“Why, because it wouldn’t be proper? I don’t think we have much of a choice,” said Mary. “I doubt they’ll let you in.” She walked up to the gate and rang the bell.
In a few minutes, a woman appeared at the gate. She was dressed in gray wool, as plain as the habit of a nun, and her hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head as though she were afraid a strand might escape. She said, in a high and somewhat artificial voice, “I heard the bell as I was passing. These are not our regular visiting hours, as I believe the sign indicates. I’m Sister Margaret. Were you looking for anyone in particular?”
“My name is Mary Jekyll,” said Mary, “and this is—”
“Jekyll!” said Sister Margaret, her voice rising even higher, into a sort of screech. “You’d better come in at once. Mrs. Raymond will want to talk to you immediately.”
She opened the gate, which shrieked as though it badly needed oiling, and motioned Mary, with rapid gestures, to come inside.
“Who is Mrs. Raymond?” said Mary, hesitant to venture inside that stone wall. Why would anyone in this place want to talk to her? Was she being mistaken for someone else?
“Mrs. Raymond is the director,” said Sister Margaret, as though the information were obvious. But that did not answer Mary’s question. Why would the director of such an institution want to talk to her? How could she know who Mary was? But no, she suddenly realized. This was not about her personally: it was the name Jekyll that had caused Sister Margaret such consternation.
“Miss Jekyll, if I may intervene . . . ,” said Watson.
“Not you,” said Sister Margaret contemptuously, as though talking to a dog that had rolled in the mud. “No gentleman visitors. We don’t even make an exception for relatives.”
“All right,” said Mary. “I’ll come talk to this . . . Mrs. Raymond.”
Watson took her by the elbow. “Miss Jekyll, I don’t like this,” he said, so low that only Mary could hear him.
“But I have to go,” said Mary, turning to him and speaking in the same low tones. “The director of this place obviously knows something about Mr. Hyde. I have to find out what. We know the money was coming here, and look at how Sister Whatever responded to my name. Can you hold these for me?” She handed him the portfolio and her umbrella. She did not like to relinquish the portfolio, but felt safer giving it to Watson than taking it into such a place, where Hyde might lurk.
“All right,” said Watson. “But there’s something I want you to have.”
As he took her umbrella, he slipped something into her hand. She looked down: it was the pistol he had put into his pocket—a revolver. “Do you know how to use one of these?”
“Yes,” she said. And she did—Joseph, who had been a gamekeeper’s son in Lincolnshire, had taught her. She even had a revolver at home, in a desk drawer. It had been her father’s, and she had insisted that Joseph teach her how to use it, despite his protests that as a lady, she would always have someone to defend her. Even then, she had not been so sure that would be the case. Now she was grateful that she had insisted on those lessons.
“If you’re not back in an hour, I’ll come after you. I don’t know the meaning of this, but Hyde was—perhaps is—a dangerous criminal. If he is on the premises, I want you to have some sort of protection.”
Mary nodded. “I understand.” She did not want him to see that she was—apprehensive? Yes, that was the word.
DIANA: Because you can’t frighten our Mary.
MARY: Don’t be ridiculous. I’m perfectly capable of being frightened. You frighten me all the time. Remember what happened in Vienna, when you almost burned down the mental hospital? And almost got yourself killed by doing the exact opposite of what Justine and I told you to do?
DIANA: Well, if you hadn’t been such a bloody— [The rest of Diana’s comments are not appropriate for a book that we hope will reach an audience of both mature and younger readers.]
CATHERINE: Diana, I will not include that sort of language, so you might as well try to express yourself without resorting to insults or invectives.
DIANA: [Comments omitted. Seriously, just stop already.]
But what could happen to her in a religious society to rescue Magdalens, the prostitutes who are ubiquitous in London, particularly in the East End? Keeping her body turned so Sister Margaret could not see what she was doing, she slipped the revolver into her purse. Thank goodness it was the practical kind, not one of those decorative purses fine ladies carried, mostly tassels and embroidery. She turned back toward the gate and, trying not to look as reluctant as she felt, walked through the archway into a courtyard. She heard the gate clang behind her and turned back for a moment. Dr. Watson was looking at her through the bars. He pointed to his watch—reminding her that she had one hour.
She gave him a small wave, then followed Sister Margaret, trying not to think too much about where she was going and what she might find. She was inside, which meant she was committed to this adventure, whatever it might produce.
They walked across the courtyard, which was paved except for a border by the stone wall of the house, where straggling yews leaned toward the sunlight. A thick layer of ivy grew up the walls to the third floor, making the house look particularly ominous. Sister Margaret pushed open a large wooden door with iron fittings that made Mary feel as though she were entering the Castle of Otranto. She could not repress a small shudder. The air was damper and colder here than it had been in the streets of London. Mary followed Sister Margaret up a set of stone stairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs was a long hallway, leading to another large wooden door. There seemed to be a lot of those in the Magdalen Society, as though someone had decided on large and ominous as a decorating style. Sister Margaret knocked.
“Come in!” came the call from inside.
Sister Margaret pushed, and the door opened with a loud creak. “Mrs. Raymond,” she said, “this is Miss Jekyll.”
A handsome woman with iron-gray hair rose from behind a desk. Like Sister Margaret, she was wearing a gray dress, but hers was of watered silk, and she had a chatelaine at her waist, with an imposing number of keys dangling from it
“I’m glad you’ve come, Miss Jekyll,” said the director. “I refuse to keep the child any longer. She has proven incorrigible. I’ve written to your mother numerous times, asking her to come take Diana, but she’s never responded.”
“Diana?” said Mary, astonished. “Who is Diana?” What in the world could this be about?
“You are Mrs. Jekyll’s daughter, are you not?” asked the director, looking at her as though not at all sure of her mental capacity.
“Yes, of course,” she said.