“So,” said Diana, “is this another one of those murders? That’s all they talk about at St. Mary Magdalen, when they’re allowed to talk, that is. The girl without arms, the girl without a head . . . They say it gives them nightmares. What’s she missing, this time?”
“We have no idea, yet,” said Mary. “And if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head, I’m sending you back there, no matter what Mrs. Raymond says. So for goodness’ sake stay quiet and out of mischief!” There was no time now, but later she would have to untangle the mystery of Diana Hyde. Who was this girl? Why had her mother supported her for so long? And why had she called Mary sister? But Dr. Watson was already walking toward the narrow street that Charlie had indicated, and Diana Hyde was skipping, actually skipping, as though this were all a game, beside him. Mary hurried to catch up.
JUSTINE: Diana, I’ve always wondered. What did you do in the baptismal font?
DIANA: I pissed in it!
JUSTINE: Yes, I suspected something of the sort.
CHAPTER IV
A Murder in Whitechapel
The Society of St. Mary Magdalen had been near Whitechapel High Street, but now they were walking into the heart of the East End. The alleys grew more dismal, with broken pavement and piles of refuse. Women hung out washing, men sat on the steps of the tenements, playing cards or reading newspapers. Barefoot children ran down the alleys, playing tag or simply hitting each other and running away, Mary could not tell which. The air smelled of the smoke from factories, and cooking, and human waste. Even the sunlight seemed dimmer, as though it were coming through layers of fog.
This is the dark half of London, where poverty and crime thrive—a shadow cast by the bright and prosperous West End. Go on, tell me I’m being melodramatic, I dare you. We all know what the social conditions are like down there. And yes, I know perfectly well that this is not a political tract, thank you, Mary! I don’t need to be reminded.
As they walked, Mary answered Watson’s questions about what had happened inside the Magdalen Society, trying to fill in the details she had not been able to give him earlier. They passed a soldier without legs, begging on a corner. As they turned the corner and walked down yet another alley, a dog on a chain barked at them until someone shouted, “Shut up, you bloody bitch!” Then it lay down, whining, its ears flat against its head.
“Miss Jekyll, I’m not sure I should have brought you here,” said Watson.
“What, you didn’t know how the other half lived?” said Diana, mockingly. “So it’s good enough for me, but not a lady like her. I get it!”
If she says one more thing, I’m going to hit her, thought Mary. Diana had continually interrupted her conversation with Watson, detailing her life at St. Mary Magdalen—how she had hated the meals, which sisters she had particularly disliked, what she had said to them before they washed her mouth out with soap. What they had said to her after she bit them. If I had some soap, thought Mary, I would wash your mouth out myself, and you wouldn’t get to bite me, you brat.
DIANA: Oh yes I would! You’re not nearly as quick as I am.
“You shouldn’t be here either,” said Watson. “This is no place for a child.”
“Oh Lord!” said Diana. “I was born in a place like this. There was a man who lived in our court, a butcher he was, with a wife he used to beat when he was drunk. Well, one night he fell down drunk and hit his head on one of the stoops. That was the end of him! By morning, the rats had eaten him up, all but the bones. Wasn’t that a funny end, for a butcher?”
“Diana,” said Mary, “even rats wouldn’t pick bones clean in one night. If you’re going to tell tales, you should at least make them plausible.”
“All right then,” said Diana. “He wasn’t gone by the next morning, but he was gnawed by rats! His widow couldn’t pay for a funeral, so he lay there for three days until the Missionary Society took his body away. Lord, how he stunk up our court!”
“That’s quite enough,” said Mary. “Dr. Watson, where are we going, exactly?”
“I think it’s just around the corner,” he said. “It would have been better for Charlie to guide us—boys like him know every inch of this city. But I needed him to look after your trunk, Miss Hyde. Otherwise, I’m not sure it would have reached its destination.”
DIANA: That’s right, Miss Hyde! At least some people know how to be polite. And I could have guided you—I know every inch of Whitechapel, better than Charlie. But did you ask me? Of course not.
“I just hope I’ve understood Charlie’s directions,” Watson continued. “The alleys in this part of the city are like a labyrinth. You expect a Minotaur around each corner, and wish for a piece of string from Ariadne!”
Around the next corner was the narrowest, dirtiest alley they had yet seen. Halfway down it stood Sherlock Holmes. With him were three men: two of them London bobbies, the third a short man in plain clothes with bright red hair and a bristling mustache. Lying on the ground between them was . . . well, mercifully she was covered with a piece of cloth, although it was not long enough to conceal her entire body. Mary could see her shoes and stockinged ankles. Toward the top of her body, the edges of the cloth were soaked with blood. Mary gasped. Why had she thought this would be interesting? It was not interesting—it was horrible.
DIANA: Horrible and interesting!
MARY: Horrible. But Diana’s right, it was interesting as well. I still remember her shoes: the heels were worn down, and I wondered if she had simply neglected them, or not been able to afford a cobbler. One of her stockings had been mended. It’s strange what trivial things we think of, when experiencing something so—well, horrible is the word.
“Watson! Excellent timing,” said Holmes. “Although I’m surprised to see that you brought Miss Jekyll. Could she not have been sent home in a cab? Forgive me, Miss Jekyll, I do not mean to dispose of you as though you were a piece of baggage. But this is scarcely the place for a lady. And who or what is this?” He looked pointedly at Diana.
“This is what we found at the Society of St. Mary Magdalen,” said Watson.
“Her name is Diana Hyde,” said Mary. “This is the Hyde my mother’s payments have been supporting. She looks about thirteen or fourteen, although she’s a bit scrawny. Do you think—”
“Scrawny my arse!” said Diana. “And I’m fourteen, thank you. I’m not some beggar born on the streets—I know my own birthday.”
“—that she’s the daughter of Mr. Hyde?” said Holmes. “Surely she herself can give you some information on that score.”
“I suppose we never did ask her, did we, Dr. Watson?” said Mary.
“There was no time,” Watson replied.
“Why are you talking about me as though I’m not here?” said Diana, crossing her arms and looking irate.