The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter

by Theodora Goss

  “And what shall I do?” asked Beatrice, who was standing by the door. She had come in so quietly that they had not noticed. “Dr. Watson is with Justine. She’s finally gone to sleep, thank goodness. He says to tell you that she is in no danger, although she must have absolute rest and quiet until the fever breaks. He mentioned your plans. If you are all planning on being out today, and Mrs. Poole accompanies Mary to Purfleet, I believe I had better stay here. Justine needs a nurse, and my poison is still strong. I should not go out in public again until I am—‘normal’ is perhaps not the right word. Fortunately, my breath cannot harm Justine. Even weakened as she is, she remains stronger than any ordinary woman. My touch would burn her skin, but I will wear gloves.”

  “Then we shall be fielding three teams, as it were,” said Holmes. “Miss Moreau, Miss Hyde, and Watson shall go to Whitechapel; Miss Jekyll and Mrs. Poole shall accompany me to Purfleet; and you, Miss Rappaccini, shall stay here with Miss Frankenstein.”

  “Catherine will need to be in disguise,” said Mary. “She can’t go to the Magdalen Society looking like that. She needs to look like—well, a fallen woman.”

  They all looked at Catherine. This morning, she was wearing one of Mary’s day dresses, a brown tartan with a pleated collar. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Aside from her yellow eyes and the tracery of scars, she looked like a schoolmistress.

  “You’re never going to fool old Ma Raymond dressed like that,” said Diana. “You need to look fancy, with flounces and furbelows—but cheap. And you need paint.”

  Flounces and furbelows, as though for a woman of the streets! How in the world could Mary supply those? There was really only one possibility. “Come up to my mother’s room,” she said. “I may have something.”

  Catherine and Diana followed her up the stairs, while Holmes and Watson waited below and Mrs. Poole assured them that the girls would be back down in a moment, that matters of dress took time.

  In Mrs. Jekyll’s wardrobe, Mary found an old tea gown of her mother’s, at least ten years out of date. It was the only thing she could think of that was fancy enough for Catherine to wear. “It doesn’t quite fit,” said Catherine. “A former mistress of mine could have given it to me before I was dismissed and forced to make my living on the streets, like Pauline Delacroix. That’s what I’ll tell Mrs. Raymond.”

  “She still needs paint, and her hair done,” said Diana.

  “Well, I don’t know where to buy paint—a theatrical shop of some sort?” said Mary impatiently. What was she, a department store?

  “No, you need it put on by someone who knows how. Like Kate Bright-Eyes.”

  “Kate is the one who knew Molly Keane?” said Catherine. She turned around in front of the mirror, examining herself from all angles. For a moment, Mary felt a pang of guilt—it was, after all, her mother’s gown, even though it had not been worn for many years. But surely her mother had wanted her to find out about the Société des Alchimistes, or why had she saved the letters in the portfolio? That information had been left for Mary, she was sure of it.

  “Yes, that’s Kate,” said Mary. “I suppose you could go to The Bells and ask for her?”

  “Ha! You see, I do come up with clever ideas!” said Diana.

  “All right, that was clever,” said Mary. “But is it absolutely necessary for you to dress like that? Catherine needs to be in disguise. You don’t.”

  While Mary had been searching for her mother’s tea gown and helping Catherine put it on, Diana had once again changed into boy’s clothes. Mary could not help wishing that she looked more, well, respectable.

  “Catherine said I might have to climb, and it’s easier climbing as a boy.” Diana put her hands in her trouser pockets. It was obvious that she was not going to change, nohow.

  DIANA: Respectable my arse! Why would anyone want to wear girls’ clothes unless they had to? If you walk around the city as a boy, people don’t notice you or ask what you’re doing all by yourself, my pretty.

  MARY: Cat, you said you would edit out inappropriate language.

  CATHERINE: I think “my arse” is perfectly appropriate in this context. And I agree with Diana.

