“You’re welcome,” said Mrs. Poole, sounding unconvinced. “Is there anything else you want, miss?”
“No, thank you,” said Mary. “But if I do, I’ll ring.”
After Mrs. Poole had left, Mary sat rereading the letter from Italy in silence. Diana chewed on the sandwich with her mouth open. Then, “What is that?” she asked.
“Aren’t you capable of being quiet?” asked Mary.
“Oh, I’m capable, all right,” said Diana. “I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, for as long as it takes you to notice the seal.”
“What do you mean, the seal?”
Diana pointed to one of the envelopes lying on the table. It had been sealed with red wax. Impressed in the wax were two letters: S.A. It was the same design as on the watch fob in Molly Keane’s hand.
For a moment, Mary could not speak. Then, “How could I have missed that?” she said. And there it was on another of the envelopes as well. Two envelopes, two identical seals.
“Well, what are the letters about?” asked Diana.
“I have no idea.” Mary pulled a letter out of one envelope and handed it to Diana. “Look.”
Diana wrinkled her brow. “Is it in some kind of code?”
“No, it’s in Latin. But I can’t read it. Miss Murray started me on Latin, but after my mother became so sick, I couldn’t afford a governess. All I remember is Carthago delenda est. They’re both in Latin, and postmarked from Budapest. Who would be writing to my father from Budapest in Latin? The other letters are the two from Maw’s, about some chemical he was trying to buy, and this one from Italy, which is in English, thank goodness.”
“Well, what does that one say?” asked Diana.
Mary gave her a look, sighed, and started reading it out loud.
My dear Jekyll,
I am glad to hear that your experiments are going well. I remain convinced that we are working along the correct lines. The important scientific advances of this century will be in the biological sciences, as the important advances of the previous century were in chemistry and physics. Darwin has shown us the way, although he himself cannot see past the end of his nose! (I have heard it is a rather long nose, but not long enough to see the truth.) We shall go where Darwin never imagined. Transmutation, not natural selection, is the agent of evolution. God is an alchemist, not a plodding incrementalist like Signore Darwin! We shall show the scientific community, shall we not, my friend and colleague? Only those who dare much are capable of changing history and shining the light of knowledge on our dark world.
I am pleased to report that my Beatrice is flourishing. After a series of initial setbacks, due I think to incorrect dosage, she is as healthy as a weed—although I admit that I had a fright, several months ago, and almost lost her. But she recovered, and I have never seen a child look more radiant. How joyfully she plays in the garden! I have decided that botany is the most appropriate area of study for her, and I believe she has a naturally scientific mind, although in the feminine mode of course. She cannot look at the plants as dispassionately as I do, but thinks of them almost as her sisters. She is sad that she cannot enjoy the insects, particularly the butterflies, but they perish from her breath.
Our colleague Moreau was right to conjecture that the female brain would be more malleable and responsive to our experiments. I am fascinated by his research, but it seems as though he is never satisfied, and must continually try new techniques, with new experimental material. How I lament the scientific ignorance that hounded him out of your England. What he could have done with the resources and funding of a medical school! However, he is sending Montgomery to present a paper at the meeting of the Société in Vienna next month. Will you be attending as well? I look forward to hearing about your own experiments in transmutation, although I fear, dear colleague, that what you are undertaking is too dangerous. A scientist should not experiment on himself. He should be a dispassionate observer, and for an experimental subject, young, malleable flesh is best. You have a daughter, have you not? Surely she is old enough for you to begin the process, in whatever direction you decide will yield the most promising results.
Do please let me know if you will indeed be presenting a paper in Vienna. I am getting old, but will brave the roads to see you.
My very best regards,
Giacomo Rappaccini
“I don’t understand,” said Diana.
“Well, I don’t either,” said Mary, looking once again at the envelope. “Dottor Giacomo Rappaccini, with a return address in Padua—that’s not S.A. There’s no seal on this envelope—you can see the circle where it was, and a little bit of red wax, but it must have fallen off when the envelope was opened. And all this about Darwin and transmutation and their scientific experiments . . . Although it does suggest that a theory of mine may be correct.” She sat silent for a moment, looking at the letter in front of her.
“Well?” said Diana. She waited, then stood and walked over to the sideboard, where she piled the rest of the sandwiches onto a plate. She poured herself a cup of tea, put in four lumps of sugar, then carried the plate and saucer, with the cup balanced precariously on it, back to the sofa. She set them down on the floor and sat on the sofa with her legs crossed under her, drawn up into the nightgown. “Are you going to explain your theory or not?”
Reluctantly, Mary told her what she had told Mrs. Poole earlier that evening: about the possibility of a chemical transformation, the possibility she did not want to admit . . . that her father was indeed Hyde. After all, wasn’t that transmutation? The transformation from a respectable gentleman to a suspected murderer . . . “Look for yourself,” she said, showing Diana the laboratory notebook, flipping to the relevant pages.
“Well, that’s it, then,” said Diana, through a mouthful of bread and paste. “I told you, didn’t I? Sister.”
“It’s not that simple,” said Mary. “I don’t know if that’s the experiment this letter describes. Perhaps the notebook refers to something quite different.”
“He has gained the power to transform at will, and I cannot stop him,” said Diana, tapping the page with her finger and leaving a smear of paste. “That’s plain enough, isn’t it? He let out Hyde, and Hyde was taking over. You just don’t want to believe your father was a murderer.”
“Of course not!” said Mary, rubbing the paste off as best she could, although a grease stain remained on the paper. “How do you feel, knowing yours is?”