MRS. POOLE: A pub! To think that Miss Mary should have entered such a place.
MARY: Mrs. Poole, there were no patrons inside. And there were policemen. And Mr. Holmes. And Dr. Watson. I don’t know how it could have been more respectable.
MRS. POOLE: Nothing about a murder investigation is respectable.
“Let’s have the man who found her first,” said Holmes. Lestrade brought Poor Richard over to a corner of the pub where Holmes had gathered several chairs around a table: one for himself, one for Lestrade, one for the person they were questioning. Mary found herself another chair and sat discreetly behind Holmes, where she could see Poor Richard’s face as he was interrogated. Diana perched on the edge of a stool, and Watson leaned against the wall. Mary sent up a silent prayer: For goodness’ sake, just let Diana stay quiet. She wanted to hear what Poor Richard had to say.
BEATRICE: How did you manage to keep Diana quiet all that time?
DIANA: I can be quiet when I want to. I wanted to hear what they were talking about too.
“Now then,” said Holmes, when Poor Richard was sitting across from him. “How did you find the body of this girl, Molly Keane?”
“Well, it was like this, sir. I wandered into the alley to have a smoke, and just stumbled across her, like,” he said in a thin, high voice. It was not the voice Mary had expected, coming out of what was still a large man, under all his rags. “Then I told Jim, here”—he gestured back toward the landlord behind the bar, who nodded—“and he called the constable on duty. That’s all I know, sir.” He stared at Holmes with bloodshot eyes, and Mary noticed that his hands on the table were trembling.
“That won’t do, you know,” said Holmes, smiling at him, not unkindly. “I want the truth from you, no more, no less. The sleeve of your coat is stained with blood. If you don’t tell me how you discovered Molly Keane, I shall have Sergeant Debenham arrest you on suspicion of her murder.”
To Mary’s astonishment, Poor Richard put his head in his hands and began to sob. And yes, there, she could see it—the cuff of his coat, a faded tweed that had seen better days, was streaked with red. She must become more observant, like Mr. Holmes. When she had first met him, shooting so theatrically at the wall, she had dismissed him as a charlatan. But now that she was seeing him in action, she had to admire his powers of observation and deduction. If only she could develop such abilities in herself . . .
DIANA: You’d better not let him see this chapter. I don’t know what His Nosiness would think of being called a charlatan. He’s so used to being worshipped by Dr. Watson and anyone who reads The Strand!
MARY: He knows perfectly well what I thought of him, at first. And he knows my opinion’s changed since then.
“None of that,” said Lestrade. “You’ll answer the question, or it’s off to gaol with you.”
“It’s all right,” said Holmes. “Here, landlord, bring this man a pint of your best ale, on me. Shall I tell you what you did last night? You can tell me whether I’m right or not.”
Poor Richard raised his head and nodded. The prospect of ale seemed to have restored his spirits.
“You had been drinking, as you often do. One can’t mistake the red nose of the habitual drunkard. You knew there was a doorway at the back of the alley, and that it was sufficiently hidden so you could sleep there without being told to move on. Perhaps you had slept there before—I suspect it’s one of your regular spots. So you stumbled into the alley and fell asleep. You were still asleep when two men brought Molly Keane into the alley and murdered her, but I think they must have woken you enough that you stirred, or made some noise. I conjecture that’s what sent them running from the alley. They had not thought anyone would be there. Do you remember seeing or hearing them?”
“You’re right enough,” said Poor Richard. “I fell asleep in that doorway, although how you know it, I have no idea.”
“You were telling the truth when you said that you had a smoke,” replied Holmes. “You sat in that doorway smoking before you fell asleep. I found your match where you tossed it, and you dropped ashes in the doorway, where they would not be washed away by the rain. There are identical ashes on the front of your coat and that scarf around your neck. The ash from pipe tobacco is easily distinguished from the ash of a cigar or cigarette, and I note the general shape of a pipe in your breast pocket. A man does not sit and smoke his pipe in a dark alley, but he might well do so at sunset, as he prepares for sleep. It was obvious that you had entered the alley while it was still light, then fallen asleep in the doorway. Several threads from your coat were caught on a splinter in the door. I deduced a man in a tweed coat who was a pipe smoker, and here you are. That you slept in the doorway without waking is evident from your trousers, which are still damp from the knees down. The doorway was a large one, but you’re a tall man, and your legs stuck out at an angle, into the rain. Not even being cold and wet could wake you, intoxicated as you were.”
“Well, I don’t remember waking,” said Poor Richard. “If I had seen a woman being murdered, I would never have spent the night there. It gives me the shivers just thinking about it, her body lying there in the darkness while I slept. Do you think she’ll haunt me, sir?”
“But you must have touched her,” said Mary. “I’ve been wondering how you could have gotten blood on your cuff, and that’s the only way.”
