This is the dark half of London, where poverty and crime thrive—a shadow cast by the bright and prosperous West End. Go on, tell me I’m being melodramatic, I dare you. We all know what the social conditions are like down there. And yes, I know perfectly well that this is not a political tract, thank you, Mary! I don’t need to be reminded.
As they walked, Mary answered Watson’s questions about what had happened inside the Magdalen Society, trying to fill in the details she had not been able to give him earlier. They passed a soldier without legs, begging on a corner. As they turned the corner and walked down yet another alley, a dog on a chain barked at them until someone shouted, “Shut up, you bloody bitch!” Then it lay down, whining, its ears flat against its head.
“Miss Jekyll, I’m not sure I should have brought you here,” said Watson.
“What, you didn’t know how the other half lived?” said Diana, mockingly. “So it’s good enough for me, but not a lady like her. I get it!”
If she says one more thing, I’m going to hit her, thought Mary. Diana had continually interrupted her conversation with Watson, detailing her life at St. Mary Magdalen—how she had hated the meals, which sisters she had particularly disliked, what she had said to them before they washed her mouth out with soap. What they had said to her after she bit them. If I had some soap, thought Mary, I would wash your mouth out myself, and you wouldn’t get to bite me, you brat.
DIANA: Oh yes I would! You’re not nearly as quick as I am.
“You shouldn’t be here either,” said Watson. “This is no place for a child.”
“Oh Lord!” said Diana. “I was born in a place like this. There was a man who lived in our court, a butcher he was, with a wife he used to beat when he was drunk. Well, one night he fell down drunk and hit his head on one of the stoops. That was the end of him! By morning, the rats had eaten him up, all but the bones. Wasn’t that a funny end, for a butcher?”
“Diana,” said Mary, “even rats wouldn’t pick bones clean in one night. If you’re going to tell tales, you should at least make them plausible.”
“All right then,” said Diana. “He wasn’t gone by the next morning, but he was gnawed by rats! His widow couldn’t pay for a funeral, so he lay there for three days until the Missionary Society took his body away. Lord, how he stunk up our court!”
“That’s quite enough,” said Mary. “Dr. Watson, where are we going, exactly?”
“I think it’s just around the corner,” he said. “It would have been better for Charlie to guide us—boys like him know every inch of this city. But I needed him to look after your trunk, Miss Hyde. Otherwise, I’m not sure it would have reached its destination.”
DIANA: That’s right, Miss Hyde! At least some people know how to be polite. And I could have guided you—I know every inch of Whitechapel, better than Charlie. But did you ask me? Of course not.
“I just hope I’ve understood Charlie’s directions,” Watson continued. “The alleys in this part of the city are like a labyrinth. You expect a Minotaur around each corner, and wish for a piece of string from Ariadne!”
Around the next corner was the narrowest, dirtiest alley they had yet seen. Halfway down it stood Sherlock Holmes. With him were three men: two of them London bobbies, the third a short man in plain clothes with bright red hair and a bristling mustache. Lying on the ground between them was . . . well, mercifully she was covered with a piece of cloth, although it was not long enough to conceal her entire body. Mary could see her shoes and stockinged ankles. Toward the top of her body, the edges of the cloth were soaked with blood. Mary gasped. Why had she thought this would be interesting? It was not interesting—it was horrible.
DIANA: Horrible and interesting!
MARY: Horrible. But Diana’s right, it was interesting as well. I still remember her shoes: the heels were worn down, and I wondered if she had simply neglected them, or not been able to afford a cobbler. One of her stockings had been mended. It’s strange what trivial things we think of, when experiencing something so—well, horrible is the word.
“Watson! Excellent timing,” said Holmes. “Although I’m surprised to see that you brought Miss Jekyll. Could she not have been sent home in a cab? Forgive me, Miss Jekyll, I do not mean to dispose of you as though you were a piece of baggage. But this is scarcely the place for a lady. And who or what is this?” He looked pointedly at Diana.
“This is what we found at the Society of St. Mary Magdalen,” said Watson.
