Mary looked at him: the crooked man with a face that might have been charming had it not borne such signs of past dissipation and malice. He seemed . . . cautious, almost pleading.
She looked away. She did not wish to speak with him, not here, not now. Perhaps later, after he had been charged with the murder of Sir Danvers Carew. Perhaps then she would visit him in prison, before his trial and hanging. Then she would ask him . . . what? Why he had performed those experiments. Where he had been all this time. How he could have treated her mother, and her, and even Diana, so badly.
“At least . . . ,” continued the rasping voice. “At least I was able to see Ernestine once more, before she died.”
See Ernestine? When had he seen her mother? Mary turned back, but he was already in the carriage, across from Renfield, with Catherine climbing up the steps behind him. “I’ll see you at home,” said Catherine, then pulled shut the carriage door. Holmes was already in the carriage as well, having entered on the other side. And then, before she could say “Wait!” the driver cried, “Gee up!” and the carriage rattled away across the cobblestones.
She stared after it. The face at the window, the face her mother had raved about before she died. Had it been the face of Hyde?
“Mary, are you all right?” said Beatrice. “You look as though you’ve seen a fantasma—a ghost.”
They were all waiting for her—Beatrice, Justine, and Alice, looking at her curiously. She did not know what to say. If her mother had seen Hyde, suddenly at the window, after all those years—what would it have done to her? Killed her, most likely. The window was on the second floor, so how had he—but no, she had seen Diana climb. No doubt Hyde could climb as well. She remembered her mother in those last few weeks: delirious, raving. Then the precipitous decline. Her hair spread out on the pillow . . . Mary could not think about it anymore, not now. She had to get the others back to Park Terrace.
“Come on,” said Mary. “Let’s go home.”
CATHERINE: There was no need to envy me. I can’t think of anything less interesting than taking that sniveling rat to Scotland Yard.
DIANA: That’s Dad you’re talking about. And yes, I know how you feel about him, Mary Contrary. It doesn’t change the fact that he’s our father.
CATHERINE: I meant Renfield. Going on and on about eternal life, and how he had been promised, and giving Hyde covert glances all the while. And Hyde ignoring him—ignoring all of us. Holmes tried asking him questions about the Alchemical Society. Who was involved? Where was it headquartered? What was its agenda? But he just stared out the window. And when Holmes tried questioning Renfield, he started in on his flies and spiders. Finally, we arrived at Scotland Yard. He got out, and suddenly bobbies appeared from I don’t know where. One of them ran to tell Inspector Lestrade. Holmes talked to Lestrade for a few minutes while Renfield and Hyde were taken away in handcuffs. Then he got in the carriage again and we headed back to Park Terrace. He said he wanted to talk to Justine as soon as possible. That was it. Pretty disappointing, and not at all an adventure. Also, you got breakfast before we did.
“What took you so long?” asked Diana. She was sprawled on the parlor sofa, in yet another of Mary’s nightgowns. How many of them were left? Her hair was wet and combed back, no doubt the work of Mrs. Poole. When she sat up, it left a damp spot on the sofa where she had been lying.
“You look remarkably clean,” said Mary.
“The ogress forced me to take a bath before breakfast. She would have forced Charlie too, if he hadn’t bolted out of here double-quick. And I don’t blame him, though he didn’t get anything to eat.”
“Oh, I put something in his pocket,” said Mrs. Poole. “I should have held you under the water until you stopped talking. Running around London dressed like a newsboy at all hours! What sort of behavior is that for a young lady? Good Lord, is that little Alice?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Alice.
“It’s a long story,” said Mary. “Right now, I think we all need food—except maybe Beatrice!” For the first time, she realized that she was famished.
“Just tea for me please . . . ,” Beatrice started to say, when thunk, like a tree falling in a forest, Justine fell over onto the carpet, exactly where the Pig Man had lain two nights ago.
“Justine!” said Beatrice. She knelt by Justine and examined her without touching. “I think she’s fainted again. She’s been so strong all night, but I wondered when the strain would begin to affect her. Mrs. Poole, can you bring the sal volatile? And if you have any brandy . . .”
Even after Justine had revived, Diana administering the smelling salts with perhaps too liberal a hand and Mary giving her sips of brandy out of a small glass, it took both of them to help her up the stairs to what had once been Dr. Jekyll’s bedroom. Which Mary supposed was now Justine’s bedroom. Beatrice followed them up.
JUSTINE: I was so ashamed of myself for having fainted again! After all, I am the Giantess, the Strong Woman. . . .
BEATRICE: It’s not strength. I have explained to you—it’s a matter of blood pressure, of how Frankenstein created you. All of us have our weaknesses.
They deposited Justine in bed. “I’ll stay with you, cara mia,” said Beatrice. “Perhaps Mrs. Poole can bring you up something to eat? And you should sleep. . . .”
“I cannot yet,” said Justine. “Mr. Holmes said he wanted to talk to me as soon as possible. He wanted me to tell him everything I know about Adam. But you should all have breakfast. You do not need to stay with me, Beatrice.”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I will stay.”
“She doesn’t eat anyway,” said Diana. “But I’m still hungry.”
“You’ve already had breakfast,” said Mary. She turned to Beatrice and Justine. “I’ll ask Mrs. Poole to bring up something for you both.” Should she stay? This was her house, after all. No, it was their house too. Let Beatrice stay—she did not have to be responsible for everything. Mary felt a sense of relief. There were others to share the responsibility now.
When she and Diana entered the morning room, Alice was already eating a breakfast of eggs and buttered toast, wolfing them down as though she were starving.
ALICE: Which I was.
“Lord, wouldn’t Mrs. Poole rag me if I ate like that!” said Diana.
“Alice is a good girl, and you are nothing of the sort,” said Mrs. Poole, coming into the morning room with a tray on which there was a pot of tea and another stack of toast. “I want Miss Mary to sit herself down and eat, before she collapses from hunger. Here’s more tea, and there’s milk and sugar on the table, and butter in the dish, and I almost forgot the orange marmalade. I bought a new jar yesterday, as someone seems to have a bottomless stomach. Shall I fry up an egg for you, miss?”
“What about for me?” asked Diana. “I wouldn’t mind another egg.” She sat on one of the chairs, drawing her legs up under the nightgown so her bare feet were on the chair cushion.