“Very well then. Mrs. Hudson has prepared some sandwiches, and I have tea in a vacuum flask. We are technologically up to date, you see! Well then, let’s accompany Inspector Lestrade to the station.”
Without having sat down, Mary and Diana were once again out the door. On Baker Street, they crowded into the police carriage. She was relieved that Lestrade was sitting across from her, next to Holmes rather than her and Diana, although she had to see his cross face all the way to the train station. At least the sergeant who had been waiting for him in Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen sat outside, next to the driver. The main thoroughfares were so crowded at that hour that they did not speak about the case—they could barely have heard themselves above the continual din of London and the clacking of wheels on Oxford Street.
They were just in time to catch the train to Purfleet, and Mary was relieved to see Watson purchasing tickets for her and Diana. Well, they were helping with the case, after all. There was no reason for her to feel ashamed that she could not afford the expense herself. She had been dreading the long train ride with Lestrade, but he wanted to smoke on the journey. She breathed a sigh of relief when he decided to share a second-class compartment with his sergeant. She and Diana would travel first class with Holmes and Watson.
Once they were sitting in a first-class compartment, Watson unwrapped a packet of sandwiches in waxed paper. “Cheese and Mrs. Hudson’s special chutney,” he said. “I believe she brought the recipe back with her from India. Did you know her husband was in the army? He died in the Indian Mutiny.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Mary. How strange that Mrs. Hudson, that perfectly ordinary Englishwoman, should once have lived in India! Had she seen cobras and tigers? And fakirs? Mary could not quite remember what fakirs were, but surely Miss Murray had mentioned them during a geography lesson. Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson seemed a much more romantic figure.
“Here, have some tea. It will warm you up.” Watson poured tea from the flask into collapsible cups.
“And while you’re drinking it,” said Holmes, “you can tell me what you’ve been doing since we all stood over the corpse of Molly Keane together. I believe the two of you have been on adventures of your own, have you not, Miss Jekyll? I’m looking forward to hearing about them. And in return, I will take you to see a homicidal maniac.”
CHAPTER VIII
The Man Who Ate Flies
While the train traveled through the countryside, Mary recounted the adventures of that morning. She described the letters in Latin with their red seals. She hated admitting to Mr. Holmes that she could not read them. And yet why? Most women could not read Latin. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Her account would have taken less time if Diana had not kept interrupting. “Yes, but that’s not relevant,” Mary would reply to her descriptions of Charles Byrne and the two-headed baby in the specimen jar.
Holmes listened in silence, staring out the window. Mary could only tell that he was paying attention by his stillness. When she told the story of Beatrice, Watson exclaimed, “The poor girl!”
“So you see,” she concluded, “we need to rescue Beatrice Rappaccini, not only for her own sake, but also so she can tell us about this mysterious society.”
Holmes turned to look at her, with a serious expression on his face. “Are you prepared to take responsibility for her, Miss Jekyll? Remember that she is dangerous, even deadly. Will you take her into your own home?”
“I—don’t know,” said Mary. “I haven’t thought that far. But surely she needs to be rescued. Our duty that far is clear, is it not?”
“Of course it is!” said Watson. “Holmes is right—we must make certain she poses no risk to the general public. But of course she must be rescued.”
“So you are both determined,” said Holmes. “Well, don’t let Lestrade know you’re about to let a poisonous woman loose in the city of London. He won’t take it well, I assure you.”
“She won’t be loose, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “I’ll take care of her somehow, I promise.”
“Just as long as you don’t put her in my room,” said Diana. “I don’t want to die in my sleep.”
Mary ignored her and continued. “Here’s how I see the mystery we are trying to solve. The death of Molly Keane, and perhaps the other girls, can be connected to this Société des Alchimistes. The watch fob in her hand, the seal on the letters, and Miss Rappaccini’s words create a logical trail from the body in Whitechapel to the society. We know the society was conducting experiments on women—young women. We know that at least three scientists were involved: my father, Dr. Rappaccini, and a colleague of theirs named Moreau.”
“I just remembered where I’ve heard that name!” said Watson. “It was in my medical school days. He was a professor—had to leave his post because the anti-vivisection league made a fuss about some experiments of his. I don’t remember what they were exactly. I always thought anti-vivisection was a lot of nonsense. I’m as fond of animals as the next man, Miss Jekyll, but human knowledge must progress. We cannot stop scientific research.”
“I wonder if you would have approved of Dr. Moreau’s research, Watson,” said Holmes. “I remembered the case as soon as Miss Jekyll mentioned his name. That was why I suggested she accompany us on this journey. Moreau was grafting together parts of animals, hybridizing in order to create new species. The experiment over which he lost his post involved surgically altering the brains of pigs so they would become capable of human speech.”
“Human speech!” said Watson. “That is indeed shocking. I had no idea.”
“All his papers were burned after his departure,” said Holmes. “The medical school wanted to keep the incident as quiet as possible. I learned about it only because around the same time, the dean called me in on another matter, of drugs missing from the school’s pharmacy. The thief, I determined, was a man named Montgomery, a medical student who had gotten into the habit of betting on dog fights and was selling those drugs to pay his gambling debts. He left the school before we could confront him, but his guilt was clear.”
“Montgomery!” said Mary. “He was in the letter too. He was going to present a paper for Dr. Moreau at a meeting of the society in Vienna.”
“Ah, Miss Jekyll, I wish you had told me that at once,” said Holmes. “Or brought the letter with you so I could read it for myself.”
Mary flushed. Of course she should have brought the letter. But she had not wanted to expose her father’s correspondence to the eyes of strangers. Even to the eyes of Mr. Holmes. She still felt an obscure desire to protect him. The portfolio was in the drawer of her mother’s desk, in the morning room. Somehow, she had wanted it to remain in that darkness.