“No, you need it put on by someone who knows how. Like Kate Bright-Eyes.”
“Kate is the one who knew Molly Keane?” said Catherine. She turned around in front of the mirror, examining herself from all angles. For a moment, Mary felt a pang of guilt—it was, after all, her mother’s gown, even though it had not been worn for many years. But surely her mother had wanted her to find out about the Société des Alchimistes, or why had she saved the letters in the portfolio? That information had been left for Mary, she was sure of it.
“Yes, that’s Kate,” said Mary. “I suppose you could go to The Bells and ask for her?”
“Ha! You see, I do come up with clever ideas!” said Diana.
“All right, that was clever,” said Mary. “But is it absolutely necessary for you to dress like that? Catherine needs to be in disguise. You don’t.”
While Mary had been searching for her mother’s tea gown and helping Catherine put it on, Diana had once again changed into boy’s clothes. Mary could not help wishing that she looked more, well, respectable.
“Catherine said I might have to climb, and it’s easier climbing as a boy.” Diana put her hands in her trouser pockets. It was obvious that she was not going to change, nohow.
DIANA: Respectable my arse! Why would anyone want to wear girls’ clothes unless they had to? If you walk around the city as a boy, people don’t notice you or ask what you’re doing all by yourself, my pretty.
MARY: Cat, you said you would edit out inappropriate language.
CATHERINE: I think “my arse” is perfectly appropriate in this context. And I agree with Diana.
Mary was annoyed, sitting in the railway carriage on the way to Purfleet. She had wanted to discuss the case with Mr. Holmes, and instead he was engaged in a discussion with Mrs. Poole on the minutiae of housekeeping! On how various stains set and were to be gotten out, the schedules of tradespeople and their deliveries. He seemed fascinated by these domestic details. “You never know when the most trivial information might help solve a case,” he said. “I myself, Mrs. Poole, have written a monograph on the soils around London. Did you know, for example, that there is a distinct difference between the soils of Spitalfields and Shoreditch?”
“Is there really, sir? I would not have thought it!” said Mrs. Poole, and received a disquisition on types of cigarette ash that seemed to fascinate her.
The asylum looked just as Mary remembered, with its brick wall and tall iron gates, over which she could see the tops of the trees. But this time, there was no Joe Abernathy to let them in.
“No, sir,” said the attendant who came to answer the bell, when Holmes asked his whereabouts. “He was sacked, along with Dr. Balfour and a whole lot of others, on account of Renfield escaping. Dr. Seward was right angry about it. He was in Vienner, or some such place, and took a train back as soon as he heard about the murders. He arrived yesterday morning and sent everyone who had to do with Renfield packing. He’s the one you’ll have to see, if you want information. He’s with another gentleman right now—I just let him in, a gentleman from London. But I’ll ask if you can talk to him. What name should I give?”
“Well, that explains why Dr. Balfour didn’t respond to my telegram,” Holmes whispered to Mary. They waited in the front hall while the attendant confirmed that Dr. Seward would see Mr. Holmes briefly—although he did not have much time, they were warned. Then they were shown up the stairs to the director’s office. As they came to the door, it opened, and a man with a shock of gray hair stepped out. He seemed agitated and almost ran into Holmes. “Pardon me,” he said, then nodded to them curtly.
This office was very different from Dr. Balfour’s. It had obviously been used for a long time, but was considerably neater. The shelves were filled with books, and there were documents and letters stacked on the desk. Mary wondered if the letter from Professor Van Helsing had been missed.
“Mr. Holmes, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” said the man behind the desk, sounding as though it was not a pleasure at all. He had a grim, official look about him, and was clearly impatient for them to be gone again.
“Dr. Seward, I presume?” said Holmes.
“Indeed. I can spare you fifteen minutes, but I’m sure you’ll understand that we’re very busy this morning. You know, I’m sure, that the madman Renfield has escaped from police custody. We don’t know if he intends to return here. I’ve asked Inspector Lestrade to send us policemen, but they have not yet arrived. Oh damn!”
Mary jumped, but this last exclamation was not meant for them. Seward sprang up and grabbed a furled umbrella that had been leaning against the side of his desk. Then he strode to his office door, opened it, and shouted down the hall, “Sam! Sam, Mr. Prendick left his umbrella.” Sam must have come back to retrieve it, because Dr. Seward stepped out into the hallway, and Mary heard, “Can you run and give it to him before he catches the train? Yes, thank you, that will be all for now. I’ll ring for you when you can let Mr. Holmes out.”
Prendick! She would have to tell Catherine as soon as possible. How would Catherine feel, knowing that the man who had left her to die was not only alive, but here in London?
“My apologies,” he said, coming back into the office. “Particularly to the ladies . . .” He looked at Mary and Mrs. Poole, clearly wondering who the devil they were and why they had come to see him.
Before Holmes could speak, Mary hastily said, “That’s quite all right, Dr. Seward. I’m Miss Jenks, of the Christian Women’s Missionary Society, and this is my associate Mrs. Poole. Our society is concerned with saving women who have fallen into sin. Several of the women who were so brutally murdered were on our rolls, as having received assistance from our society, and our patroness, whose name I may not mention, but who is connected with the royal family, insisted that we be allowed to accompany Mr. Holmes. I hope our presence will not interfere with your conversation in any way. We are here simply to observe, and will be as quiet as church mice.”
“Miss Jenks and Mrs. Poole were of course most welcome to accompany me,” said Holmes. “Cum mulieribus non est disputandum, as Cicero says.”
“I see,” said Seward. His mouth twitched, and he looked at Holmes with sympathy. “Now, tell me what you wish to know about Renfield.”
DIANA: Translation, please, for those of us who didn’t go to Oxford.
JUSTINE: “There is no arguing with women.” And I don’t believe Cicero ever said such a thing!