“For a while, I lived on the streets, scavenging what I could. There is reasonably good hunting in London, for a cat. But one day, I saw an advertisement for Lorenzo’s Circus of Marvels and Delights, which was appearing in Battersea Park. I went to Lorenzo and offered myself as a performer. ‘Why do I need you?’ he asked me. ‘I have Sasha the Dog Boy.’ ‘But you don’t have a Cat Woman,’ I said. I growled and purred for him, and he hired me on the spot. During most of the year, we toured the countryside, but each summer we spent a month in London, on the South Bank. And that was where you found me. . . .”
“And Justine,” said Mary. “Was she already at the circus when you joined?”
“No, I was the one who brought her to the circus.” Catherine looked over at Justine. “She can tell you herself . . .”
But Justine was leaning back on the sofa, looking even paler than usual. She reminded Mary of the Madonna lily, just after Beatrice had breathed on it.
“Have you forgotten?” said Justine. “There is a dead man lying on the floor.”
“Dead pig,” said Catherine. “I can’t imagine who would create Beast Men here, in London. Why would anyone want to replicate Moreau’s techniques? Unless . . .” She paused for a moment, but did not continue her train of thought. Mary wondered what she had meant to say. Instead, Catherine looked down at the Pig Man. “We’ll have to get rid of him.”
“Can’t we report him to the police?” asked Mary. “After all, it was self-defense.”
“Not without explaining how Justine was able to strangle him. Which means explaining about Justine—and about us.”
“I agree with Miss Moreau,” said Holmes. “This is not a matter for the police. I suggest taking him to the park, dirtying his clothes, and putting his hat beside him. When the police find him, as they assuredly will, they’ll assume he is a beggar. They will not pay much attention to the death of one more beggar in London.”
“Phew!” said Diana. “You would make a good criminal.”
“Yes, I worry about that sometimes,” said Watson. “Holmes, can you and I lift the body between us?”
“I shall carry the body,” said Justine. “It will be my penance.”
“Penance!” said Catherine. “What a ridiculous idea.”
But Justine would not be dissuaded, and although Holmes and Watson went with her, she was the one who carried the Pig Man’s body into Regent’s Park.
Mary follow them, partly from a sense of obligation—the Pig Man had after all been killed in her parlor—and partly to make certain they placed him well away from 11 Park Terrace, so no one could connect him to the Jekyll residence.
Am I developing a criminal mentality, like Hyde? she asked herself. Or like Mr. Holmes? That thought, at least, was more reassuring.
When they had carried the Pig Man as far as the rose beds, Watson and Holmes rolled him in the moist, prepared earth. Then they placed him under a tree near the Inner Circle, close to the pond, where a beggar might be expected to lie down on a chilly, but not cold, spring night. As they were walking back in the darkness, Holmes beside Mary, Justine and Watson ahead of them, he said, “Your mystery is unfolding even faster than I expected, Miss Jekyll. In addition to the pleasure of investigating such a case, there is the pleasure . . . that is to say . . . the contact of another keen, logical mind is always a pleasure.” He was silent a moment. Was he going to say anything more?
But they had arrived once again at Park Terrace.
“Yes, Mr. Holmes?” she said.
“What I was going to say . . . Well. Miss Jekyll, Watson and I would have come this evening in any case, to tell you about a curious fact we discovered during our investigation. Four of the murdered women were at one time inmates of the Magdalen Society.” Surely that was not what he had been thinking about, as they walked in the park?
“Justine! Are you all right? You don’t look well.” It was Catherine, standing in the front hall, waiting for them to come in. Just beyond her stood Diana and Beatrice. Justine staggered, clutched at the doorframe, and then crumpled in a heap on the threshold.
“Oh goodness,” said Mary, darting forward and kneeling beside Justine. “I think she’s fainted. Diana, get Mrs. Poole to bring the sal volatile. We have to bring her to, because I don’t think we’re going to be able to carry her upstairs.”
“Why me?” said Diana.
“Because you’re closest to the back stairs, and anyway, I may need Catherine to help me lift her,” said Mary. “Now go!”
“Straighten her head,” said Beatrice. “Make sure the passage of air is not obstructed. Can you do it, Catherine? Alas that I cannot touch her!”
“Allow me,” said Watson. He knelt by Justine, checked that she was breathing, and felt her pulse. “Your friend is unconscious, but in no immediate danger. All this has simply been too much for her. I prescribe a good night’s sleep.” When Diana returned with a frantic Mrs. Poole, who was carrying a bottle of smelling salts, he waved it under Justine’s nose and waited until she moaned and opened her eyes.
“She never should have come downstairs,” said Mrs. Poole. “Come on, deary. Let’s get you back into bed again.”
“Mr. Holmes, what were you saying before Justine fainted?” asked Mary. In a moment, she would have to help Justine back upstairs, but he’d been saying something about the murdered girls. . . .
“Never mind for now,” said Holmes, smiling. “Take care of your friend. We’ll return tomorrow morning and talk then.”
“Yes, all right,” said Mary, distracted. Catherine was already supporting Justine on one side, and she would need to support Justine on the other, since Diana was too short and Mrs. Poole wasn’t strong enough to help the Giantess upstairs. And Beatrice, of course, was poisonous. No, Mary’s life was definitely no longer ordinary. . . .
CHAPTER XIII
Return to the Asylum
MARY: Imagine, for a moment, the logistical difficulties of having four girls—or women, for only Diana was truly a girl—suddenly move into your household. On Monday morning, I had twelve pounds, five shillings, three pence in my bank account, and only myself and Mrs. Poole to clothe and feed. After I had transferred the money from Diana’s account, we had thirty-five pounds, five shilling, three pence. That amount could feed and clothe three people comfortably for a year! On Friday morning, we had forty-two pounds, twelve shillings exactly. Beatrice had come with nothing but the clothes on her back, but Catherine and Justine had brought their savings, which they kept in the toe of an old stocking. Shockingly irresponsible of them it was, too. Seven pounds, six shillings, nine pence is a great deal of money and should have been deposited in a bank.