“I’ll go,” said Catherine. “They don’t know me, and I met enough prostitutes when I lived on the streets that I can convince them I’m one. But I’ll need Diana—not to go in!” Diana, who had sat up at the possibility of going as well, hunched down in her chair again and frowned. “I’ll need her to be my contact outside. You know all the hallways, right? And how to get in and out, over the wall? I assume there’s a wall—there always is. And where the director’s office is located? I’ll need to know where to look. . . .”
“Just a moment,” said Watson. He leaned against the wall rather than taking the only remaining chair, at Mrs. Jekyll’s desk. “We weren’t implying that you ladies should participate in this investigation. I know you’re brave, but this is getting far too dangerous. Yesterday, you were attacked. Let the police handle it, or at least leave it to me and Holmes!”
“But you can’t get in,” said Mary in her most reasonable voice. “Men aren’t allowed into the Magdalen Society, and by the time the police force their way into the building, the director could destroy any evidence she might have, anything that might connect her to these poor women, if indeed she is guilty of wrongdoing. I think we proved yesterday that we can take care of ourselves.” She remembered Mrs. Raymond’s grim face. Could she be connected to these murders, or to the Société des Alchimistes?
“She has a point, Watson,” said Holmes, smiling. “And I must admit, I was hoping Miss Jekyll would suggest some useful way of investigating from the inside, where you and I can’t go. However, I understand your concern. Therefore, I suggest you accompany Miss Moreau and Miss Hyde as their protector. You can assure yourself in person as to their safety, although I’m afraid you’ll have to stay outside the gates.”
“That’s scarcely reassuring,” said Watson. He gulped the rest of his tea. “All right, I’m going up to check on Miss Frankenstein. You mentioned that Miss Rappaccini is up there?”
“Yes,” said Mary, amused. Were men always so obvious in their attentions? No, not all men. Mr. Holmes would certainly not be obvious—if, indeed, he paid attention to women at all, as women that is! He seemed to treat women as though they were men in skirts, either useful in his investigations or not.
Watson nodded and put his teacup on the table, then left the morning room, almost too eagerly to be strictly polite.
“And what about me, Mr. Holmes?” said Mary, turning to the detective. “There is another line of inquiry I’d like to pursue.” If it was going to be all about investigations, well, let them investigate!
“What is that, Miss Jekyll?”
“I’d like to return to Purfleet. As we left after Renfield’s arrest, he recognized Diana. I don’t know if you remember, but he told her to tell her father that he had done . . . whatever he was supposed to. Is it possible that he might once have seen Hyde? Or had some dealings with him? And Dr. Balfour said something that didn’t strike me until later—he said it was a pity that a respectable man of science should fall into madness. I would like to know what sort of scientist Renfield was, and what drove him mad.”
“I can see what you’re implying, Miss Jekyll,” said Holmes. “Was Renfield in some way involved with the Société des Alchimistes? I don’t know if Dr. Balfour can throw light on these matters, but he seems to know something about Renfield’s past. I was considering another visit to Purfleet myself. This would be a good day for a trip to the country, I think.”
“And I’ll come with you,” said Mrs. Poole, who had brought in a tray with more buttered toast. “Miss Jekyll of Park Terrace can’t go wandering off to Purfleet with a single gentleman, Mr. Holmes. Not even one as celebrated as yourself.”
“Mrs. Poole, that’s ridiculous,” said Mary. “This is the 1890s. Men and women can sit in a railway carriage together, I should think, without accusations of impropriety.”
“Not ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Poole.
Holmes laughed. “I shall be delighted to have your company, Mrs. Poole,” he said. “I’m sure you’ll make a charming chaperone.”
A chaperone! How absolutely mortifying. For a moment, Mary was almost angry with Mrs. Poole. Then she reminded herself that she was eating the breakfast Mrs. Poole had cooked, in the house Mrs. Poole had cleaned. She owed so much to the housekeeper. Still, a chaperone . . . It did not help that Mr. Holmes was still smiling at the idea.
“And what shall I do?” asked Beatrice, who was standing by the door. She had come in so quietly that they had not noticed. “Dr. Watson is with Justine. She’s finally gone to sleep, thank goodness. He says to tell you that she is in no danger, although she must have absolute rest and quiet until the fever breaks. He mentioned your plans. If you are all planning on being out today, and Mrs. Poole accompanies Mary to Purfleet, I believe I had better stay here. Justine needs a nurse, and my poison is still strong. I should not go out in public again until I am—‘normal’ is perhaps not the right word. Fortunately, my breath cannot harm Justine. Even weakened as she is, she remains stronger than any ordinary woman. My touch would burn her skin, but I will wear gloves.”
“Then we shall be fielding three teams, as it were,” said Holmes. “Miss Moreau, Miss Hyde, and Watson shall go to Whitechapel; Miss Jekyll and Mrs. Poole shall accompany me to Purfleet; and you, Miss Rappaccini, shall stay here with Miss Frankenstein.”
“Catherine will need to be in disguise,” said Mary. “She can’t go to the Magdalen Society looking like that. She needs to look like—well, a fallen woman.”
They all looked at Catherine. This morning, she was wearing one of Mary’s day dresses, a brown tartan with a pleated collar. Her hair was pulled back into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Aside from her yellow eyes and the tracery of scars, she looked like a schoolmistress.
“You’re never going to fool old Ma Raymond dressed like that,” said Diana. “You need to look fancy, with flounces and furbelows—but cheap. And you need paint.”
Flounces and furbelows, as though for a woman of the streets! How in the world could Mary supply those? There was really only one possibility. “Come up to my mother’s room,” she said. “I may have something.”
Catherine and Diana followed her up the stairs, while Holmes and Watson waited below and Mrs. Poole assured them that the girls would be back down in a moment, that matters of dress took time.
In Mrs. Jekyll’s wardrobe, Mary found an old tea gown of her mother’s, at least ten years out of date. It was the only thing she could think of that was fancy enough for Catherine to wear. “It doesn’t quite fit,” said Catherine. “A former mistress of mine could have given it to me before I was dismissed and forced to make my living on the streets, like Pauline Delacroix. That’s what I’ll tell Mrs. Raymond.”
“She still needs paint, and her hair done,” said Diana.
“Well, I don’t know where to buy paint—a theatrical shop of some sort?” said Mary impatiently. What was she, a department store?