“Her name is Diana Hyde,” said Mary. “This is the Hyde my mother’s payments have been supporting. She looks about thirteen or fourteen, although she’s a bit scrawny. Do you think—”
“Scrawny my arse!” said Diana. “And I’m fourteen, thank you. I’m not some beggar born on the streets—I know my own birthday.”
“—that she’s the daughter of Mr. Hyde?” said Holmes. “Surely she herself can give you some information on that score.”
“I suppose we never did ask her, did we, Dr. Watson?” said Mary.
“There was no time,” Watson replied.
“Why are you talking about me as though I’m not here?” said Diana, crossing her arms and looking irate.
“In this case, the simplest course of action is to ask.” Holmes turned to Diana and put his hand on her shoulder, conveniently stopping her from what she had been about to do—kick Mary on the shin. “Are you the daughter of a Mr. Edward Hyde?”
Diana twisted her shoulder out of his grasp and stood glaring at them. “Mum always told me that my father was a gentleman who called himself Mr. Hyde. She told me to behave like a lady because I was a gentleman’s daughter. But he never came to see me, not while Mum was alive. And then I was sent to St. Mary’s.”
“So you would have no idea where he is now,” said Watson.
“Holmes, I don’t know what you’re doing bringing a woman and a child to a murder scene,” said the red-haired man. “Watson can make himself useful, although nowadays he seems to spend his time recording your exploits rather than examining bodies. But they have no business being here.”
“I’m not a child,” said Diana. “And who do you think you are, carrots?”
“Carrots yourself!” said the red-haired man, glaring at her.
“This is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard,” said Holmes. “He’s not in the habit of locking up young women for rudeness, but it’s probably a good idea not to tempt him. Lestrade, this is Miss Jekyll, the daughter of Dr. Jekyll, who was involved in the Carew murder case. You may remember it, although it was many years ago. She’s here on business, with me. But I’m afraid, Miss Jekyll, that this murder takes precedence. It was reported an hour ago. A man who does odd jobs in these parts found the body of a woman named Molly Keane lying in this alley. I have not yet examined the body myself, and must do so at some length. As you are here, you and Miss Hyde may stay, but you may wish to avert your eyes. It’s not a sight for the squeamish, I’m afraid.”
Mary stood undecided, afraid to see what lay under the sheet. “Her head isn’t missing, is it?” she asked.
“That was the last victim,” said Lestrade. “He never takes the same body part twice, and if you look carefully, you’ll see the outline of her head, or most of it. But Holmes, I protest. This is highly irregular.”
Holmes paid no attention, but lifted the sheet and handed it to one of the sergeants, who folded it gingerly, trying not to get blood on his uniform.
Mary gasped.
“Horrible,” said Watson.
“Lord, he done her in good,” said Diana.
Molly Keane had been around Mary’s age. She must have been a pretty girl. The bones of her face were strong and fine, although the face itself was bruised: there were blue marks over the cheeks and under the eyes. Those eyes looked up at the gray sky, lifeless. There was blood spattered over her shoulders and soaked into her dress. Since the pavement was still wet from the morning’s rains, the paving stones around her were slick and red, with blood pooling in the
spaces between them. Her long hair trailed in the blood on the pavement. Mary forced herself to look back up, to what she had been avoiding—the head lying in a pool of blood. The entire top of it, above the eyebrows, was gone.
“He cut out her brain,” said Holmes.
“What . . . what could he possibly want with it?” asked Mary.
“He must be a madman,” said Lestrade. “Who else would do something like that? Molly Keane was a—well, I’m not going to say anything in front of the ladies. You shouldn’t even be here, neither of you.”
“A whore,” said Diana. “We know. Look at the rouge on her cheeks.”
“But not an ordinary one,” said Holmes. “Look at her hands. Her palms are not calloused by manual labor, and her clothes are of good quality, although patched and mended. However she may have fallen, she was once a lady.”
