Justine, if she had been anyone other than Justine, would have been thinking of that day’s events. Of how she had been kidnapped by the Beast Men and taken to the creature who had loved her so long, with such a cruel, sick love. She would have been thinking of how she had been rescued by Holmes, Watson, and the other women. But she was Justine, so she was thinking about whether or not there was a heavenly resting place where Adam’s tortured soul would find peace at last, or oblivion. And she was probably quoting something from Goethe. . . .
JUSTINE: I was, in fact. I was thinking about Goethe’s idea of the soul. It resembles the sun, which seems to go out at night, but is simply diffusing its light elsewhere and will return again when day comes. We cannot see it, but that does not mean it doesn’t exist. So, too, with the human soul. Faith is knowing that the soul is eternal, whether we see it or not—as God is.
DIANA: Whatever. Can we get back to the story? This is the interesting part.
Far away, across the city, Diana was being important, and a boy. She was telling the fire marshal that she and Charlie had seen a fire and thought it should be reported before any more buildings were burned.
DIANA: See? You have no problem writing as me, when you have to.
CATHERINE: When I absolutely have to!
“You rascals probably set it yourself!” said the fire marshal, frowning down at them. “I should have you both arrested. What were you doing down by the docks, anyway?”
“Oh no, sir,” said Diana. “See, we was following this gentleman, thinking he might give us a few coppers, like. He looked rich enough, and we thought he might be going to one of them dens of iniquity, as me mum calls them. And he wouldn’t mind parting with a few coppers. But he went into that warehouse, and there was another gentleman waiting for him, and they started shouting at each other and going at each other something terrible. ‘I’ll kill you for that, Prendick!’ the other man shouted, and then he hit him, and the one named Prendick hit back, and they was circling round and round each other, grappling like wrestlers, and it was a grand fight! But then they fell on top of the lamp and knocked it over, and soon the whole room was on fire. Like the picture of Hell in the Child’s Own Bible. That’s how it started, sir.”
“And how did you see all this, unless you went in after him?”
“Why, we watched it through the window. We didn’t want to miss such a grand rumble. And then the Prendick one came running out, and the other fellow, he just lay there, and before you could say Jack Robinson, the building was up in flames, to the second floor! So we come to tell you, and maybe you’ll give us some coppers for being such good citizens, eh?”
“Nothing for you! I know what you were about, following a gentleman. Planning to pick his pockets, likely as not. If you’d done so, you’d be going to gaol right now. All right, call out the men, Jensen. There’s a fire down by the docks, though precious little we can do about it. Those old warehouses are about falling down anyway. And you two, get yourselves out of here. Someday, I’ll see you both swinging from nooses, and I’ll say good riddance.”
Diana and Charlie watched the men come out of the fire station, the horses pulling the wagon, the men in their uniforms with metal hats gleaming in the light of the street lamps. Then they headed back toward Soho. It would have taken them hours, had they not caught a ride in a wagon heaped with cabbages that was most likely, Diana thought, heading to Covent Garden Market. In this, she was right.
DIANA: As usual.
She did not bother to ask the wagoner’s permission, of course. She grabbed the back of the cart, hoisted herself up, and climbed in among the cabbages, crouching down so the wagoner would not notice. Charlie followed her up and into the wagon, catching his foot on the edge and falling against the side, but the wagoner did not hear or turn around. Even if he had, what could he have seen in the dim light? Their clothes quickly became permeated with the smell of cabbage, but they were so tired and dirty that it scarcely bothered them.
They slipped out of the wagon just before it reached Covent Garden. The stalls were not yet open, but vendors were already piling up their produce: turnips and onions that had wintered over, lettuces and peas sown early, strawberries grown in greenhouses, peppers and aubergines brought in ships from warmer climates. As they walked through the market, following the narrow alleys between the stalls, a pale yellow sun rose over the buildings of London. Suddenly, the flower girls began their chant: “Flowers for sale! Loverly flowers, fresh from the country!”
When they had left the narrow alleys behind and were once more on familiar ground, in the streets of Soho, Charlie said, “You know, Diana, you’re the best liar I ever heard.”
