“Good,” said Diana. “But we’d better get going. We still have a whole bloody city to cross.”
They looked around. There was London, spread before them: a different city, the London of the rooftops. (If you wish to travel across London and are as agile as Catherine and Diana, the rooftops are like roads that can take you from one end of the city to the other.) They walked or sometimes crawled across the roofs, balancing on ridges, trying to avoid chimney pots. Where the alleys were narrow, they leaped from one rooftop to another, always heading north. From time to time, they had to descend to the streets, and it was with trepidation that they crossed Hyde Park. By then it was getting late. The trees of the park threw long shadows across the grass, and the setting sun shone on the Serpentine, creating a path of gold across the water. But they neither saw nor smelled their pursuers.
“Why should they follow us?” said Diana. “They know where Mary lives. They can just go back there and wait.”
“If they were smarter, they would have done that in the first place,” said Catherine. “But if they’re Wolf Men, it’s in their nature to hunt. They couldn’t help following us.”
Once they had crossed Hyde Park, there were only the streets of Marylebone to navigate, and to her credit, Diana got lost only once. It was dark before they saw the lights of 11 Park Terrace.
Was the house being watched? They could not see the Wolf Men, and more importantly, Catherine could not smell them. So taking a chance, they ran up the steps to the front door and rang the bell.
It was opened almost at once. “Come in, come in quickly,” said Mrs. Poole. “Poor Miss Frankenstein has killed a man!”
CHAPTER XII
Catherine’s Story
It was probably the strangest sight the respectable parlor of Dr. Jekyll had ever seen, at least since the days when Mr. Hyde roamed through the house at will. In the light of the gas lamps, which were turned up high, Catherine and Diana could see four men gathered around the body of another, lying on the floor, with a handkerchief draped over his face. The carpet had been pulled back, so he lay directly on the parquet in front of the fireplace. It took them a moment to realize that two of the men were Mary and Beatrice, who had not yet changed out of their masculine clothes. The other two were strangers to Catherine, but Diana immediately recognized Holmes and Watson. The parlor itself was a shambles, with furniture knocked over and the painting of Mrs. Jekyll hanging crooked on the wall.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you both! We were worried sick,” said Mary. And then, looking at them more closely, she exclaimed, “You’re absolutely filthy!”
“We came by rooftop,” said Catherine. “What is this about Justine? Where is she?”
“Upstairs, lying down,” said Mary. “She’s completely distraught. We arrived home without incident, but the house was being watched. As I opened the front door, this man tried to force his way in. We fought back—you can see the result! I tried to hit him over the head with my umbrella, and Beatrice did her best to weaken him with her breath. But it was Justine who saved us: she got her hands around his neck and—she strangled him, right here in the parlor. He was so strong! He twisted Beatrice’s arm—you can see the bruise, all green and blue.”
“I’m all right,” said Beatrice. “Charlie was around the corner—he seems to have appointed himself our guardian angel!”
“More like guardian street urchin,” said Diana under her breath.
“He heard the altercation—that is the right word, is it not? And ran to get Mr. Holmes.”
“I’m glad he’s keeping a watch on the house,” said Holmes. “I asked him to let us know if there was anything amiss.” He turned to Catherine. “You must be Miss Moreau. We’ve been hearing about your adventures this morning. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
“Is it safe for you to continue this investigation?” asked Watson. “You are certainly courageous young women, but you seem to be running into increasing danger. And this . . .” He gestured at the man lying on the floor. “I scarcely know what to make of it!”
Catherine walked over to the dead man and removed the handkerchief from his face. It was strangely distorted: the eyes small and set close together, the nose upturned and flat, the chin almost nonexistent with a few prominent bristles. “I can tell you what to make of him, Dr. Watson. But Diana and I are tired and famished. If we could sit down and have something to eat, I believe I could provide you with an explanation—although it may deepen this mystery rather than elucidating it. But first I must see Justine. . . .”
“You let her rest,” said Mrs. Poole. “She’s safe, and what she needs right now is some quiet. She’ll come down when she’s ready.”
Catherine frowned. She had never liked being told what to do, and wasn’t it her responsibility to look after Justine? But she had to admit that Mrs. Poole was probably right. She knew, better than any of them, that what Justine often needed was simply solitude.
“Diana!” Mary exclaimed suddenly. “Your feet!”
They all looked. From Diana’s bare feet, a pool of blood was spreading over the floor.
“What,” she said. “I had to leave my boots.”
“Show them to me,” said Beatrice. She knelt and examined the bleeding feet without touching them, then insisted Diana show her the soles. “All the wounds are shallow. You have merely torn up the skin, but in so many places!”
“If you’d like me to take a look . . . ,” said Watson.
“Not you!” said Diana. “Last time you did that, I thought you’d set me on fire.”
“The alcohol was necessary to clean the cut,” said Watson, looking put out. “I had no intention of harming you, I can assure you, Miss Hyde.”
“It’s quite all right, Dr. Watson,” said Beatrice. “I can take care of Diana’s wounds. My father was a physician and trained me in his techniques. Come, Diana. I will find something in the kitchen to make you a poultice.”
“It’s no big deal,” Diana insisted. “Doesn’t even hurt.” But she followed Poison Breath, as she still thought of Beatrice, downstairs. At least in the kitchen she would be close to food.
MRS. POOLE: And a time I had of it, trying to scrub away that bloodstain!