DIANA: Well, if you hadn’t been such a bloody— [The rest of Diana’s comments are not appropriate for a book that we hope will reach an audience of both mature and younger readers.]
CATHERINE: Diana, I will not include that sort of language, so you might as well try to express yourself without resorting to insults or invectives.
DIANA: [Comments omitted. Seriously, just stop already.]
But what could happen to her in a religious society to rescue Magdalens, the prostitutes who are ubiquitous in London, particularly in the East End? Keeping her body turned so Sister Margaret could not see what she was doing, she slipped the revolver into her purse. Thank goodness it was the practical kind, not one of those decorative purses fine ladies carried, mostly tassels and embroidery. She turned back toward the gate and, trying not to look as reluctant as she felt, walked through the archway into a courtyard. She heard the gate clang behind her and turned back for a moment. Dr. Watson was looking at her through the bars. He pointed to his watch—reminding her that she had one hour.
She gave him a small wave, then followed Sister Margaret, trying not to think too much about where she was going and what she might find. She was inside, which meant she was committed to this adventure, whatever it might produce.
They walked across the courtyard, which was paved except for a border by the stone wall of the house, where straggling yews leaned toward the sunlight. A thick layer of ivy grew up the walls to the third floor, making the house look particularly ominous. Sister Margaret pushed open a large wooden door with iron fittings that made Mary feel as though she were entering the Castle of Otranto. She could not repress a small shudder. The air was damper and colder here than it had been in the streets of London. Mary followed Sister Margaret up a set of stone stairs to the second floor. At the top of the stairs was a long hallway, leading to another large wooden door. There seemed to be a lot of those in the Magdalen Society, as though someone had decided on large and ominous as a decorating style. Sister Margaret knocked.
“Come in!” came the call from inside.
Sister Margaret pushed, and the door opened with a loud creak. “Mrs. Raymond,” she said, “this is Miss Jekyll.”
A handsome woman with iron-gray hair rose from behind a desk. Like Sister Margaret, she was wearing a gray dress, but hers was of watered silk, and she had a chatelaine at her waist, with an imposing number of keys dangling from it
“I’m glad you’ve come, Miss Jekyll,” said the director. “I refuse to keep the child any longer. She has proven incorrigible. I’ve written to your mother numerous times, asking her to come take Diana, but she’s never responded.”
“Diana?” said Mary, astonished. “Who is Diana?” What in the world could this be about?
“You are Mrs. Jekyll’s daughter, are you not?” asked the director, looking at her as though not at all sure of her mental capacity.
“Yes, of course,” she said.
“Then I assume you are here to take responsibility for her. Mrs. Jekyll has been quite generous, but it’s impossible for her to stay any longer. She is a continual disruption. She whispers blasphemies during prayers. And I can’t tell you what she did in the baptismal font of St. Mary Magdalen, where we attend services.”
Mary stared, astonished. What in the world was the director talking about? And what could this possibly have to do with Hyde? “I don’t understand,” she said. “Letters to my mother?”
“Through her solicitor, of course. A Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street.”
“But Mr. Utterson died several years ago, and his offices are not in Gaunt Street—perhaps you were sending them to his personal address? That would explain why my mother never received them.”
“That,” said Mrs. Raymond with a frown, “is not my problem. She’s been confined to her room for singing inappropriate songs during dinner. We can have her packed in fifteen minutes.”
“When you say her—,” Mary began, but Mrs. Raymond had already turned and started walking out of the room. Whom do you mean? Who is this Diana? she had meant to ask. However, there was nothing to do but follow, with Sister Margaret trailing after them. They walked back down the hallway and up yet another flight of stairs. Two women in plain gray dresses, with white aprons and caps, who were washing the stone steps rose and curtseyed as they passed. “Both rescued from a brothel in Limehouse,” said Mrs. Raymond. “We do wonderful work here, Miss Jekyll, bringing strayed souls back to the Lord’s path.” Mary nodded without paying particular attention, but as they reached the top of the steps and walked down another hallway, she became interested in the rooms they were passing, where women in identical gray dresses, with white aprons and caps, were sewing in long, straight rows. “The work our Magdalens do supports our mission,” said the director. It looked like a rather grim mission, to Mary. The women worked silently: there was no chattering, the way there usually is in a room full of women, and if they looked up as Mary passed, they almost immediately looked down again to their work. Finally, Mrs. Raymond opened a door and said, “Diana, there’s a lady here to see you. She’s going to take you with her.”