“Ain’t I, though?” Diana reached into her pocket and pulled out an apple. “I’m a pretty good thief, too. If I’d told him we were there on a Sunday School outing, he would never have believed us. People are always ready to believe the worst.” She took a bite of the apple and then handed it to Charlie. “Here, share and share alike. Not too big a bite, mind, or I’ll keep it all for myself!”
The sun was up in the sky by the time they reached Park Terrace. Diana rang the bell. Mrs. Poole answered the door with an “Oh, it’s you, is it? Don’t you both look a sight! What did you do, sweep chimneys? Come in, then, both of you, and get yourselves some breakfast. And tell me where Miss Mary is, because I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her since yesterday. It’s mortal worried I’ve been, and I hope they’re all right, those girls!”
CHAPTER XVIII
Back to Park Terrace
How is he?” asked Mary, rising from one of the wooden benches provided for visitors. This seemed to be a night of sitting on hard benches. But at least they had made it here, all of them, and Captain Mudge had only charged them five pounds after all. “Because it’s you, Mr. Holmes,” he had said. “Wait until I tell the little woman who I ferried up the Thames tonight. Sherlock Holmes himself, and a bunch of circus performers! She won’t right believe me.”
“The doctor says he’ll recover, but it will be a while before he can use that arm again,” said Holmes. “I’m grateful to Miss Rappaccini for speaking with the physician. My medical knowledge is, I fear, too specialized for such a case. And of course to Miss Frankenstein for carrying him to the infirmary.” He bowed to Justine, who had followed him and Beatrice up the stairs to the infirmary with Watson in her arms. They had been gone for almost an hour, while the rest of them waited below: Mary sitting on the bench with Alice falling asleep against her shoulder, Hyde handcuffed to one of the rails, Catherine pacing back and forth. Renfield crouched in a corner, muttering about his flies. Once, Hyde had turned to her, as though about to speak, but she had looked down and checked the time on her wristwatch, then wound it as though completely intent on the process. She had no wish to speak with him, not now.
“It was nothing at all, Mr. Holmes,” said Justine. Perhaps carrying a man up a flight of stairs was nothing to a woman who could strangle Beast Men with her bare hands.
“Yes, it will take time, but with exercise, he should regain the full use of it,” said Beatrice. She took off the surgical mask and gloves she had been wearing while in the infirmary. She had not wanted her breath to foul the air. “Mr. Holmes, when you said this was a hospital, I imagined it would be a medical facility. I did not expect—a charitable home for veterans?”
“Yes, the Royal Hospital has housed the injured veterans of our wars for more than a century,” said Holmes. “Here they may live out the rest of their days in peace. I knew if such a wound could be treated anywhere in London, it would be here. And of course Watson himself is a veteran of the Afghan Campaign.”
“Mr. Holmes! Hr. Holmes!” A man with a halo of silver hair ran down the hall toward them. “I can’t let you go without telling you what a pleasure it is to see you here, and Dr. Watson as well. Although of course we’re not pleased he’s been injured. Far from it, I assure you. I’m the secretary of the hospital, and if there’s anything we can do . . .” He bowed to
Holmes, then looked at the women in their various states of undress with surprise.
“You can take care of Watson,” said Holmes, “for which service I will be most grateful. Your physician assures me that he will recover fully, in time. Other than that assurance, all I require at the moment is a cab or carriage, so I can take a dangerous criminal to Scotland Yard. Or rather, two carriages for hire, so these young ladies can make their way home as well.”
“Is there anything more we can do, Mr. Holmes?” asked Mary. She had wanted to go upstairs too, with Holmes, Beatrice, and Justine. But they could not leave Hyde or Renfield, so she and Catherine had stayed in the hall and waited. It had been frustrating, sitting and waiting, out of the action. She could have done more than serve as Alice’s pillow.
“Can you take Miss Frankenstein and Miss Rappaccini back to your residence?” asked Holmes. “They’ve had a long night. I need to take Hyde and Renfield to Scotland Yard. Miss Moreau, if you could accompany me, I believe they would remain on their best behavior.”
