CATHERINE: But probably less than he hates Sherlock Holmes.
MARY: Is that supposed to be a source of comfort?
CATHERINE: No, not really.
“I don’t expect that hellcat to know any better,” said Inspector Lestrade, looking pointedly at Diana. “But you, Miss Jekyll. Why don’t you stay home quietly, embroidering or whatever it is ladies do all day? Mrs. Lestrade says she finds needlework very soothing. The next time Mr. Holmes asks you and your friends to help him with one of his investigations, I hope you will find a more productive way to spend your time. Involving those Baker Street boys is bad enough, but how he can put you young ladies in such a dangerous situation is beyond me.”
“Yes, Inspector,” said Mary, biting her tongue. She could have told him a thing or two about what young ladies were capable of. After all, she had spent the better part of the last two days locked in a dungeon—apparently it was Sunday afternoon, and she had once again missed going to church. She was tired, hungry, and dirty. But he had helped her transport Justine back to 11 Park Terrace in a police wagon, so that she was now lying in her own bed upstairs, still unconscious. Mary was desperately worried about her. She was so grateful to Lestrade for helping them that she merely nodded, as though agreeing that embroidery was the appropriate occupation for any young lady, no matter her ambition or intellect. At least he had believed her story that they were merely helping Mr. Holmes investigate a ring of thieves stealing ancient artifacts!
They stood in the parlor, by the mantel with Mrs. Jekyll’s portrait over it. Mrs. Poole had not yet had time to light a fire. Should she? Did Lestrade intend to stay for a while? She had no idea.
Diana was lying on the sofa, half asleep. No wonder she was so quiet! But in response to his comment, she opened her mouth—oh goodness, she was about to say something, wasn’t she? Something obnoxious, no doubt. That would only make Inspector Lestrade more angry.
Like the angel of perfect timing, Mrs. Poole bustled in. She was carrying a tray with a bottle and two glasses. “Would you care for some port, Inspector? Dr. Jekyll’s best bottle. I know you officers of the law don’t drink while working, but surely after the events of this morning… If I may be so bold as to suggest a medicinal quantity? And I cannot thank you enough for bringing the girls safely home. You don’t know how I worry! I know their behavior is not quite what one might wish, but they are all poor, motherless orphans, with no one to teach them better—just me. I do my best, you know, but I am no substitute.”
“I’m sure you do your best, Mrs. Poole,” said Lestrade, looking at her approvingly. Apparently, the one member of the 11 Park Street household who met his standards of proper behavior was the housekeeper. “It’s not your fault if they go running around London at all hours. And that one”—he glared at Diana—“I don’t know who or what could contain her.”
Diana stuck her tongue out at him. Oh, Mary would have liked to slap her!
“Ah well, she was brought up badly,” said Mrs. Poole. “She was under the care of Mrs. Raymond—you know whom I mean, of the Magdalen Society. A terrible woman.”
“Who may also have been Mrs. Herbert, of the Paul Street Murders,” said Mary. “Do you know anything about her?”
Lestrade looked at her disapprovingly. “Don’t you go getting mixed up in any more murders, Miss Jekyll. If Mrs. Raymond is Mrs. Herbert, then she’s a dangerous woman. The men who died in Paul Street—we never could connect the murders to her. There was no apparent motive, you see, and no murder weapon. They seemed to have died of sheer fright. But I believed then, and I believe now, that she was responsible. Poor Charles Herbert was completely taken in by her. Spent his fortune on a house in London for her, with fine furniture, a fancy carriage, fabulous jewels—everything a woman could want. I thought we might get her for his murder at least—juries don’t like women who kill their husbands. But she looked so young and innocent on the witness stand, as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She was a beautiful woman, with masses of wavy black hair—it reminded me of Medusa’s snakes! She was acquitted of all charges, but she was as guilty as sin, I can tell you that.”
“And after the trial, she disappeared?” said Mary.
Mrs. Poole poured a glass of port for Lestrade, who did not refuse it, then another for Mary, who took a small sip. She did not usually enjoy alcohol, but today the warmth of it was welcome.
“What about me?” asked Diana petulantly. She sat up on the sofa. Well, at least she was no longer sprawled all over the place!