“About bloody time,” Mary heard.
She entered the room. There, sitting cross-legged on the bed, barefoot and in a white shift, was a girl. She had red hair curling down to her waist, and her face was covered with freckles. The room around her was a mess. A bureau in the corner had its drawers pulled out, and there were clothes strewn over the floor. A bookshelf had been emptied of its books, which lay on the floor among the clothes. Mary noted that they were all pious works—a Bible, The Sermons of Reverend Dr. Throckmorton, a book with Holy Thoughts and Good Deeds written on the spine, lying open with its pages downward. A table was pulled out from the wall and the chair had been turned over. On the floor, Mary could see the shards of a pitcher and washbasin, a brass candlestick, and a hair brush. On one wall was written, in large red letters, LET ME OUT OF HERE YOU BLOODY HIPOCRITES!
“What have you done now, you ungrateful miscreant?” said Mrs. Raymond, in icy tones.
With a grin, the girl held up her arm. It was obvious where the red letters had come from: she had wrapped a long cut with pieces torn from her shift. The red on the strips had crusted.
“Oh, how dreadful!” said Sister Margaret. She looked faint.
“Well, you’re not going to be my problem much longer,” said Mrs. Raymond. “Pack your trunk immediately. You don’t want to keep Miss Jekyll waiting.”
“Miss Jekyll, is it?” said the girl. “Oh, that’s rich. Lovely to meet you, Miss Jekyll. Where are you going to take me, that’s what I want to know. Is it the asylum next? Or prison?”
“Who is this girl?” Mary asked Mrs. Raymond, feeling utterly bewildered. It was about time she got some answers. And the girl, whoever she was, should have her arm tended to.
“This is Diana Hyde,” said Mrs. Raymond, looking at her with astonishment. “Surely you knew? She was brought to us after her mother died, with a letter from Mrs. Jekyll charging us to care for and raise her. Your mother has paid for her maintenance ever since. Didn’t she tell you?”
“My mother died last week,” said Mary. Why would her mother do such a thing? She did not understand.
“Oh dear!” said Sister Margaret. “How dreadful!”
“My condolences,” said Mrs. Raymond, sounding not at all sincere. Indeed, she sounded rather pleased. Some people enjoyed death when it did not touch them directly. “But that does not change my position. The girl must go.”
“But can you give me no explanation?” said Mary. “I understand that my mother left this child under your care and arranged for her maintenance. I assume she is somehow connected to my father’s assistant, Mr. Hyde. But why?” What interest could her mother have had in this child? A charitable one, surely. It was just the sort of case that would have appealed to Ernestine Jekyll. But then why had she not told Mary about her? The child must be thirteen or fourteen, although she looked small for her age—food was probably not overa
bundant at the Society of St. Mary Magdalen.
DIANA: Not overabundant! They damn near starved us to death. Those sanctimonious . . .
CATHERINE: I already warned you about using that sort of language.
“Well,” said Diana, “are you going to take me out of this place?”
Was she? Mary wondered what in the world to do. She had no idea why her mother had supported this child for so many years. But she had, and Mary supposed that created some sort of obligation. After all, once she closed the bank account, there would be no more money for the child’s maintenance. What would the Society of St. Mary Magdalen do with her?
“If she were to stay here—,” she began.
“Oh, we couldn’t possibly keep her, Miss Jekyll,” said Mrs. Raymond. “We’re a society for fallen angels of the Lord, not wayward children. No, I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question.” She smiled, a grim and implacable smile.