Why was Catherine going to Scotland Yard, while Mary was going back to Park Terrace? It wasn’t fair. She could have guarded Hyde and Renfield just as well. She didn’t have Catherine’s teeth, but she still had her revolver . . .
She nudged Alice, and the scullery maid opened her eyes sleepily. “Is it time to make breakfast yet, Mrs. Poole?” she asked, yawning. Then she looked around and said, “Oh!” as though suddenly remembering the events of the night. Mary stood up and rubbed her aching shoulder.
Holmes took her elbow—she was so startled at the gesture that she almost jumped back. He leaned toward her and said, in a low voice, “I don’t wish to alarm the others, Miss Jekyll. They believe our enemies have been defeated, but we don’t know whether Prendick escaped, or where he has gone. We believe the Beast Men he created are dead, but we can’t be sure. Certainly one got away in the confusion. We don’t even know whether they had other confederates. I have asked Hyde, but he refuses to speak. It’s still dangerous out there. I trust you to keep them safe from harm—Miss Rappaccini, Miss Frankenstein, and . . . that girl, whom I take to be a servant of yours?” He looked at Alice curiously. “As soon as I can, I will return with Miss Moreau and we can reconvene, as it were. I think Miss Frankenstein knows more than she has told us—we need to hear her story.”
“All right, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “I think I have just enough money left for the fare.” She was disappointed at being sent home, but he was right. She had to get Beatrice and Justine safely back to Park Terrace. He had taken her elbow, he had spoken to her in confidence. . . . She did not quite know what to think, except that it was new, and she liked it.
When the secretary himself told them the carriages were waiting on Royal Hospital Road, they went out together. Just before Hyde mounted the steps into the first one, he turned to her and said, “Mary . . .” It was the first time he had spoken to her directly.
Mary looked at him: the crooked man with a face that might have been charming had it not borne such signs of past dissipation and malice. He seemed . . . cautious, almost pleading.
She looked away. She did not wish to speak with him, not here, not now. Perhaps later, after he had been charged with the murder of Sir Danvers Carew. Perhaps then she would visit him in prison, before his trial and hanging. Then she would ask him . . . what? Why he had performed those experiments. Where he had been all this time. How he could have treated her mother, and her, and even Diana, so badly.
“At least . . . ,” continued the rasping voice. “At least I was able to see Ernestine once more, before she died.”
See Ernestine? When had he seen her mother? Mary turned back, but he was already in the carriage, across from Renfield, with Catherine climbing up the steps behind him. “I’ll see you at home,” said Catherine, then pulled shut the carriage door. Holmes was already in the carriage as well, having entered on the other side. And then, before she could say “Wait!” the driver cried, “Gee up!” and the carriage rattled away across the cobblestones.
She stared after it. The face at the window, the face her mother had raved about before she died. Had it been the face of Hyde?
“Mary, are you all right?” said Beatrice. “You look as though you’ve seen a fantasma—a ghost.”
They were all waiting for her—Beatrice, Justine, and Alice, looking at her curiously. She did not know what to say. If her mother had seen Hyde, suddenly at the window, after all those years—what would it have done to her? Killed her, most likely. The window was on the second floor, so how had he—but no, she had seen Diana climb. No doubt Hyde could climb as well. She remembered her mother in those last few weeks: delirious, raving. Then the precipitous decline. Her hair spread out on the pillow . . . Mary could not think about it anymore, not now. She had to get the others back to Park Terrace.
“Come on,” said Mary. “Let’s go home.”
CATHERINE: There was no need to envy me. I can’t think of anything less interesting than taking that sniveling rat to Scotland Yard.
DIANA: That’s Dad you’re talking about. And yes, I know how you feel about him, Mary Contrary. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s our father.