“Roly-poly pudding on the kitchen table,” said Mrs. Poole.
“Right-ho.” Diana sprang up, and in the moment she was out the door. Once again, Mary mentally thanked the Lord and his angels for Mrs. Poole. What in the world would they do without her?
MRS. POOLE: You would get by, miss. You are all resourceful young women.
BEATRICE: We might get by, but it would not be the same. We could not possibly do without you, Mrs. Poole.
JUSTINE: Indeed, we could not. It would not be at all the same.
CATHERINE: I hate to join the chorus, but we would be a complete mess. Don’t even start, Diana. You know perfectly well we would be.
DIANA: I wasn’t going to say anything. Why do you always assume I’m going to say something nasty?
MARY: Because you always do?
“Yes, Mrs. Herbert disappeared after the trial,” said Lestrade. “Several years later, there was a set of murders in high society. I was called in when Lord Argentine was found dead in his bedchamber. Each of the men—peers of the realm, barristers, surgeons, even an orchestra conductor—was found dead in his home. There seemed to be no connection between the murders, except that each man had an expression on his face of sheer terror, which was what made me suspicious. I discovered that before returning home on the evening of their deaths, each had been at the house of a Mrs. Beaumont, who hosted literary and artistic salons. I went to Mrs. Beaumont’s house in Mayfair. That house—well, she was getting money from somewhere, living like a duchess. But it was empty—Mrs. Beaumont was gone. She must have been frightened off by the investigation into Argentine’s death. In her parlor, I saw a portrait over the mantelpiece. It was by Mr. Sargent, the society painter. She was slightly older, but I could see that it was a portrait of Mrs. Herbert. I never heard of her again—until now.”
“This information was not in Mr. Holmes’s files,” said Mary.
“Well, sometimes the police know things that interfering private detectives don’t,” he replied, in acidic tones. “The public blames us for any murders left unsolved, and gives them credit for the few they manage to solve—through lucky guesses, like as not! But you say Mrs. Herbert is also Mrs. Raymond?”
“Yes,” said Mary, taking another sip of the port. She would not remind him of all the times Mr. Holmes had helped him and taken no credit for it! She would simply continue to bite her tongue. It was going to feel awfully sore after this conversation, in a metaphorical sense. “Mrs. Raymond was associated with Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran.”
“Moriarty!” said Lestrade. “He’s a gent I’ve wanted to get my hands on for a while now. We thought he was dead, but a month ago Mr. Holmes tipped us off that he was back, though keeping a low profile. He’s responsible for half the crime in London—in low places and high, but we’ve never been able to prove it. He’s too clever by half, and Moran does the dirty work for him. I thought we’d be able to catch him tonight at the museum—we got word from an informant that he would be trying to steal artifacts from one of the Egyptian exhibitions, and he must have succeeded, since a mummy seems to be missing. We were disappointed to find only yourselves and a bunch of boys on the scene! Indeed, you must have frightened him off and lost us our quarry. If you have any information as to his whereabouts, Miss Jekyll—”
What was she going to say, that Moriarty and his lieutenant were small piles of white ash on the floor of the British Museum? Lestrade would never believe her.
“If I hear a
nything of Professor Moriarty, I will certainly inform you.” Mary could say that with a clear conscience—she knew perfectly well that she would not be hearing anything of Moriarty again. This time, he truly was dead.
Lestrade nodded approvingly. “That’s right, Miss Jekyll. Scotland Yard is the proper authority to handle a matter of that sort—not some interfering private detective!”
Once again Mary had to bite her tongue in the metaphorical sense. But there was another piece of information she wanted from him. “Inspector, there is a death I’m curious about, that of Professor Trelawny, the Egyptologist. Do you know if anyone investigated—”
“Outside of my jurisdiction,” said Lestrade. “The Professor died in his house in Cornwall, where he kept his collection. That’s the one in the museum, isn’t it—the Trelawny Exhibit? It must be Trelawny’s mummy that’s gone missing. I told you to stay out of this case, Miss Jekyll. At any rate, his death was an accident. He was using some electrical apparatus and it malfunctioned, or so I gathered from The Times. You should not concern yourself with deaths, whether deliberate or accidental. It’s morbid, and no young lady should be morbid. Embroidery, I tell you! Now, I must be on my way.” He drank the last of his port. “Thank you, Mrs. Poole. I’m glad to see a nice, respectable woman such as yourself in charge around here. You’ll keep these girls in order, I’m sure. Good God, what is that?”