Mary looked at the girl again. Her arm needed tending to. Obviously no one here was going to do it, and then there was the mystery of her origin and name. What was her relationship to Hyde? If she left the girl here, she would never find out. She was the right age to be Hyde’s daughter. . . . If so, perhaps she would know something of her father’s whereabouts? “All right,” said Mary. “She can come with me.”
“Thank you, Miss Jekyll,” said Mrs. Raymond. Now that the matter was settled, she was much more gracious. “Perhaps you can beat some sense into her. We have attempted to prepare her for a useful trade, but have found her utterly unteachable. We had initially accepted her on the understanding that she might be trained for service in a private household, or have a religious vocation—”
“Not bloody likely, you old bitch!” said Diana, getting up and starting to dance around on the bed. She moved so wildly that Mary was afraid she would fall off.
“If you want me to get you out of here, you’d better pack,” Mary said. The girl was out of control. What in the world was she going to do with her?
Diana jumped off the bed, pulled on one of the dresses that were lying on the floor, and started throwing the remaining dresses into a trunk that was sitting beside the bureau. Well, they could sort it all out later. The important thing now was to get out of here and discuss the situation with Dr. Watson.
“And put on your boots,” said Mrs. Raymond.
“Won’t,” said Diana.
“Suit yourself,” said Mrs. Raymond. “You’re not my responsibility any longer.”
“But you seem to be mine,” said Mary. “Put on your boots or I’ll leave you here.”
Diana glared at her, but she pulled a pair of boots from under the bed and put them on over her bare feet. “All right, I’m ready. Get me out of here so I don’t have to see her ugly face again.” She stuck out her tongue at Sister Margaret, who looked shocked and a little frightened.
“That’s enough,” said Mary. “If you want to come, then come.”
DIANA: See, that’s the voice. You can call it businesslike if you want to.
MARY: I was very close to leaving you there. You’d better thank your stars I didn’t!
DIANA: They’d better thank their stars! If I had stayed there much longer, I would have burned down that whole operation.
MRS. POOLE: Oh, I don’t doubt you would have. Sometimes I think you’re a demon in the shape of a child! And don’t bother sticking your tongue out at me. I’m so used to it that I no longer pay attention.
Together, Mary and Sister Margaret carried Diana’s trunk down the two flights of stairs, with Diana capering before them, humming some sort of tune. Mrs. Raymond followed them all the way down to the front door, then watched them walk across the courtyard to the gate, as though to make certain Mary and Diana were truly leaving.
Watson, still waiting outside the gate, looked relieved to see Mary again.
Once they had carried the trunk through the archway, Sister Margaret set it down, scurried back into the courtyard, and shut the gate behind her with a clang. She turned the key in the lock, then called, “May the Lord bless and keep you—away from here, you imp!”
“Your arse!” Diana called back, with a rude gesture.
“Dr. Watson,” said Mary, almost laughing at the astonishment on his face, “I’ve been informed that this is Miss Diana Hyde, and that I am now in charge of her.” The situation wasn’t funny of course—only he looked so completely bewildered. It was such a perfect expression of how she herself was feeling at the moment.
“How d’you do,” said Diana. “Any gentleman friend of my sister is a gentleman friend of mine.”
“Your sister?” said Mary. “What in the world do you mean—”
“Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson!” A boy was running down the street toward them. He was a typical London urchin, in an oversized suit with holes in the knees and a battered cap on his head. He stopped, put his hands on his sides, and tried to catch his breath.
“What is it, Charlie?” asked Watson, producing a penny out of his pocket.
“Mr. Holmes says to come as soon as you can,” said the boy, taking the penny so swiftly and skillfully that Mary barely saw him do it. “They’ve found another body. It’s not far from here, but I ran all the way.”
“I’m afraid your explanation will have to wait, Miss Jekyll,” said Watson. “I’ll have to get you back to Marylebone. But how to do it, when there are no cabs in the area . . .”
“I can come with you,” said Mary. “I need to talk to Mr. Holmes, quite urgently.” She wanted to tell him about what had happened at the Magdalen Society. Perhaps he could shed some light on it all. “Can we can send the trunk and this child back together?”
