“In this case, the simplest course of action is to ask.” Holmes turned to Diana and put his hand on her shoulder, conveniently stopping her from what she had been about to do—kick Mary on the shin. “Are you the daughter of a Mr. Edward Hyde?”
Diana twisted her shoulder out of his grasp and stood glaring at them. “Mum always told me that my father was a gentleman who called himself Mr. Hyde. She told me to behave like a lady because I was a gentleman’s daughter. But he never came to see me, not while Mum was alive. And then I was sent to St. Mary’s.”
“So you would have no idea where he is now,” said Watson.
“Holmes, I don’t know what you’re doing bringing a woman and a child to a murder scene,” said the red-haired man. “Watson can make himself useful, although nowadays he seems to spend his time recording your exploits rather than examining bodies. But they have no business being here.”
“I’m not a child,” said Diana. “And who do you think you are, carrots?”
“Carrots yourself!” said the red-haired man, glaring at her.
“This is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” said Holmes. “He’s not in the habit of locking up young women for rudeness, but it’s probably a good idea not to tempt him. Lestrade, this is Miss Jekyll, the daughter of Dr. Jekyll, who was involved in the Carew murder case. You may remember it, although it was many years ago. She’s here on business, with me. But I’m afraid, Miss Jekyll, that this murder takes precedence. It was reported an hour ago. A man who does odd jobs in these parts found the body of a woman named Molly Keane lying in this alley. I have not yet examined the body myself, and must do so at some length. As you are here, you and Miss Hyde may stay, but you may wish to avert your eyes. It’s not a sight for the squeamish, I’m afraid.”
Mary stood undecided, afraid to see what lay under the sheet. “Her head isn’t missing, is it?” she asked.
“That was the last victim,” said Lestrade. “He never takes the same body part twice, and if you look carefully, you’ll see the outline of her head, or most of it. But Holmes, I protest. This is highly irregular.”
Holmes paid no attention, but lifted the sheet and handed it to one of the sergeants, who folded it gingerly, trying not to get blood on his uniform.
Mary gasped.
“Horrible,” said Watson.
“Lord, he done her in good,” said Diana.
Molly Keane had been around Mary’s age. She must have been a pretty girl. The bones of her face were strong and fine, although the face itself was bruised: there were blue marks over the cheeks and under the eyes. Those eyes looked up at the gray sky, lifeless. There was blood spattered over her shoulders and soaked into her dress. Since the pavement was still wet from the morning’s rains, the paving stones around her were slick and red, with blood pooling in the spaces between them. Her long hair trailed in the blood on the pavement. Mary forced herself to look back up, to what she had been avoiding—the head lying in a pool of blood. The entire top of it, above the eyebrows, was gone.
“He cut out her brain,” said Holmes.
“What . . . what could he possibly want with it?” asked Mary.
“He must be a madman,” said Lestrade. “Who else would do something like that? Molly Keane was a—well, I’m not going to say anything in front of the ladies. You shouldn’t even be here, neither of you.”
“A whore,” said Diana. “We know. Look at the rouge on her cheeks.”
“But not an ordinary one,” said Holmes. “Look at her hands. Her palms are not calloused by manual labor, and her clothes are of good quality, although patched and mended. However she may have fallen, she was once a lady.”
“You’re right about that,” said Lestrade. “While we were waiting for you, Sergeant Debenham talked to one of the other girls who works this area. He’s got her waiting at an inn around the corner. He’s also holding the man who found the body, a local beggar who goes by Poor Richard and hasn’t any other name, so far as I can tell. You’ll want to talk to them, Holmes. According to her friend, Molly Keane had been a governess until she was seduced by her master and thrown out by her mistress. Her child died at birth, and she went on the streets to earn her living.”
“A sad story, and not an uncommon one,” said Watson, shaking his head.
“Poor girl,” said Mary. She had read about this side of London life, but never encountered it herself. It shocked her, although not perhaps as much as it should have. This was life, wasn’t it? Life as she had often imagined it, looking out the curtained windows of the house on Park Terrace.
“Or stupid,” said Diana. “I’ve lived with whores all my life, whether they were working or reformed. Whores know all sorts of ways to avoid getting with child. They can make customers withdraw, or use a sheepskin, or—”
“Diana!” said Mary.
DIANA: How is that more shocking than getting with child, I’d like to know?
MARY: One doesn’t talk about such things, particularly in front of gentlemen.
DIANA: Then one is as stupid as Molly Keane.
“She may have fallen into sin,” said Holmes, “but she died bravely. Look at her right hand. The fingernails are broken, and there is flesh under them. She fought for her life, poor girl.”
“What’s that in her left hand?” asked Mary.
Before Mary could stop her, Diana crouched by the body of Molly Keane, getting blood on the hem of her dress and the toes of her boots. She reached across the murdered girl to the stiff hand that lay on her bosom and pried open the clenched fingers. From that cold grasp, she withdrew what the girl had been holding: a metal button.
“Diana!” cried Mary.
“Bloody hell . . . ,” said Lestrade, sputtering as though he did not know how to go on. “Don’t you know never to touch a murder victim? Holmes, I’m holding you responsible.”
“All right, I’m responsible,” said Holmes. “You should not have done that, Miss Hyde. There might have been fingerprints, although it’s unlikely we would find any but Molly Keane’s. But since you have—what is it?”
“It’s a button of some sort . . . no, I think it’s a watch fob,” said Mary, taking it from Diana in her handkerchief, so as not to touch it, and examining it closely. It was made of brass, and heavy in her hand. “Part of the chain is still attached. And there’s something . . .” The fob was caked with blood, but she could make out letters on the bottom, engraved into the metal. “S.A. It could be a set of initials. Or it could stand for something—some sort of motto.”