ALICE: It’s still there. Lye and carbolic couldn’t get rid of it. Good thing the carpet covers it, Mrs. Poole, or we’d have some explaining to do when visitors come!
It was an hour before they all sat together in the parlor, where the dead man still lay on the floor, and Catherine began the story that would perhaps explain his presence—and peculiarities. First, on the orders of Mrs. Poole, Catherine and Diana had to clean themselves in basins of hot water (“Before you sit down on any of the furniture, please!”) and change into clothing more suitable for the young women Watson had called them. Mary and Beatrice changed as well, and Mary wondered if she had enough dresses left to keep supplying them all in this fashion. If they kept losing or destroying their clothes, they would all have to start sewing! When suitably clean and dressed, they had a cold supper of meat and pudding (“And not in the room with the dead man!”). Justine had still not come down, so Mrs. Poole brought supper up to her (“I don’t care how upset she is, she needs to eat!”).
Despite Mrs. Poole’s consternation, Holmes and Watson restored the parlor to its usual order, so by the time Mary and the others had finished their supper, the furniture was once again upright and the painting hung straight on the wall. The only thing out of order was the man on the floor, who once again had a handkerchief hiding his strange features. Mary, Diana, and Catherine sat on the sofa, Holmes and Watson in the two armchairs. Beatrice sat on the window seat, as far away from them as possible. Where would Justine sit, if she came down? Mary thought of the furniture that had once been in this room, when it had been a proper gentleman’s parlor, and sighed. The only remaining carpet was threadbare. She consoled herself with the thought that Mr. Holmes probably had not noticed. He would not notice a rug unless there was a clue on it. But Beatrice was thinking, How nice that this parlor is not overfurnished! Why do the English overfurnish their houses? Although the walls should not be the color of porridge. They should be blue, a blue like the sea on a calm day, or yellow like sunshine . . .
BEATRICE: So they are, now. And with Justine’s wonderful border of flowers.
JUSTINE: Is the story supposed to be jumping around like that, from Mary’s head, to Diana’s, to Beatrice’s?
CATHERINE: I told you, this is a new way of writing. How can I write a story about all of us if I don’t show what we were all thinking? Do you want the story to be just about Mary?
DIANA: That would be as dull as ditch water.
JUSTINE: No, of course not. It’s just . . . different. As though it’s been stitched together of various parts. Like my father’s monsters.
CATHERINE: Well, we’re different. I have to tell the story in a way that fits who we are.
JUSTINE: You are the author, so I suppose you know best.
CATHERINE: You could try to sound a little less doubtful!
Mrs. Poole insisted on making tea. “You could all use a cup, I’m sure,” she said, leaving the teapot on the table so Mary could pour out, before returning to the kitchen.
“Please take a cup if you wish,” said Catherine. “I’m afraid my story will be a long one. And I must begin with a lesson on anatomy.” Just as she was about to begin, Justine joined them, pausing hesitantly at the threshold. She wore a dress that had once belonged to Mary’s mother, which was too large for her thin frame but hung down only to her calves. Her eyes were still red.
“Are you all right?” asked Catherine. “The housekeeper said you were resting. Come and take my seat.”
“Please, don’t mind me,” said Justine, but she took Catherine’s seat on the sofa. Catherine walked over to the dead man.
It was clear, from the way he leaned forward, that Holmes wanted to know who she was, this woman who was taller than most men. But he refrained. “Miss Moreau, please continue,” he said. One story at a time, his countenance seemed to say. He could wait.
“First,” said Catherine, “this is not a man. Justine, you did not kill a man. What you killed was an animal. Look at the disproportion of the limbs, look”—she drew back the handkerchief again—“at the scars, here and here and here. Look at the face. The nose resembles a snout, the eyes and ears are too small. What you have killed is a pig, specifically a boar pig, surgically transformed into a man.”
“That’s impossible,” said Watson.
“Improbable, but not impossible,” said Holmes. “Remember Dr. Moreau’s experiments.”
“But I thought he was dead,” said Mary. “The letter Dr. Seward received—the one we found in his office. It said Dr. Moreau had died. . . .”
“Yes, he’s dead,” said Catherine. “I know, because I killed him myself.”
JUSTINE: What a terrible night that was! The man I killed . . .
MARY: Pig. You killed a pig.
JUSTINE: But Mary, he had been transformed into a man, with a man’s brain. Does that not mean he was a man, as Catherine is a woman? I am responsible for his death. . . .
MARY: When are you going to let this go? You have to stop feeling guilty about it. He was hurting Beatrice.
DIANA: Justine, is that why you don’t eat meat?
“In order to understand my story,” said Catherine, “you have to understand Moreau’s experiments.” She looked down at the floor, her hands clasped in front of her, as though preparing herself for a long narrative. Mary leaned back into the sofa. She noticed that Diana, who was sitting next to her, put her feet up on the cushions although Mrs. Poole had expressly forbidden her from doing so. Beatrice shifted on the window seat. Watson poured himself another cup of tea.
“It was Beatrice’s father who led the Alchemical Society in the direction of biological transmutation. He had been a follower of the Chevalier de Lamarck, when Lamarck was mocked for his theories of evolution. He believed in evolutionary theory before Mr. Darwin became famous for his proof of it. I’m sure you’re familiar with Lamarck’s theories, Mr. Holmes.”
“That a man can pass physical and mental characteristics acquired during his lifetime to his children,” said the detective. “A miner will pass on his strong arms. A philosopher will pass on his discerning mind.”