  Mary was annoyed, sitting in the railway carriage on the way to Purfleet. She had wanted to discuss the case with Mr. Holmes, and instead he was engaged in a discussion with Mrs. Poole on the minutiae of housekeeping! On how various stains set and were to be gotten out, the schedules of tradespeople and their deliveries. He seemed fascinated by these domestic details. “You never know when the most trivial information might help solve a case,” he said. “I myself, Mrs. Poole, have written a monograph on the soils around London. Did you know, for example, that there is a distinct difference between the soils of Spitalfields and Shoreditch?”

  “Is there really, sir? I would not have thought it!” said Mrs. Poole, and received a disquisition on types of cigarette ash that seemed to fascinate her.

  The asylum looked just as Mary remembered, with its brick wall and tall iron gates, over which she could see the tops of the trees. But this time, there was no Joe Abernathy to let them in.

  “No, sir,” said the attendant who came to answer the bell, when Holmes asked his whereabouts. “He was sacked, along with Dr. Balfour and a whole lot of others, on account of Renfield escaping. Dr. Seward was right angry about it. He was in Vienner, or some such place, and took a train back as soon as he heard about the murders. He arrived yesterday morning and sent everyone who had to do with Renfield packing. He’s the one you’ll have to see, if you want information. He’s with another gentleman right now—I just let him in, a gentleman from London. But I’ll ask if you can talk to him. What name should I give?”

  “Well, that explains why Dr. Balfour didn’t respond to my telegram,” Holmes whispered to Mary. They waited in the front hall while the attendant confirmed that Dr. Seward would see Mr. Holmes briefly—although he did not have much time, they were warned. Then they were shown up the stairs to the director’s office. As they came to the door, it opened, and a man with a shock of gray hair stepped out. He seemed agitated and almost ran into Holmes. “Pardon me,” he said, then nodded to them curtly.

  This office was very different from Dr. Balfour’s. It had obviously been used for a long time, but was considerably neater. The shelves were filled with books, and there were documents and letters stacked on the desk. Mary wondered if the letter from Professor Van Helsing had been missed.

  “Mr. Holmes, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” said the man behind the desk, sounding as though it was not a pleasure at all. He had a grim, official look about him, and was clearly impatient for them to be gone again.

  “Dr. Seward, I presume?” said Holmes.

  “Indeed. I can spare you fifteen minutes, but I’m sure you’ll understand that we’re very busy this morning. You know, I’m sure, that the madman Renfield has escaped from police custody. We don’t know if he intends to return here. I’ve asked Inspector Lestrade to send us policemen, but they have not yet arrived. Oh damn!”

  Mary jumped, but this last exclamation was not meant for them. Seward sprang up and grabbed a furled umbrella that had been leaning against the side of his desk. Then he strode to his office door, opened it, and shouted down the hall, “Sam! Sam, Mr. Prendick left his umbrella.” Sam must have come back to retrieve it, because Dr. Seward stepped out into the hallway, and Mary heard, “Can you run and give it to him before he catches the train? Yes, thank you, that will be all for now. I’ll ring for you when you can let Mr. Holmes out.”

  Prendick! She would have to tell Catherine as soon as possible. How would Catherine feel, knowing that the man who had left her to die was not only alive, but here in London?

  “My apologies,” he said, coming back into the office. “Particularly to the ladies . . .” He looked at Mary and Mrs. Poole, clearly wondering who the devil they were and why they had come to see him.

  Before Holmes could speak, Mary hastily said, “T
hat’s quite all right, Dr. Seward. I’m Miss Jenks, of the Christian Women’s Missionary Society, and this is my associate Mrs. Poole. Our society is concerned with saving women who have fallen into sin. Several of the women who were so brutally murdered were on our rolls, as having received assistance from our society, and our patroness, whose name I may not mention, but who is connected with the royal family, insisted that we be allowed to accompany Mr. Holmes. I hope our presence will not interfere with your conversation in any way. We are here simply to observe, and will be as quiet as church mice.”

  “Miss Jenks and Mrs. Poole were of course most welcome to accompany me,” said Holmes. “Cum mulieribus non est disputandum, as Cicero says.”

  “I see,” said Seward. His mouth twitched, and he looked at Holmes with sympathy. “Now, tell me what you wish to know about Renfield.”

