much of anything, despite those displays in his laboratory—but then, he had died when she was only seven. If he had lived, would he have taught her more? And would she have been better off? She remembered the letter: 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. Perhaps she would have been worse off, much worse. Would he have conducted experiments on her? Or Diana? And anyway, if her hypothesis was correct, at that point he had irrevocably become Hyde. Perhaps it was best, after all, for both of them that their father had died before he could do more damage than he had already done. After all, look at Beatrice. . . .
Then, as she had predicted, they had to stop at one of the carts and buy a meat pie for Diana, because she insisted that she was so famished, she might faint at any moment. Mary could not think of food at such a time, and when Beatrice was asked what she wanted, she said, “A g
lass of water, please.” What did Beatrice do for lunch, anyway? Soak up sunlight?
“Could you try not to eat that entire pie in one mouthful?” said Mary. But before she could finish the sentence, it had already disappeared into Diana’s mouth, and she was wiping off the crumbs with the back of one hand. Well, at least lunch had not taken long.
They found the tent, the last in a row of smaller striped tents that housed the circus performers, next to a green wagon that looked as though it might have contained an animal, for its sides were barred. They lifted the tent flap and entered. Beatrice drew her veil back over her hat, and Mary looked around her. The tent was divided into two sections by a curtain. In the section they had entered, they saw a camp bed, a folding table and chair, and a large trunk with its lid thrown back. It was filled with clothes, which were also scattered over both the bed and chair. Catherine Moreau was not very neat in her habits.
MARY: She still isn’t.
As their eyes adjusted to the dim light in the tent, Catherine entered after them and closed the flap.
“I’m so glad that’s over!” she said. She no longer spoke in a low growl—now, she sounded like an ordinary Englishwoman. “I usually don’t mind the performance, but in this circumstance I wanted to get away as quickly as possible.” She put her hands to her throat and fumbled there for a moment. Then she put her hands on her ears and lifted off—not only the ears, but the entire cat head. Underneath, she had dark brown hair coiled into braids so it would lie flat under the headpiece. She unbuttoned the invisible buttons of her cat outfit and took that off as well, attached claws and all, dropping it into the trunk. Her body was also brown, but hairy only where women’s bodies are usually hairy. Mary blushed and looked away, but not before she had seen the network of lighter scars that covered Catherine Moreau’s body. She was not accustomed to women stripping themselves naked in front of her. Catherine pulled on an orange kimono embroidered with cranes from the pile of clothes on the cot.
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 17