It was Archibald, dressed in his footman’s uniform. It had once belonged to Mary’s footman Joseph, who had married Enid, the housemaid. Now, they kept a public house together in Basingstoke. Mrs. Poole had cut the uniform down considerably for the Orangutan Man. He was carrying Lestrade’s overcoat and hat.
“Just a poor boy we took in from the streets. We’re training him to be a footman,” said Mrs. Poole. “He’s very teachable, although not very bright and a bit odd-looking, poor lad. Do come again, Inspector. It’s such a pleasure to meet a member of the Metropolitan Police. I’m sure we should all be grateful that you and your men are out on the streets of London, enforcing the law.”
“We are here to serve, dear lady,” said Lestrade, putting on his overcoat and looking at Archibald dubiously. “And do try to keep these girls from getting into any more mischief. I won’t always be there to save them, you know. It was irresponsible of Holmes to get you involved in the first place, and now he seems to have disappeared—along with the mummy that was supposed to go on display tomorrow. I don’t understand this fascination with mummies myself—they’re just dried-up corpses. But people seem to be going barmy over anything Egyptian nowadays! I even caught Mrs. Lestrade reading a book called The Mummy’s Curse. Sheer nonsense, I told her. ‘Stolen mummy! Stolen mummy!’ all the newsboys will be crying tomorrow morning. And of course we will be expected to do something about it. If, as you say, Mr. Holmes is pursuing the thieves, his first duty is to communicate all he knows to the Metropolitan Police. If you hear from him, Miss Jekyll, you tell him so.”
“Of course, Inspector,” said Mary, doing her best to look humble and obedient. There was no point in antagonizing Lestrade further. He was angry enough at them as it was.
After Mrs. Poole had let him out and returned to the parlor to gather up the tray, Mary said, “Girls! I’m twenty-one. I am not a girl.”
“Of course you’re not, my dear,” said Mrs. Poole. “But sometimes it’s best to let gentlemen talk. If you had argued with him, he would not have given you so much information about Mrs. Raymond. Honey catches more flies than vinegar, you know.”
MARY: That reminds me of poor Mr. Renfield. How is he? Does anyone know?
CATHERINE: He’s doing better under the new director of the Purfleet Asylum. They asked Dr. Hennessey, the old associate director, to come back from Ireland, and he has all sorts of ideas about how to treat the mentally ill, as he calls them. He’s letting Renfield catch his flies, which makes him very happy, and Joe Abernathy has been promoted to head day attendant. Also, Florence can speak again—Joe says it was a new treatment from Vienna that helped her. I suspect Dr. Hennessey is implementing the ideas of Dr. Freud. She’s going to be discharged next month. But Lady Hollingston is as mad as ever!
Justine was lying in bed, her head almost touching the headboard. Once, this had been Dr. Jekyll’s room—his bed was the only one long enough for her. Mary sat down beside her and took her hand. It was cold, but then Justine’s hand always was.
Well, at least she was breathing! She looked asleep, but it was a deep sleep—they had tried putting a bottle of sal volatile under her nose, bathing her face with eau de cologne, even shaking her. Justine had not woken up.
“You have to eat something, miss,” said Mrs. Poole, putting a tray on the bedside table. “I have some cutlets here, potatoes, and carrots—everything’s cold I’m afraid, since I didn’t know when you would be coming back. Where in the world have you girls been since Friday afternoon? Why did Inspector Lestrade think you were investigating a robbery in the British Museum? And why are there coal smudges all over your clothes?”
As clearly and rapidly as she could, Mary explained the events of the past two days while picking at her carrots. She felt too sick to eat, even though a hollow feeling in her stomach told her that she must. Where were Alice and Mr. Holmes? How in the world was she going to find them now?
“Well, I don’t believe for a moment that Alice was helping that woman,” said Mrs. Poole after Mary had described what had happened in Soho. “I trained Alice myself—she would never do such a thing.”