  DIANA: Translation, please, for those of us who didn’t go to Oxford.

  JUSTINE: “There is no arguing with women.” And I don’t believe Cicero ever said such a thing!

  “Anything you can tell me,” said Holmes. “His history, his past associations. Did he ever receive visitors? Miss Jenks, do you have paper and a pencil? Perhaps you could make yourself useful and take some notes.”

  “Of course, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. Did she have those things? A pencil, yes—but paper? Silently, Mrs. Poole opened her capacious handbag, pulled out a pad of paper, and handed it to Mary. For the first time, she felt grateful for Mrs. Poole’s presence—then guilty for not having appreciated it before. She flipped past pages of marketing lists. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to note down?”

  “Anything of interest that could bear on this investigation. You’re an observant young woman, I’m sure.” Holmes said this courteously, carelessly, as though simply giving her something to do. Mary looked around the office without seeming to. What did he want her to notice? Or was she mistaken, and did he want her simply to write down what Dr. Seward had to say?

  But Seward could, or would, tell them almost nothing. Renfield has once been, “believe it or not, considering his present state,” a gentleman, a man of business in the city. His business had begun to fail, and the strain of it had been too much for him. Eventually, he had developed the habits that marked his madness. He had neither wife nor children, and his business partners, fearing for his safety, had him committed to Purfleet Asylum. His fees were paid quarterly by the business. He had never, in all the years he had been in the asylum, received visitors. That was all Seward knew. “Of course, he came here under my predecessor. I myself am relatively new here—I became director only five years ago, whereas some of the patients have been here twenty years. Which is why this incident—well, I’ve been called before the Board of Trustees. So you can understand why I’m so eager, Mr. Holmes, to have Renfield caught and returned to us. I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can tell you. Renfield left no papers or other effects, except some notebooks containing what he called his accounts. Nothing but numbers. I’ll have Sam show them to you before you leave.”

  When he bid them farewell, he added, “I hope you and Inspector Lestrade will do your upmost to catch him, Mr. Holmes. My professional career depends on his return. And the best of luck to you, Miss Jenks, in your good work. What did you say your organization was called again? Perhaps I could send a donation.”

  What in the world had she called it? Mary hesitated for a moment.

  “Thank you, indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Poole. “These young women come to us blackened by sin, but by prayer and good works they are washed as white as lambs of God. By which I mean their souls, sir. God may hate the sin, but he loves the sinner, and we hope to see these young women seated at the right hand of the Father when their souls are washed clean. Also, we give them hot soup. Hot soup and prayer, sir, will do it every time. Perhaps we can send you some tracts and a request for a subscription. . . .”

  “Yes, yes, quite,” said Seward hastily. “Allow me to show you out. I’m sure you must wish to be in London again as quickly as possible, to continue your good works.”

  Before they left, Sam showed them Renfield’s notebooks, but Seward had been right: they contained nothing but rows of numbers—presumably representing the flies he had caught and ingested. Nothing to help them in their investigation.

  After they had walked through the front gates of the asylum, which clanged shut behind them, Mary pulled the pad of paper on which she had been writing out of her purse. She had stuffed it in there when they left Dr. Seward’s office, but her purse was not as capacious as Mrs. Poole’s. She had been worried it might not come out again.

  “Is this what you wanted?” she asked.

  “Ah, I wondered if you would see it!” said Holmes. “Bravo, Miss Jenks. I memorized the name and location of the hotel in Soho, but it’s useful to have your written confirmation. And how clever of you to transcribe the letter as well.”

  “Whatever are you going on about?” asked Mrs. Poole.

  Mary showed her the notebook. On a sheet of paper, she had written,

  Stationary headed Deerborne Hotel, Soho.

  Address too small to make out.

  My dear John, I will come as soon as I can, but I know no more about these murders than you do. Why should I? Surely you and Van Helsing don’t suspect me of being involved in any way. That is absurd and unjust of you. Let me know when you arrive and I will come to Purfleet, but I swear to you that I know nothing whatsoever.

