“I don’t want to take a bath,” said Diana.
“Yes, you do,” said Mary. “You don’t actually like being that filthy. You just want to be contradictory. Mrs. Poole will draw you one. I assure you, it will be better than anything you could get at St. Mary Magdalen. And then we will have tea, I think. If you wouldn’t mind, Mrs. Poole?”
Diana grinned. “Oh, it’s going to be a treat living with you, I can see that already. You’re just like that detective. You tell people what to do, and they do it simply because they’re used to following orders. Well, I’m not.”
“Obviously,” said Mary. “Nevertheless, you are going to take a bath, because you smell and I don’t want you sitting on the furniture in that state. No tea unless you take a bath first.”
“Come on, you,” said Mrs. Poole. “Miss Mary says into the bath, so into the bath you go. And while you’re in this house, you will speak to her with respect. Miss Mary is a lady.” She took Diana by the arm and pulled her toward the stairs.
“And what am I, a piece of dirt?” said Diana.
“Near enough!” responded Mrs. Poole.
When they were gone, Mary took off her hat and gloves, leaving them on the hall table. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She was still pale, but the fresh air had put some color into her cheeks. She looked more alive than she had before her visit to Mr. Guest.
She took the portfolio into the parlor. Should she turn on the gas? It was getting dark, but she didn’t want to use it until absolutely necessary. She lit the fire, which was once again already laid—thank goodness for Mrs. Poole! The housekeeper should find other employment, but Mary did not know what she would do without her. How lonely it would be. . . . She sat on the sofa with the portfolio next to her, warming her hands and staring into the flames. It had been horrible—that poor girl. But she could not help being interested in the case—it was a mystery, and surely everyone was interested in mysteries? In untangling their various threads?
One of the threads was sitting next to her on the sofa. Once again, she pulled the tea table in front of her, set the portfolio on it, and began pulling out its contents: the account book, the laboratory notebook, the letters and receipts. They were all she had left of her father, the only clues to the mystery of his life and death. She put them into neat piles. She had looked at them last night, but had been focused on the book of accounts and the possibility that Hyde was still alive. She would go through them more carefully now.
Diana’s claim couldn’t possibly be true. But why had her father hired Hyde, so unpleasant, so unreliable? And as it turned out, a criminal. And why had her mother supported Diana all those years? She had not wanted to question Diana in front of Mr. Holmes and the police. This was a family matter, and she wanted to explore it privately. What had been the relationship between her father and Hyde? And her father’s fortune—was it a coincidence that it had disappeared at the same time as Hyde? Had it been a matter of blackmail? If so, for what?
She remembered her mother, after her father’s death. So secretive, so unwilling to discuss her life with him even before the long descent into madness. Mary had assumed her reluctance was a result of grief. But maybe there was more to it.
The documents. She would focus on them. Systematically, she began sorting through each pile, starting with those she had paid the least attention to last night. Letters first, taking each one out of its envelope. Two of them were from Maw & Sons, the scientific supply company. The other three letters had foreign stamps. Two of them she set aside, but the third, from Italy . . . She read it again, more carefully this time. She looked through the receipts from Maw & Sons. And then she looked through the laboratory notebook, knowing what to search for, although she dreaded finding it. If only her father hadn’t had such crabbed, eccentric handwriting! It was like trying to decipher the movements of a spider. The letter from Italy had given her a clue she would never have paid attention to last night. But tonight, a particular sentence in the letter had stood out, taken on a different and more sinister meaning: A scientist should not experiment on himself. What, exactly, had her father been doing?
It could not mean—but she was starting to think it could. She looked at the letter again, then the notebook, then the receipts. She leaned back into the sofa, staring at the painting of her mother over the mantelpiece without seeing it, lost in thought. Surely what she imagined was impossible? And yet she could think of no other explanation.
“Here’s your tea, miss.” She blinked, startled. It was Mrs. Poole with the tea tray. “I don’t know as you’ve eaten since breakfast, so I made some ham sandwiches, and some paste as well. That will be the last of the ham for a while, I’m afraid. There should be enough for the both of you, once that brat gets out of the bath, which may not be until Judgment Day. For all the screaming she did going in, now that she’s in, she doesn’t want to come out.”
“Her name is Diana Hyde,” said Mary. “She says she’s Hyde’s daughter. She’s the one my mother was supporting, in a sort of—charitable institution.”
“You don’t say! Well, she does look rather like him, with that grin of hers, like an imp plotting mischief. And she’s wicked enough for anything. Tried to bite my arm when I put her in the bathtub, not that I’m going to put up with that sort of nonsense! I wonder who her mother could be. I pity her, whoever she was, getting herself involved with a man like Hyde. The ways of men are unaccountable, my mother always told me. Not that I’ve ever been married myself, thank the Lord. Where should I put these?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Mary. “Can you put them on the sideboard? I’ve made a bit of a mess on the table, I’m afraid. And would you mind pouring me a cup of tea, Mrs. Poole? I don’t want to lose my place here. She says more than that. She claims Hyde was not a man at all, but a sort of disguise my father wore to visit—well, places he should not have been, evidently. Hyde was a way to hide his activities.”
“Surely not, miss,” said Mrs. Poole, looking astonished. “Why, the two were quite different. Dr. Jekyll was a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman, and Mr. Hyde was a low, creeping sort of thing. It’s not possible, I assure you.”
“Did you ever see them together?” asked Mary. That would settle the question once and for all.