CATHERINE: I meant Renfield. Going on and on about eternal life, and how he had been promised, and giving Hyde covert glances all the while. And Hyde ignoring him—ignoring all of us. Holmes tried asking him questions about the Alchemical Society. Who was involved? Where was it headquartered? What was its agenda? But he just stared out the window. And when Holmes tried questioning Renfield, he started in on his flies and spiders. Finally, we arrived at Scotland Yard. He got out, and suddenly bobbies appeared from I don’t know where. One of them ran to tell Inspector Lestrade. Holmes talked to Lestrade for a few minutes while Renfield and Hyde were taken away in handcuffs. Then he got in the carriage again and we headed back to Park Terrace. He said he wanted to talk to Justine as soon as possible. That was it. Pretty disappointing, and not at all an adventure. Also, you got breakfast before we did.
“What took you so long?” asked Diana. She was sprawled on the parlor sofa, in yet another of Mary’s nightgowns. How many of them were left? Her hair was wet and combed back, no doubt the work of Mrs. Poole. When she sat up, it left a damp spot on the sofa where she had been lying.
“You look remarkably clean,” said Mary.
“The ogress forced me to take a bath before breakfast. She would have forced Charlie too, if he hadn’t bolted out of here double-quick. And I don’t blame him, though he didn’t get anything to eat.”
“Oh, I put something in his pocket,” said Mrs. Poole. “I should have held you under the water until you stopped talking. Running around London dressed like a newsboy at all hours! What sort of behavior is that for a young lady? Good Lord, is that little Alice?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Alice.
“It’s a long story,” said Mary. “Right now, I think we all need food—except maybe Beatrice!” For the first time, she realized that she was famished.
“Just tea for me please . . . ,” Beatrice started to say, when thunk, like a tree falling in a forest, Justine fell over onto the carpet, exactly where the Pig Man had lain two nights ago.
“Justine!” said Beatrice. She knelt by Justine and examined her without touching. “I think she’s fainted again. She’s been so strong all night, but I wondered when the strain would begin to affect her. Mrs. Poole, can you bring the sal volatile? And if you have any brandy . . .”
Even after Justine had revived, Diana administering the smelling salts with perhaps too liberal a hand and Mary giving her sips of brandy out of a small glass, it took both of them to help her up the stairs to what had once been Dr. Jekyll’s bedroom. Which Mary supposed was now Justine’s bedroom. Beatrice followed them up.
JUSTINE: I was so ashamed of myself for having fainted again! After all, I am the Giantess, the Strong Woman. . . .
BEATRICE: It’s not strength. I have explained to you—it’s a matter of blood pressure, of how F
rankenstein created you. All of us have our weaknesses.
They deposited Justine in bed. “I’ll stay with you, cara mia,” said Beatrice. “Perhaps Mrs. Poole can bring you up something to eat? And you should sleep. . . .”
“I cannot yet,” said Justine. “Mr. Holmes said he wanted to talk to me as soon as possible. He wanted me to tell him everything I know about Adam. But you should all have breakfast. You do not need to stay with me, Beatrice.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I will stay.”
“She doesn’t eat anyway,” said Diana. “But I’m still hungry.”
“You’ve already had breakfast,” said Mary. She turned to Beatrice and Justine. “I’ll ask Mrs. Poole to bring up something for you both.” Should she stay? This was her house, after all. No, it was their house too. Let Beatrice stay—she did not have to be responsible for everything. Mary felt a sense of relief. There were others to share the responsibility now.
When she and Diana entered the morning room, Alice was already eating a breakfast of eggs and buttered toast, wolfing them down as though she were starving.
ALICE: Which I was.
“Lord, wouldn’t Mrs. Poole rag me if I ate like that!” said Diana.
“Alice is a good girl, and you are nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Poole, coming into the morning room with a tray on which there was a pot of tea and another stack of toast. “I want Miss Mary to sit herself down and eat, before she collapses from hunger. Here’s more tea, and there’s milk and sugar on the table, and butter in the dish, and I almost forgot the orange marmalade. I bought a new jar yesterday, as someone seems to have a bottomless stomach. Shall I fry up an egg for you, miss?”
“What about for me?” asked Diana. “I wouldn’t mind another egg.” She sat on one of the chairs, drawing her legs up under the nightgown so her bare feet were on the chair cushion.
“As though you haven’t already had two!” said Mrs. Poole. “If you want more, you can have toast. And try not to sit like a monkey.”
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 30