  Edward

  “It was upside down, but not too difficult to make out, except for the address,” said Mary. “Although all these scientific men seem to have atrocious handwriting! My governess, Miss Murray, would have made them write out a section of Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey—that’s what she made me do, to correct my hand. This must be the Edward Prendick mentioned in Catherine’s story and Professor Van Helsing’s letter?”

  “Certainly,” said Holmes. “I don’t know if you saw his face as we passed, Miss Jekyll, but his hair was not gray from age. Whatever he has endured, it has marked him forever.”

  No, she had not noticed Prendick’s face. Mary felt a sense of consternation. She simply must become more observant, like Mr. Holmes.

  “I believe our next course of action is to return to London and pay a visit to Mr. Prendick,” Holmes added. “Clearly Dr. Seward thought he was involved with the murders in some way, and Miss Moreau indicated that he knew how to make the Beast Men you encountered yesterday. If we had been more precipitous, we might have run into him casually on the train, but that is his train departing now, and we are not on it.” Sure enough, Mary could hear the train whistle, and there was a line of white smoke against the sky, across the marshes that separated the asylum from the train station.

  “If we can’t catch Mr. Prendick anyway, I think there’s one more line of investigation here in Purfleet,” she said. “What about Joe Abernathy? He’s known Renfield longer than Dr. Seward, and he was there when Renfield escaped. He must live somewhere in the village.”

  “Also, he has just lost his position, and will not be feeling particularly loyal to Dr. Seward,” said Holmes. “An excellent suggestion, Miss Jekyll. And I must say, that was masterfully done, Mrs. Poole.”

  “Ah well, thank you sir,” said Mrs. Poole, looking embarrassed. “I was in amateur theatricals when I was a girl. We used to have a sort of club, just among the servants in Park Terrace. Used to call ourselves the Park Terrace Players, and put on Shakespeare as well as popular plays like The Scottish Lass and Maid of the Moors. I was Titania, once.”

  Mary tried to imagine the respectable Mrs. Poole as Titania, queen of the fairies, but to this imagination would not stretch.

  MRS. POOLE: I was a very good Titania, I’ll have you know!

  BEATRICE: I have no doubt you were, Mrs. Poole.

  How to find Joe was the next question, but Holmes said, “Always ask at the pub, Miss Jekyll. Elementary investigation—the pub always knows. And there I see The Black Dog, so we shall
step inside. . . .”

  “That she will not,” said Mrs. Poole. “You may go where you like, Mr. Holmes, but I will not have her setting foot in a place where men are drinking and ogling, like as not.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Mary. Diana was right, it was better to dress as a man. She had never before found being a woman confining, but then she had never attempted to investigate a series of murders before either. She had never attempted much of anything. And now she was finding that as soon as one began moving around in the world, doing things, one ran up against a regular list of You Shan’ts.

  “Then I shall return in a moment,” said Holmes, and disappeared into the dark maw of The Black Dog. It was closer to a half hour before he returned, and Mary and Mrs. Poole had walked around the central square of Purfleet, looking into all the shop windows—at the hams on display at the butcher’s, the buns at the baker’s, the ribbons and gloves at a shop for ladies’ accoutrements.

  “Joe lives with his mother in one of the cottages recently built for workingmen, on a road called Peaceful Row,” he told them. “I suppose the builders thought that name might avert strikes among the quarry workers! Miss Jekyll, should you ever find yourself in a pub, despite Mrs. Poole’s care, never ask a question directly, for you will never get an answer. I bought a pint and said I had come from the asylum, where I was thinking of confining a relative. But I didn’t know if I wanted him in an institution, and might look for a man to care for him privately. I wondered if any employees of the asylum might prefer a private situation and was told that several had lost their positions, including Joe. They were almost pressing his address on me, and I promised that I would go see him as soon as possible.”

  “How clever of you, sir,” said Mrs. Poole.

  Well! thought Mary. I would have been just as clever, if I’d been allowed into the pub. I could have told them that I had a poor mad father, or that my brother was in the asylum and Joe had been caring for him. I could have told them any number of things. . . . What was the use of propriety when it kept one from getting things done?