“Oh no!” said Diana. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Wherever you go, I’m coming too. You took charge of me, remember?”
“Miss Jekyll, I can’t take you to a murder scene,” said Watson.
“I don’t think you have much of a choice. I can’t find my way back to Marylebone from here alone, you know.” Despite the difficulty of the situation, once again Mary felt like laughing. Here she was, in the middle of Whitechapel, with Dr. Watson and mystery in the shape of a very dirty girl, arguing to be taken to a murder. What would Mrs. Poole think?
MRS. POOLE: What indeed!
“Oh, all right,” said Watson. “Charlie, can you take charge of this trunk? Miss Jekyll will give you her address. Find a cart that can transport it for her, and make sure it arrives safely. And tell me where I can find Holmes.”
“All right, guv’nor,” said Charlie, looking curiously at Diana, particularly at her bare ankles, which were visible under the hem of her dress. Obviously, he was not used to seeing her like with the respectable Dr. Watson. She made an impish face at him. He turned up his nose, looking most superior, and paid her no more attention.
Watson handed him a shilling, which disappeared as quickly as had the penny. Charlie ran off into the alleys of Whitechapel, with a promise that he wouldn’t be a minute, guv’nor. While they were waiting, Mary retrieved her portfolio and umbrella, and handed the revolver back to Watson, with thanks for its protection. As briefly as she could, she told him what had happened inside the Society of St. Mary Magdalen, with numerous interruptions from Diana, half complaints about the society, half curses. When he heard about Diana’s cut, he did his best to clean it with the whiskey he carried in a flask—for emergencies, he said. As he poured whiskey onto the cut, Diana swore vividly and inventively. Although she hated to admit it, even Mary was impressed by her verbal prowess.
MARY: I was not!
DIANA: Oh, you most definitely were.
He rebandaged the cut with strips from Diana’s already-torn shift, ripped off with the aid of his pocket knife. Just as he had finished tying the bandage, Charlie returned with a man driving a wheelbarrow. The trunk was lifted into the wheelbarrow, and the man promised that it would be delivered safely to 11 Park Terrace by his brother, who had a cart from which he sold vegetables in Covent Garden, “lovely turnips and
cabbages, miss.” Charlie gave Watson directions, although Mary could hear phrases such as “turn by the house with the chickens in the front yard,” which did not fill her with confidence. Then Charlie followed the man with the wheelbarrow, whistling between his teeth.
Watson turned to them again. “Miss Jekyll, and . . . Miss Hyde? If you’ll both follow me, I’ll do my best to take you to Holmes, although what he’ll think of your presence, I have no idea.”
“So,” said Diana, “is this another one of those murders? That’s all they talk about at St. Mary Magdalen, when they’re allowed to talk, that is. The girl without arms, the girl without a head . . . They say it gives them nightmares. What’s she missing, this time?”
“We have no idea, yet,” said Mary. “And if you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head, I’m sending you back there, no matter what Mrs. Raymond says. So for goodness’ sake stay quiet and out of mischief!” There was no time now, but later she would have to untangle the mystery of Diana Hyde. Who was this girl? Why had her mother supported her for so long? And why had she called Mary sister? But Dr. Watson was already walking toward the narrow street that Charlie had indicated, and Diana Hyde was skipping, actually skipping, as though this were all a game, beside him. Mary hurried to catch up.
JUSTINE: Diana, I’ve always wondered. What did you do in the baptismal font?
DIANA: I pissed in it!
JUSTINE: Yes, I suspected something of the sort.
CHAPTER IV
A Murder in Whitechapel
The Society of St. Mary Magdalen had been near Whitechapel High Street, but now they were walking into the heart of the East End. The alleys grew more dismal, with broken pavement and piles of refuse. Women hung out washing, men sat on the steps of the tenements, playing cards or reading newspapers. Barefoot children ran down the alleys, playing tag or simply hitting each other and running away, Mary could not tell which. The air smelled of the smoke from factories, and cooking, and human waste. Even the sunlight seemed dimmer, as though it were coming through layers of fog.
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 5