“Anything you can tell me,” said Holmes. “His history, his past associations. Did he ever receive visitors? Miss Jenks, do you have paper and a pencil? Perhaps you could make yourself useful and take some notes.”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. Did she have those things? A pencil, yes—but paper? Silently, Mrs. Poole opened her capacious handbag, pulled out a pad of paper, and handed it to Mary. For the first time, she felt grateful for Mrs. Poole’s presence—then guilty for not having appreciated it before. She flipped past pages of marketing lists. “Is there anything in particular you would like me to note down?”
“Anything of interest that could bear on this investigation. You’re an observant young woman, I’m sure.” Holmes said this courteously, carelessly, as though simply giving her something to do. Mary looked around the office without seeming to. What did he want her to notice? Or was she mistaken, and did he want her simply to write down what Dr. Seward had to say?
But Seward could, or would, tell them almost nothing. Renfield has once been, “believe it or not, considering his present state,” a gentleman, a man of business in the city. His business had begun to fail, and the strain of it had been too much for him. Eventually, he had developed the habits that marked his madness. He had neither wife nor children, and his business partners, fearing for his safety, had him committed to Purfleet Asylum. His fees were paid quarterly by the business. He had never, in all the years he had been in the asylum, received visitors. That was all Seward knew. “Of course, he came here under my predecessor. I myself am relatively new here—I became director only five years ago, whereas some of the patients have been here twenty years. Which is why this incident—well, I’ve been called before the Board of Trustees. So you can understand why I’m so eager, Mr. Holmes, to have Renfield caught and returned to us. I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can tell you. Renfield left no papers or other effects, except some notebooks containing what he called his accounts. Nothing but numbers. I’ll have Sam show them to you before you leave.”
When he bid them farewell, he added, “I hope you and Inspector Lestrade will do your upmost to catch him, Mr. Holmes. My professional career depends on his return. And the best of luck to you, Miss Jenks, in your good work. What did you say your organization was called again? Perhaps I could send a donation.”
What in the world had she called it? Mary hesitated for a moment.
“Thank you, indeed, sir,” said Mrs. Poole. “These young women come to us blackened by sin, but by prayer and good works they are washed as white as lambs of God. By which I mean their souls, sir. God may hate the sin, but he loves the sinner, and we hope to see these young women seated at the right hand of the Father when their souls are washed clean. Also, we give them hot soup. Hot soup and prayer, sir, will do it every time. Perhaps we can send you some tracts and a request for a subscription. . . .”
“Yes, yes, quite,” said Seward hastily. “Allow me to show you out. I’m sure you must wish to be in London again as quickly as possible, to continue your good works.”
Before they left, Sam showed them Renfield’s notebooks, but Seward had been right: they contained nothing but rows of numbers—presumably representing the flies he had caught and ingested. Nothing to help them in their investigation.
After they had walked through the front gates of the asylum, which clanged shut behind them, Mary pulled the pad of paper on which she had been writing out of her purse. She had stuffed it in there when they left Dr. Seward’s office, but her purse was not as capacious as Mrs. Poole’s. She had been worried it might not come out again.
“Is this what you wanted?” she asked.
“Ah, I wondered if you would see it!” said Holmes. “Bravo, Miss Jenks. I memorized the name and location of the hotel in Soho, but it’s useful to have your written confirmation. And how clever of you to transcribe the letter as well.”
“Whatever are you going on about?” asked Mrs. Poole.
Mary showed her the notebook. On a sheet of paper, she had written,
Stationary headed Deerborne Hotel, Soho.
Address too small to make out.
My dear John, I will come as soon as I can, but I know no more about these murders than you do. Why should I? Surely you and Van Helsing don’t suspect me of being involved in any way. That is absurd and unjust of you. Let me know when you arrive and I will come to Purfleet, but I swear to you that I know nothing whatsoever.
Edward
“It was upside down, but not too difficult to make out, except for the address,” said Mary. “Although all these scientific men seem to have atrocious handwriting! My governess, Miss Murray, would have made them write out a section of Wordsworth’s Tintern Abbey—that’s what she made me do, to correct my hand. This must be the Edward Prendick mentioned in Catherine’s story and Professor Van Helsing’s letter?”
“Certainly,” said Holmes. “I don’t know if you saw his face as we passed, Miss Jekyll, but his hair was not gray from age. Whatever he has endured, it has marked him forever.”
No, she had not noticed Prendick’s face. Mary felt a sense of consternation. She simply must become more observant, like Mr. Holmes.
“I believe our next course of action is to return to London and pay a visit to Mr. Prendick,” Holmes added. “Clearly Dr. Seward thought he was involved with the murders in some way, and Miss Moreau indicated that he knew how to make the Beast Men you encountered yesterday. If we had been more precipitous, we might have run into him casually on the train, but that is his train departing now, and we are not on it.” Sure enough, Mary could hear the train whistle, and there was a line of white smoke against the sky, across the marshes that separated the asylum from the train station.
“If we can’t catch Mr. Prendick anyway, I think there’s one more line of investigation here in Purfleet,” she said. “What about Joe Abernathy? He’s known Renfield longer than Dr. Seward, and he was there when Renfield escaped. He must live somewhere in the village.”
“Also, he has just lost his position, and will not be feeling particularly loyal to Dr. Seward,” said Holmes. “An excellent suggestion, Miss Jekyll. And I must say, that was masterfully done, Mrs. Poole.”
“Ah well, thank you sir,” said Mrs. Poole, looking embarrassed. “I was in amateur theatricals when I was a girl. We used to have a sort of club, just among the servants in Park Terrace. Used to call ourselves the Park Terrace Players, and put on Shakespeare as well as popular plays like The Scottish Lass and Maid of the Moors. I was Titania, once.”
Mary tried to imagine the respectable Mrs. Poole as Titania, queen of the fairies, but to this imagination would not stretch.
MRS. POOLE: I was a very good Titania, I’ll have you know!
BEATRICE: I have no doubt you were, Mrs. Poole.