“Well, no, I can’t say as I did,” said Mrs. Poole, putting the tea tray on the sideboard. “But that doesn’t prove anything, does it? Perhaps Mr. Hyde claimed to be his master. I wouldn’t put it past him, especially when it came to the matter of paying bills.”
Mrs. Poole handed Mary a cup of tea. “Lemon and sugar, as usual. I took the liberty of putting in two, seeing as you need strength after such a long day.” Mary took a sip. Ah, that was better. Of course she should have eaten, but there simply hadn’t been time, with the visit to Mr. Holmes and then to Whitechapel. And then the body of poor Molly Keane.
“What do you remember about my father, Mrs. Poole?” she asked. “I was so young when he died—and he was not an affectionate father, even then. He was kind, or tried to be, but I always felt a little intimidated around him. I remember him teaching me the table of elements and showing me how the flame of the Bunsen burner turned different colors in response to various chemicals.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Poole, frowning. “He was always a kind gentleman, as you say. Even to a chambermaid, as I was then. Although he smelled funny. It was those chemicals he used. Always experimenting, he was, in the laboratory. My father never believed he committed suicide. Thought he might have swallowed one of those chemicals of his by accident, and poisoned himself.”
“He may have poisoned himself, in a way,” said Mary. She hesitated—would her idea sound foolish? Impossible? But she had to tell someone, and she had known Mrs. Poole as long as she could remember. Mrs. Poole had been like a mother to her, when her own mother couldn’t be. “These documents imply—they seem to indicate—that he was performing chemical experiments. On himself, and one of those experiments transformed him into Hyde. The disguise wasn’t just a physical change, like changing his clothes and putting on false hair, but an actual chemical transformation.”
“Lord have mercy,” said Mrs. Poole. “Is that even possible?”
“I know it sounds absurd,” said Mary. “But look at this.” She opened the laboratory notebook to a page she had marked and pointed to an entry written in her father’s crabbed, shaky script.
Today, I let out the beast Hyde. He is stronger than I am. What will he do when I can no longer control his impulses?
Last night, she had assumed these sentences meant her father had fought with Hyde. Now, they took on a different meaning. “And look, a couple of pages later.” Mary flipped past several pages of formulas and scientific notes.
The sight of my face in the mirror. The horror! The horror! He has gained the power to transform at will, and I cannot stop him.
“And the final entry.”
All is lost. All, all lost, and I am a dead man.
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Poole.
How could she explain? It would sound so strange, almost absurd, and she was not entirely sure she believed it herself. And yet Mary had to try. “Why did the sight of his own face fill him with horror? And these two letters from Maw & Sons, the wholesale chemist and supplier, about some sort of powder he ordered. Look, in the first one they say they’re enclosing another batch, and in the second they apologize that it’s not working as expected. They offer a refund, but insist that it’s identical to the first batch in chemical composition. What if he transformed into Hyde repeatedly, but then the chemical transformation stopped working? What if he became stuck as Hyde? And then—committed suicide.”
“But why ever would Dr. Jekyll want to do such a thing?” asked Mrs. Poole. She sounded completely unconvinced.
“I don’t know,” said Mary. Suddenly, she felt very tired. Surely the whole thing was impossible? No, not impossible. Merely improbable. This was the nineteenth century, the age of science. Who knew what possibilities existed in the natural world? If a caterpillar could transform into a butterfly . . .
“You said yourself that the ways of men are unaccountable. There are many reasons a man, even a gentleman, would assume a disguise. To visit opium dens or prostitutes. Commit murder with impunity. Do the things that gentlemen are not supposed to do. He may not have been the man we remember.”
“You’ve started without me,” said Diana. In comparison to how she had looked earlier, she positively glowed with cleanliness. Her hair was wet and slicked back, like a seal’s, and she wore a clean white nightdress of Mary’s. The cut on her arm was neatly bandaged.
“I didn’t realize you wanted to read through stacks of documents,” said Mary.
“I don’t. But I want to know what you find out.” Diana grabbed a ham sandwich and sat on the other end of the sofa, drawing up her bare feet.
“Put a plate under that,” said Mrs. Poole.
“You’re supposed to call me miss,” said Diana.
“I’ll call you miss when you deserve it,” said Mrs. Poole. “I’ve put her in the old nursery, miss,” she said to Mary. “I’ll brush her clothes for tomorrow, but some of them are in a disreputable state.”
“Disreputable yourself!” Diana shoved the sandwich into her mouth and took a large bite.
“Diana, if you’re not polite to Mrs. Poole, your stay in this house won’t be a pleasant one,” said Mary. “She’s the one who cooks for us and cleans our rooms, and makes our lives generally comfortable. Although if I don’t find a way to make money soon, she’ll have to find another employer, and we will have to fend for ourselves.”
“I’m not leaving you, miss,” said Mrs. Poole. “This has been my home since I was a girl, and I’m staying, whether you can pay me or not.”
“I thought you were rich,” said Diana. “I wondered why you don’t have pictures on the walls, and most of the floors are bare. And there are holes in this sofa.” She put her big toe into one.
“Well, I’m not rich,” said Mary. “And stop that, or you’ll tear it further. When my father died, we discovered that his fortune had disappeared, and my mother’s income was only for her lifetime. Now that’s gone as well. Even the money she left to pay for your care at St. Mary Magdalen is almost gone.” Twenty-three pounds. She had meant to go to the bank this morning, after visiting Mr. Holmes, but instead she had ended up in Whitechapel. She would have to go tomorrow, as soon as the bank opened. “Once that money runs out, there will be nothing for you or me or Mrs. Poole to live on. I sold everything of value to pay for my mother’s care, because her income wasn’t enough. I’ve tried to sell this house, but no one will buy it. These are difficult economic times—not that I expect you to understand, since I doubt you’ve read a newspaper in your life. And I can’t seem to find employment, even as a nursemaid. So there’s nothing. I thought if I found Hyde, I could claim the reward, although if you’re correct and my father was Hyde, he died fourteen years ago. In the meantime, you will be polite to Mrs. Poole. Of course, if you’d rather sleep in the scullery, you’re welcome to do so.”
Diana looked at Mary, then at Mrs. Poole, and said, “Thank you for the bath.” She grinned like a monkey, but still, they were words Mary had never expected to hear out of her mouth.