“You’re right about that,” said Lestrade. “While we were waiting for you, Sergeant Debenham talked to one of the other girls who works this area. He’s got her waiting at an inn around the corner. He’s also holding the man who found the body, a local beggar who goes by Poor Richard and hasn’t any other name, so far as I can tell. You’ll want to talk to them, Holmes. According to her friend, Molly Keane had been a governess until she was seduced by her master and thrown out by her mistress. Her child died at birth, and she went on the streets to earn her living.”
“A sad story, and not an uncommon one,” said Watson, shaking his head.
“Poor girl,” said Mary. She had read about this side of London life, but never encountered it herself. It shocked her, although not perhaps as much as it should have. This was life, wasn’t it? Life as she had often imagined it, looking out the curtained windows of the house on Park Terrace.
“Or stupid,” said Diana. “I’ve lived with whores all my life, whether they were working or reformed. Whores know all sorts of ways to avoid getting with child. They can make customers withdraw, or use a sheepskin, or—”
“Diana!” said Mary.
DIANA: How is that more shocking than getting with child, I’d like to know?
MARY: One doesn’t talk about such things, particularly in front of gentlemen.
DIANA: Then one is as stupid as Molly Keane.
“She may have fallen into sin,” said Holmes, “but she died bravely. Look at her right hand. The fingernails are broken, and there is flesh under them. She fought for her life, poor girl.”
“What’s that in her left hand?” asked Mary.
Before Mary could stop her, Diana crouched by the body of Molly Keane, getting blood on the hem of her dress and the toes of her boots. She reached across the murdered girl to the stiff hand that lay on her bosom and pried open the clenched fingers. From that cold grasp, she withdrew what the girl had been holding: a metal button.
“Diana!” cried Mary.
“Bloody hell . . . ,” said Lestrade, sputtering as though he did not know how to go on. “Don’t you know never to touch a murder victim? Holmes, I’m holding you responsible.”
“All right, I’m responsible,” said Holmes. “You should not have done that, Miss Hyde. There might have been fingerprints, although it’s unlikely we would find any but Molly Keane’s. But since you have—what is it?”
“It’s a button of some sort . . . no, I think it’s a watch fob,” said Mary, taking it from Diana in her handkerchief, so as not to touch it, and examining it closely. It was made of brass, and heavy in her hand. “Part of the chain is still attached. And there’s something . . .” The fob was caked with blood, but she could make out letters on the bottom, engraved into the metal. “S.A. It could be a set of initials. Or it could stand for something—some sort of motto.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “I’ve seen fobs like this worn by members of scientific societies, or social clubs, or even cricket teams. They’re often used as seals, which would explain the engraving. She must have torn it from the murderer during their struggle. Miss Jekyll, if you could step aside, I would like to examine the body thoroughly. And take your ward with you, if you please.”
Mary grabbed Diana by the arm and pulled her back, out of the way. Holmes walked around and around the body while the rest of them stood and watched. It was almost comical to see him, bent over like a praying mantis, inspecting the ground around the murdered girl, lifting her hands, turning her head from side to side and looking at her bruises. Finally, he examined the hole in her head. Mary had to turn away, sickened by the sight. Then he made a careful examination of the alley. He seemed to be looking at every stone, from the cross street at one end to the blank wall at the other. It was, Mary thought, a good place to commit a murder. The alley was long and narrow. Neither of the buildings that formed its walls had windows overlooking the alley, so the solid brick rose sheer. Close to the street, the building on one side had been built out so that it hung over the alley, blocking some of the light. Toward its blind end, there was a large doorway. It looked like the back entrance to a warehouse, but the door was evidently locked on the inside, since Holmes turned the handle and rattled it several times. Last night, there would have been no one to see, and no way out for poor Molly Keane. Holmes paid particular attention to that doorway, returning to it once he had examined the rest of the alley.
“How long is he going to take?” Lestrade finally asked, looking at his watch. “I have Poor Richard and that other girl waiting, and I want to question them before they start getting restless.”
“As long as it takes,” said Watson. “You know him well enough to know his methods.”
