“Clearly, Miss Hyde has some information she would like to share with us,” said Holmes.
Diana laughed again. “Jekyll’s dead, according to Miss Mary, here. That means Hyde’s dead. My mum told me that Hyde was just another name for Jekyll. Hyde was a disguise Jekyll used when he didn’t want to be found out. Like a cloak.”
“That’s not possible,” said Mary. “I met Hyde, when my father was still alive. My housekeeper, Mrs. Poole, remembers him. He looked nothing like my father.”
“Are you calling my mother a liar?” asked Diana, scowling.
“I think we must rely on Miss Jekyll’s evidence in this case,” said Holmes. “Your mother may have been deceived. Hyde may have told her that he was Jekyll, in order to act the part of a gentleman. Perhaps even to use Jekyll’s credit.”
There was a look on Diana’s face: anger at not being believed, and something that startled Mary, a grimace as though she were about to cry.
DIANA: Oh, bosh.
MARY: No, that’s exactly what I remember.
“My father had many secrets,” said Mary. “I don’t know what sort of relationship he had with Mr. Hyde. Of course what Diana suggests is impossible—I’m sorry,” she said, turning to Diana, “but one man can’t simply disguise himself as another, not when their appearances are so different. Hyde was at least a foot shorter than my father. However, there must be something more to their relationship than we are aware of, or why would my mother support his child? I know my supposition is farfetched, Mr. Holmes, but the description fits Hyde perfectly. I still remember that low voice and the chill it sent down my spine. Like ice, as Kate Bright-Eyes said.”
“If there’s a possibility that Hyde is still out there, I want to know about it,” said Lestrade. “We don’t want murderers walking the streets of London, and there’s Carew to pay for. But he’s likely long gone, to Australia or South America.”
“You’re almost certainly right,” said Holmes. “Nevertheless, I would like Miss Jekyll to examine her father’s papers again. Could you do that, Miss Jekyll? And report back to me tomorrow?”
“Of course,” said Mary. She wanted to read through the notebook again in particular, systematically this time. There had been some mention of Hyde . . . but she could not remember in what context. And what in the world was she going to do with Diana?
“Watson, can you take these ladies home? I’ll meet you back at Baker Street after I’ve talked with Lestrade.” Holmes looked from one of them to the other. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking, but Mary thought he seemed . . . well, almost amused.
“Come on,” said Mary to Diana. She was not interested in amusing Mr. Holmes. She was grateful to him for having included her in the investigation, but also irritated—she was not sure why. “I have a lot of work to do. And you need a bath.”
“No, I don’t,” said Diana.
“Bath, or you won’t get dinner.” Mary grabbed Diana by a dirty wrist and pulled her along. Watson walked beside them, trying not to smile as Diana glared and muttered under her breath. Mary resolutely ignored her. She would ask Mrs. Poole to make a strong pot of tea and she would stay up all night, if she had to. What secrets did those papers hold? What had she missed the first time? She did not know, but she wanted to find out.
CHAPTER V
The Letter from Italy
Climbing down from the cab, Mary found it difficult to believe that she had just come from Whitechapel—that such a place even existed. Park Terrace was broad and quiet, and the only sound was the clopping of the horse’s hooves as it stepped impatiently in place. The brick buildings, dating from the time of one of the Georges—she could never remember which—stood along the street in respectable rows. Over the roofs and chimney pots of the row opposite from the Jekyll residence, she could see the tops of the trees in Regent’s Park.
“Well, isn’t this swell?” said Diana.
And there of course was the evidence that Mary had indeed spent a morning in the dregs of the city—the dirty, ragged girl beside her. What in the world was she going to do with Diana?
The door opened. “Come in, come in,” said Mrs. Poole. “You’ll catch your chill, standing out there on the pavement.”
Mary turned and thanked Watson, who had handed her and Diana down the steps of the cab. “Think nothing of it, Miss Jekyll,” he said. He had already paid the cabbie, once again insisting that it was a business expense, which worried Mary. Kind as he was, she disliked feeling a sense of obligation. But there was nothing to be done about that now.
“Although of course it was a pleasure as well,” he added. “Having a young lady of—keen intellect such as yours, shall we say—involved in Holmes’s investigation makes a refreshing change. I shall see you tomorrow—at noon? Should Holmes and I meet you here?”
“Thank you,” said Mary, not quite knowing what to make of the compliment, but certain it was not the one he had originally intended to make. “I think it would be best if we came to Baker Street. At noon, then, Dr. Watson.” She did not want Holmes—or Watson, of course—to see the bare walls, the uncarpeted floors. The places where there had once been vases filled with flowers or plaster busts of philosophers. It was pride, and pride was a sin, but still . . .
“Ta,” said Diana. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Watson bowed, unsuccessfully hiding a smile, and said, “Ta to you as well, Miss Hyde.” Then he strode off toward Marylebone Road.
“Come on,” Mary said to Diana, who was examining the house and Mrs. Poole. “If you keep staring like that, your eyes will fall out.”
Diana gave her what Mary would come to call that look—of mingled contempt and annoyance. But she followed Mary up the steps and into the front hall.
MARY: She gives me that look all the time!
DIANA: I wouldn’t if you weren’t so annoying.
Diana’s trunk was waiting in the hall. Yet another thing for which they were obliged to Dr. Watson.
“This came for you earlier today,” said the housekeeper. “It was delivered on a vegetable cart, but the man said Miss Jekyll right enough, so I told him to leave it by the staircase.”
“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Poole,” said Mary as the housekeeper took her umbrella. “I had it sent—I’m sorry, I should have sent a note, but we were in a bit of a hurry.” She put the portfolio with the papers in it on the hall table, then pulled off her mackintosh and handed that to Mrs. Poole as well. How tired she was! She had not realized it until now, but it had been a long day, and as Holmes had pointed out, she had not eaten since breakfast.
“Do we have a guest, miss?” asked Mrs. Poole, looking doubtfully at Diana, with her bare legs and hatless head. She checked the mackintosh for stains before folding it neatly over her arm.
“This is Diana,” said Mary. “And she needs a bath.”