“Then why was she holding Mrs. Raymond’s hand, and why was she all dressed up like that?” Diana came into the room and plopped herself on the bed. “Mary, can I have one of your cutlets?”
“No, you may not,” said Mrs. Poole. “I’ll bring you a plate of your own. Don’t you dare take Miss Mary’s food. And can’t you wipe your face? Come here and stand still for a moment—I’ll do it. You have jam all over your cheeks, and a little in your hair, mixed with coal dust.” She wiped Diana’s face with Mary’s napkin.
“What in the world are we going to do?” asked Mary. She was so tired! The glass of port had probably not helped, although it had certainly felt good going down. “I can’t believe Queen Tera reduced those men to ash. I don’t think even Ayesha could do that. I just don’t know how we’re going to find her now—or rescue Alice and Mr. Holmes!”
“They’re going to some house, right?” said Diana. “Some house the one they called Margaret has all prepared. So we have to find that house, wherever it is in London. Mrs. Poole, if I take one of Mary’s cutlets now, she can have one of mine when you bring it up.” She took a cutlet from Mary’s plate and dodged Mrs. Poole’s ineffectual slap at her hand.
“Cornwall,” said Mary. “Miss Trelawny said ‘my house by the ocean’ is all prepared.” She hoped she remembered that correctly. “Professor Trelawny had a house in Cornwall where he died, and I bet it wasn’t because of an electrical malfunction. That would be her house now.” Although she was so tired, in her head a plan was already coming together.
Once again, they would be packing for a journey, but this time it would not be to Europe. They would go to Cornwall, they would find Alice and Mr. Holmes, and then they would rescue their friends from the clutches of Queen Tera. How, she did not know.
VOLUME II
The Mummy
CHAPTER XI
The Trelawny Exhibit
Mary, there’s a man here to see you. He said you know who he is. He gave me this for you.”
Mary opened her eyes, then immediately closed them again. It was too bright—daylight, broad daylight, coming through the open curtains of her bedroom. What time was it? She opened her eyes again, tentatively. At least it was not the strange white light with multicolored sparkles in it that she remembered from the night before! Mrs. Poole was sitting on the side of her bed, holding her waist bag. She could tell immediately, by the shape, that her revolver was in it.
“Isaac Mandelbaum?” she said, sitting up. Her revolver had bee
n confiscated by Professor Moriarty. Isaac was the only person she could think of who might have known where it was or retrieved it for her.
“He didn’t give a name,” said Mrs. Poole. “A handsome young man with quite a lot of dark hair. He had a foreign accent.”
Yes, that described Isaac exactly. Mary rubbed her eyes. “How is Justine? I need to go check on her.”
“Still the same, I’m afraid. She has not woken up yet. Archibald is sitting with her, and has strict instructions to let me know as soon as she so much as turns her head. Diana is asleep, of course. That child never gets up until I’ve summoned her at least twice. But you should probably see this young man first. He said he could only stay for a little while.”
“Right,” said Mary, sitting up. “I’ll see him in the parlor.”
“He wouldn’t come farther than the kitchen. He knocked at the back door, like a tradesman, and said he would wait for you down there, if that was all right. Is it?”
“I guess so. Is it proper for me to see him in my wrap?”
DIANA: Why the hell wouldn’t you be able to see him in your wrap? It covers you all the way to the neck.
MARY: Is it any use asking you to stop swearing?
JUSTINE: For once, I must agree with Diana. There is modesty, and there is propriety. The former is a natural instinct, given to us when Adam and Eve left the garden and realized their nakedness. The latter is merely a social construct. Although as human beings we wish to consort with our fellows, and therefore yield to their judgments in matters of dress and behavior, surely we may break the rules of propriety when they interfere with the important matters of our lives, so long as modesty is not thereby wounded.
DIANA: It sounds like you’re going to write a book! Who cares if modesty is wounded? How do you wound modesty anyway? It’s just a word. Mary needed information. Why shouldn’t she meet a man in her nightgown if she wants to?
MARY: I would never do such a thing! Meet with a man in my nightgown? Mrs. Poole would be shocked.
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 23