“As though you haven’t already had two!” said Mrs. Poole. “If you want more, you can have toast. And try not to sit like a monkey.”
Diana stuck a fork into the piece of toast on top of the pile, moved it to her plate, buttered it lavishly, then spread a thick layer of marmalade over it.
“Just toast for me, please,” said Mary. She was hungry, but the thought of an egg turned her stomach. She poured herself a cup of tea and wrapped her fingers around it, grateful for the warmth. How long had it been since she last sat at this table? Two days? Could it only have been two days? It was as though time had passed differently. And here she was, back again at the same table, in the same room, with morning sun streaming through the lace curtains. It seemed completely different.
“Well?” said Diana, after Mrs. Poole had left the room. “Did you talk to him?”
“To whom?” Mary added two lumps from the Minton sugar bowl, with its pattern of birds and flowers, that her mother had purchased as a bride newly arrived in London, and sipped her tea. Yes, that was exactly what she needed.
“To Dad, of course,” said Diana. “Did you talk to him at all? Ask him anything?”
“No,” said Mary. “I’ll talk to him when he’s properly in prison.” And there she would ask him—what? Whether he had climbed up the wall, looked in through the window? Whether he had killed her mother? Intentionally or not, it scarcely mattered. Ernestine Jekyll lay in her grave, in the churchyard of St. Marylebone.
“Oh, you are so stupid!” said Diana. “Why didn’t you talk to him when you could? I wish I’d been there. I would have asked him all sorts of questions. Like where he’s been for fourteen years. I bet he wasn’t with Adam the whole time. I bet he traveled around and had adventures. And you didn’t even ask him about them!”
Mary felt an urge to throw her teacup at Diana. “First of all, he may be your father, but he’s certainly not mine. My father died the day yours took control of his body and life. Second, I have no wish to know about his adventures, whatever they might be. I want to know where the money went and how he could have abandoned . . .” Her mother. Her. She did not want to tell Diana about her suspicions, not yet. After all, it wasn’t Diana’s mother who had been killed. Mary had been the one to watch her mother die, to stand by the grave as her mother’s coffin was lowered into the ground. She gripped the teacup tightly. And then she reminded herself that Diana’s mother had died a pauper’s death, with no one to care for her or even bury her properly. She put the teacup back down on the table, afraid she might break it. “Third, you do not call me stupid in my own house.”
“I calls it as I sees it,” said Diana. “And he is as much your father as he is mine, sister. Do you think your precious Dr. Jekyll simply disappeared when he turned into Hyde? He’s still there. He’s always there. He may look different, but Hyde is just another name he calls himself.” She gripped the butter knife, as though at any moment she might fly across the table and attack Mary with it.
Alice stared at them both, turning from one to the other, fascinated yet fearful, wondering if there was going to be a fight right here in the morning room.
Just then, the front doorbell rang. “That will be Catherine and Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “I didn’t expect them to return so quickly! They must not have spent much time at Scotland Yard.” Had they left Hyde there, in police custody? They must have.
A moment later, Holmes strode into the morning room, ahead of Mrs. Poole, who was looking flustered.
MRS. POOLE: And a good thing too. I don’t know what the two of you would have done without him to calm things down.
DIANA: Good thing for Mary! I would have thrown the knife at her.
CATHERINE: You mean good thing for you. Why do you think none of us notices anymore when you get angry? You get angry all the time, and then it passes, like a spring storm. But when Mary gets angry . . .
DIANA: When Mary gets angry, she sits there and stares at you. She doesn’t even say anything.
CATHERINE: It’s what she does after that. Remember Count Leopold. We had no idea she was going to shoot him.
MARY: He deserved it. Also, I don’t get angry. I just dislike it when people are rude to my friends.
[The author feels obligated to point out that this remark was greeted with a collective snort.]
“Where is Miss Frankenstein?” said Holmes, looking around the room.
“Upstairs,” said Mary. “She fainted again—she’s not as strong as she seems. You must not upset her.”
“Forgive me,” said Holmes. “My manners are atrocious.”
“You could say that again,” said Catherine, sliding into the morning room behind him, around Mrs. Poole. “I won’t allow you to endanger Justine’s health, Mr. Holmes. Not even inadvertently. She’s strong, but she’s also very sensitive, particularly to emotional strain. Every once in a while, her heart gives out. Remember that she died and was brought back to life. You can’t treat her like an ordinary woman. Mrs. Poole, are there any kippers?”
“That’s exactly what I want to ask her about,” said Holmes. “With your permission, Miss Moreau, and yours, Miss Jekyll. I can see how much you all care about each other. May I speak with her, if I am—less abrupt than I unfortunately can be when pursuing an inquiry?”
He looked so chagrinned that Mary felt sorry for him. He had not meant to be rude. He was just—well, he was Sherlock Holmes, and he always would be. She must not expect him to behave in any other way.
“She’s in bed,” said Mary. “But she’s prepared to talk to you. I think it would be all right if you went up to her. I’d rather not make her come down. Catherine, what do you think?”
“Honestly? I’d rather you let her rest, but I doubt she will until she’s spoken with you. And I think she needs to talk about what happened, or she won’t be able to let go of it. That’s how Justine is. But are there any kippers, or maybe sausages?”
Holmes nodded. “Then, if the good Mrs. Poole will countenance such unorthodox behavior, I will go up to her room and speak with her there.”
“I’ll go up with you,” said Mary. “I’m almost done.”
“I’m not going to miss this!” said Diana, shoving toast into her mouth.
“Well, we can’t all go up,” said Mary crossly. “This isn’t some sort of circus.”
“With Mr. Holmes as Atlas, the Strongman?” said Catherine, pouring herself a cup of tea, as though amused at the thought. “I’m certainly going up, if only to make sure he doesn’t give Justine a fit with his line of inquiry! Where is the milk jug?”
Alice handed it to her.
“Are you coming up too?” asked Mary, smiling at Alice. After all that had happened last night, she did not want Alice to feel left out.