“Yes, it was first performed by a student named Victor Frankenstein, who was inducted into the society by his chemistry professor. Frankenstein sought to create a man out of corpses and bring that man to life. He succeeded in his experiment. But that was a hundred years ago. I do not understand why anyone would want to reproduce his experiment now.”
“Frankenstein!” said Watson. “I remember that name. Was there not an account—written by the wife of the poet Shelley, I believe? Frankenstein: A Biography of the Modern Prometheus, or some such. I remember reading it in my university days. But Miss Rappaccini, that was a popular novel, not a scientific treatise. It gave me a proper fright, but as a medical student, I considered it the worst kind of bunk.”
“No,” said Beatrice. “It is no more bunk than I am. The public may have considered it fiction, but the members of the Société knew that Frankenstein had existed, and he had created a monster. At least, so my father told me.”
“And if I remember correctly, that monster destroyed him,” said Watson. “I had nightmares afterward for a week. I kept thinking the corpse from my anatomy class would rise up off the dissecting table and come after me!”
“Ah, I see I shall have to do some reading,” said Holmes. “Popular thrillers have never been in my line. But it seems as though we are back at this mysterious society. You were right after all, Miss Jekyll, in that train of inferences you made.”
Mary tried not to smile, but she could feel herself blushing.
DIANA: You can’t feel yourself blushing. That’s lady novelist talk.
“I think you’d better tell us as much about this society as you know,” Holmes continued, then waited, looking at each of them in turn.
Sometimes interrupting each other, Mary and Beatrice recounted what they had learned about the Société des Alchimistes. Mary, after some hesitation, pulled the letters from the portfolio and handed them to Holmes. They did not cast her father in a positive light, but if they could help elucidate this mystery, it was her duty to show them.
“This information suggests two lines of inquiry,” said Holmes, after examining the letters. “We’ve spoken to Molly Keane’s and Susanna Moore’s associates. We must do the same for the other women, who were murdered before I took on this case. Why were they chosen, and why were those particular limbs taken? There’s a pattern here, particularly in those two brains, belonging to the two governesses. In my experience, they are usually intelligent, underappreciated women, doomed to lives of inconsequence. Why would they, in particular, have attracted our killer and his accomplice? Today, Watson and I will go to Whitechapel and see what we can find out. But first, I will send a telegram to Dr. Balfour asking for an appointment. I want to take another look at that asylum. I suggest you ladies spend the day recovering from last night’s exploits.”
“And Renfield? What about him?” asked Mary.
“I shall leave Renfield to Lestrade. I’m convinced he was induced to make that confession, but who induced him? And who helped him escape? That’s the man I wish to pursue, not the poor lunatic. He must have known Renfield, been familiar with his habits. I hope Watson and I will learn something at the asylum that enables us to identify the true culprit.”
Mary nodded. She felt disappointed to be left out of things. Was this the end of her involvement with the investigation? She hoped not. But she did have Diana and Beatrice to take care of.
After Mrs. Poole had let Holmes and Watson out, Mary watched them walk down Park Terrace until they were out of sight. Then, she returned to the parlor. There would be breakfast dishes to clear, accounts to settle. A household to run.
Beatrice rose from the window seat and said, “I did not want to say this in front of the gentlemen, but there is a third line of investigation, in addition to the two Mr. Holmes laid out. When they arrived, I was about to tell you that I too have a letter to share. I received it a month ago, or rather, I found it in Professor Petronius’s desk. He had no intention of delivering it to me, I’m sure.”
Out of her bodice, she drew a letter, much creased. She unfolded it and read the following:
“My dear Miss Rappaccini,
You may recognize my name, as I immediately recognized yours. By chance, I saw a copy of your advertisement in the Gazette, and would like to make your acquaintance in person.
I am currently with Lorenzo’s Circus of Marvels and Delights. We are touring throughout the countryside, but will be in London, performing in Battersea Park on the South Bank, from the beginning of May to the end of June. How curious that we should be in the same line of business! Or perhaps not so curious, after all. I do not know your circumstances, so will wait to hear from you. But I very much look forward to meeting.
Yours sincerely,
Catherine Moreau”
“Well, that’s a long way of saying nothing,” said Diana. “Who is Catherine Moreau, and why does she need investigating?”
“I think she did not want to say anything important in this letter,” said Beatrice. “She thought it might be read, as of course it was. But don’t you see? Her name is Moreau. She must be related to Dr. Moreau, my father’s friend and a member of the Société until his unfortunate death. Perhaps she is his daughter. She clearly recognized my name and wants to meet.”
“Well, then we will go to the South Bank,” said Mary. Once again, the day had a purpose, an adventure in it. She felt a sense of excitement and relief. How ordinary her life had been, only a week ago! It certainly wasn’t ordinary now.
CHAPTER XI
The Marvelous Circus
The first consideration was how they were to dress. Mary had already given Diana some of her old clothes—thank goodness she had never given them away, although a few of the plainest had gone to the scullery maid, Alice. Beatrice was about her size and could wear one of her walking suits; certainly, she could not go out in the theatrical dress she had been wearing when she ran away from Professor Petronius. In her mother’s wardrobe, Mary found a veiled hat that her mother had worn before her illness. Veils were no longer in fashion among younger women, but older women sometimes still wore them, and behind the veil, no one would be able to tell Beatrice’s age. If Professor Petronius was looking for them, he might recognize Mary or Diana, but at least Beatrice’s face would be hidden.
With a pang of guilt, she took off her black dress. Her mother so recently dead, and here she was out of mourning! But a woman in mourning would stand out in the pleasure grounds of the South Bank. Passers-by would stare and wonder what she was doing. She worried that Mrs. Poole would disapprove, but when Mrs. Poole saw her in an ordinary walking suit, the housekeeper said, “Very wise of you, miss.” Mary breathed a sigh of relief. At least she had Mrs. Poole’s approval.
MRS. POOLE: As though she needed it! Miss Mary is a lady, and whatever she chooses to do is right.
MARY: I wish you would say that when we’ve accidentally smashed up something!