“I don’t know yet,” said Diana. “He’s a suspected murderer, as far as I know. But I always thought he was a bloody bastard. Look at the way he abandoned my mother. She died in St. Bartholomew’s, where they dumped her in a grave with the patients who had died that week, so they could prepare her bed for someone else. I’ve never had your high opinion of our father.”
“You shouldn’t say that, even if it’s true,” said Mary. “We should not judge until we understand what happened. All this about Darwin, and Moreau—that’s another scientist, I’m guessing, like Dr. Rappaccini. And these experiments . . .”
Diana snorted. “I don’t care who they are. Bastards, the lot of them, most likely.”
The door opened. “Miss Mary, do you need anything else? Have you actually eaten any of those sandwiches, or has that scamp eaten them all?”
“I don’t think I can eat right now, Mrs. Poole,” said Mary, putting a hand to her head and running it through her hair. “Do you know why my mother saved these documents?”
“Perhaps she wanted you to have them,” said Diana. She started on her third sandwich.
“While it pains me to agree with Miss Diana, and you are not to eat all the sandwiches, no matter what Miss Mary says, she may be right. Mr. Utterson burned your father’s papers after his death. Perhaps your mother saved these so you could read them someday.”
“I always wondered why she—went mad.” Mary might as well say it. Because that was what had happened, hadn’t it? “This . . . her husband turning into a monster. Well, it would explain a lot of things.” Mary ran her fingers through her hair again, then tried to pin back the strands that were starting to come out of the bun at the nape of her neck.
“That’s terrible, miss,” said Mrs. Poole.
“This letter is from Italy, from a Dr. Rappaccini. Have you heard that name before, Mrs. Poole? I believe he corresponded with my father regularly.”
Mrs. Poole wrinkled her forehead. “I have heard that name before. The question is, where?” She was silent for a moment. “Wait, I seem to remember . . . it’s in the kitchen! I’ll be back in a moment.” She left the door open behind her. Mary and Diana stared at each other. The kitchen? Diana shrugged.
In a few minutes, Mrs. Poole was back with a copy of the Gazette in her hand. “Here it is!” she said triumphantly. “Goodness, it’s dark in here. Why haven’t you turned on the gas? I’ll do it, and then I’ll be able to see. . . . Yes, that’s better. ‘Beatrice Rappaccini, the Beauty who Breathes Poison. Appearing 10:00 a.m. and 12:00 noon Wednesdays and Fridays at the Royal College of Surgeons. Admission free with advertisement for all who would like to witness this scientific marvel. Otherwise, a shilling for adults and sixpence for children.’ I was going to ask for Friday off, to see her.”
“Breathes poison!” said Diana appreciatively. “Wish I could do that!”
“Beatrice Rappaccini,” said Mary. “Wasn’t that the name in the letter? Mrs. Poole, you’re right, I should have something to eat. Of course you can have Friday off, you can have any day off you like. But Diana and I are going to see her tomorrow, 10:00 a.m. sharp. We can get there and back by noon, when we have an appointment with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.”
“He’s got a thing for you,” said Diana, grinning.
“He most certainly does not,” said Mary, indignantly.
“Then why did he hand you out of the cab so carefully, Miss Jekyll?”
“Oh, you mean Dr. Watson. Well, I don’t think he does either. Give me a sandwich—you’ve taken all of them! You’re like a goose, you know that? They’ll eat and eat until they’re sick.” Mary took a sandwich off Diana’s plate and bit into it. Paste, not her favorite, but it would have to do. Suddenly, she realized that she was very hungry.
“Mrs. Poole, can you pour me another cup of tea, and then one for yourself? I think we’re going to be awake for a while yet. I know, I know, you have to wash the dishes, and sweep the floor, and bank the oven. But for goodness’ sake, sit down for a moment and listen. I know you would never ask, but I want to tell you what happened today.”
With visible reluctance, Mrs. Poole sat in one of the armchairs by the fireplace and clasped her hands on her lap, waiting. Mary recounted, as succinctly as she could, the events of that day, from the moment she had knocked at the door of 221B Baker Street to the moment Watson had deposited them once again at 11 Park Terrace.
DIANA: And wasn’t she properly horrified that her Miss Mary had gone gallivanting around London like that! I still remember how she looked at you.
MARY: I do too! But you didn’t say anything, Mrs. Poole.
MRS. POOLE: Not my place, miss. You young ladies will do as you wish, whatever I think. And however foolish it may be.
“So you see,” Mary continued, showing Mrs. Poole the letter, “my father was a scientist. He was involved in a series of experiments—and not just him, there were others as well. This Rappaccini, and a Moreau.”
“And don’t forget Darwin,” said Diana.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Mary. “Don’t you know who Mr. Darwin is? Did they teach you nothing at St. Mary Magdalen? No, never mind, I’ll explain later. The issue is, they were involved in a series of experiments, and somehow my father learned to transform himself into Hyde. As Hyde, he murdered Sir Danvers Carew. I thought perhaps Hyde could be the murderer of Molly Keane, but that seems impossible now. If he was my father, then Hyde is dead, and there is no connection between the two murders—except this.” She pointed to the seals on the two envelopes.
“So what do we do now?” asked Diana. “Look for S.A.?”
“Yes, although at the moment we have no idea what S.A. means. Why was my father receiving letters in Latin from S.A.? Did it have anything to do with his scientific experiments? Tomorrow, we’ll talk to this Beatrice Rappaccini. Tonight, Diana, I want you to tell us anything else you know about Hyde.”
Mary sat back. She and Mrs. Poole looked at Diana, expectantly.
CHAPTER VI
Diana’s Story
Diana stared at Mary and Mrs. Poole. “How would I know anything about Hyde? I mean Dad. He died before I was born.”
“But your mother told you about him,” said Mary. “She told you about his connection with my father, didn’t she? What else did she tell you? Think back—anything you remember could be important.”
“Oh hell!” said Diana. She shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and finished her tea. Then she leaned back on the sofa and said, “She told me he was a proper gentleman, with an account at the Bank of England. And he had a house in Soho, furnished like a gentleman’s house, with paintings on the walls. And he frightened her, toward the end. He was always talking about life and death, about how the dead could be brought back to life. She thought he might be into spiritualism.”
“How the dead could be brought back to life?” said Mary. “Do you mean ghosts, or corpses?”
“How should I know?” Diana looked down at the plate on the floor, but it had no more sandwiches on it. “Corpses, I think. Yes, he told her that with the right chemicals, corpses could be brought back to life. If they weren’t long dead, that is. He told her someone had done it with frogs.”