As far as Mary could tell, it took forever. She did not know how much longer she could keep Diana quiet—her furious whispers that Lestrade would lock Diana up in Newgate, in the deepest, darkest cell where rats would chew her ears off, were losing their effect. But finally, Holmes rejoined them.
“Well?” said Lestrade.
“They were careful,” said Holmes.
“They? We assumed this was the work of an individual madman.” Unconsciously, Lestrade chewed on a corner of his mustache. Mary almost laughed, but reminded herself that this was no laughing matter.
“No, there were two of them, and I wish you had called me in on this case earlier! If I’d been able to examine where the other victims were found, I might have been able to tell you more. It’s obvious that they had to leave the murder scene quickly, or they would have attempted to hide the body, as they did in the cases of Sally Hayward and Anna Pettingill. But the rain early this morning has wiped away most of their traces. There are few clues on the site. Watson, when would you say she was killed?”
“By the general condition of the body, I would say late last night or early this morning.”
“I agree. They obviously did not want to take the chance of being detected, so they chose the cover of darkness to commit their crime. I would put it closer to early morning, before the rain began. Her clothes are still damp.”
“How can you tell there were two of them?” said Lestrade. Which was, of course, what Mary had been wondering.
“One left two footprints in the mud under that overhang, where the rain has not erased them.” He gestured toward the overhang at the entrance to the alley. They had walked under it themselves, when they arrived. “By the distance between them, I would put him at not much above five feet. By the distance his boots sank into the mud, he is not a heavy man, eight or nine stone. And they are undoubtedly the boots of a gentleman.”
“A gentleman!” said Watson. “What gentleman would do such a deed?”
“Oh please!” said Diana. “The things I’ve seen gentlemen do . . .”
“And the other man?” asked Mary.
“He has left no traces,” said Holmes. “But Molly Keane’s neck is broken, and I don’t think the man we’ve been describing would have the strength to break her neck. He’s small and light—and lame in one leg.”
“Lame!” said Lestrade. “How is that, Holmes?”
“His footprints in the mud. One of them i
s straight, the other bent, almost as though he had a club foot, although without deformity. To look at, he must be a twisted man. I don’t think he has the strength to saw into a woman’s head—you’re looking for a surgical saw, I think, Lestrade. Yes, and a sharp knife to remove her brain with. Perhaps a scalpel. This was a more delicate operation than Pauline Delacroix, whose entire head was missing. Two men are most definitely indicated: one strong enough to break a woman’s neck and saw through her skull, another with the knowledge and skill to take out her brain. You may be looking for a medical man, or a man with medical training.”
“The devil!” said Watson.
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Unfortunately, I was able to get nothing more: the rain has washed too much away. I would like to talk with the girl who identified Molly Keane, and with this Poor Richard. You said they are at a nearby inn?”
“I would like to come with you, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary.
“That’s entirely out of the question,” said Lestrade. “This is a police investigation, young lady. You don’t belong here in the first place.”
Holmes looked at her curiously. “Why is that, Miss Jekyll?”
“Your description—it reminds me of something. Someone.”
“Indeed? Lestrade, I would like you to indulge me this once. Miss Jekyll, if you can keep Miss Hyde under control, you may listen in on my interviews. But only so long as she behaves herself, mind.”
“Indulge you this once!” said Lestrade. “Considering how often I give in to your notions . . .”
But Holmes was already walking up the alley, and Lestrade had to hurry after, shouting directions to his sergeants about how they were to transport the body of Molly Keane back to Scotland Yard. Watson followed, and Mary dragged Diana behind her by the wrist.
The inn was just around the corner: it was called The Bells and had a sign with faded yellow bells painted on it above the front door. The police had cleared out the pub that formed its first floor, so inside there were no patrons, only the landlord behind the bar, disgruntled because he was losing custom; a policeman looking uncomfortable and bored; a young woman rather splendidly but cheaply dressed; and a man with a grizzled beard who must have been Poor Richard. He seemed to be wearing a collection of rags.
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 6