“Is that true?” said Lestrade. “If I find that you’ve taken anything from the murder victim . . .”
“Ah, pity an old man!” said Poor Richard, rapidly searching through his coat pockets and bringing out a dirty handkerchief. “Here, this is all I took!” He shook the handkerchief, and out fell a sovereign, shiny except where blood crusted the edges. “I found it lying beside her on the ground. It must have fallen out of her hand, or her pocket. But that’s all, I swear! I had nothing to do with her murder.” He wiped his eyes and blew his nose loudly.
“Well done, Miss Jekyll,” said Holmes. “Molly Keane was paid handsomely, no doubt to entice her to her death. I believe we’ve gotten as much as we can out of you, my man. Consider yourself free to go. Unless Lestrade wants a beggar taking up space in his prison, I see no reason to detain you.”
Lestrade was not interested in holding Poor Richard. After the old man had stumbled out of the pub, he said, “I can’t see that half-wit removing a woman’s brain. He’s well known in this area, and the local constable will keep an eye on him. He may know more about this murder than he’s letting on, but if those men were his confederates, I want him out of prison so he can lead us to them. He’s more use to us out of prison than in.”
The girl was a different proposition than Old Richard. “Call me Kate,” she said. “That’s what I’m known by, and I won’t be telling you my last name, if it’s all the same to you, sir. Kate Bright-Eyes is what they call me around here, and that’s good enough for you, I reckon. The less you tell the police, the better, I find. But I’ll tell you about poor Molly. She may have been on the streets, but she didn’t deserve to be treated like that.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “And what can you tell us about her?”
Kate was pretty beneath her paint, although if you looked closely, you could tell she was no longer as young as she seemed, and there were pockmarks on her cheeks. She was slender, with bright eyes, rather like an inquisitive bird. Mary looked at her with interest. So this was what a fallen woman looked like! Exactly like any other woman, except for her fancier dress and general air of boldness. In another life, Kate could have been a parlormaid, like Enid. “Well, Molly was a good girl, a governess until her master look liberties. No, I don’t know where, she wouldn’t say, nor where her family was. After the child died, she worked the streets, and made a fair bit too. The gentlemen liked her educated ways. She tried to reform for a while, went to one of them reform societies, but it only lasted a week. Couldn’t stand the sanctimonious piety, she said. No, she didn’t say where, somewhere in Whitechapel or Spitalfields, I believe. She wasn’t one to talk mu
ch, was Molly. Last night, she was just as usual. The night was getting on, and it was so cold and damp that there had been no custom, so we sat by the fire in The Bells. Then Molly says, I think I’ll be getting on home, Kate. I told her I would finish my beer—Molly was so ladylike, she never drank anything but barley water. So she puts on her coat, and out she goes. And then I thought, I’m almost done anyway, I’ll drink up quickly so we can walk home together, companionable. My place wasn’t much farther than hers, and we’d been talking about sharing a flat, not liking our situations at present. But when I got outside, I saw that she’d found a customer after all. He was talking to her—there was just enough light coming through the window to see by. You want to know how he looked. I only caught a glimpse in passing, but he was a small gentleman, twisted like. Reminded me of Punch, in the Punch and Judy. He had a strange, whispering voice, as though he didn’t want to be heard. I didn’t rightly hear what he said, and you may think I’m making this up, but that voice chilled my spine, like ice. I walked past them without a word to Molly and went home. I didn’t want her to lose the custom, see. But now I wish I’d said good night. . . . And that’s the last time I saw her, until this sergeant asked me to look at her, lying in the alley. What he did to her—I hope you catch him and string him up good.”
Kate looked down at her hands on the table, but did not cry. What good would it have done? We often think that class of woman is hard-hearted, because it does not show emotion, but what good would it do for the Kates of the world to cry? They have learned that tears do not bring relief or change of circumstance. There is no one to wipe their tears, no one to assuage their grief.
MARY: Oh, for goodness’ sake. She got what was much more useful. After thanking her, Mr. Holmes gave her the sovereign. What in the world would she have done with someone to wipe her tears? Kate’s not as sentimental as you are.
JUSTINE: We all need human sympathy.
DIANA: I don’t.
Before getting up, Kate said, “You remind me of someone, ducky.” Mary was startled to realize that she was looking directly at Diana, who was turning back and forth on her stool. “Are you in the trade? You look young to be in it, but there are plenty of young ones, more’s the pity.”
Diana looked back at her, defiantly. “My mother was known as Gilded Lily, at Mrs. Barstowe’s.”
“Ah, that’s it, then. I knew her when I was a young one myself, although I wasn’t at Mrs. Barstowe’s for long. I fell on hard times—don’t let them tell you that laudanum’s harmless, because it ain’t—and by the time I was right again, the establishment had closed. She was spirited, your mum, and kind to us younger girls. I hope you’re not in trouble with these legal gentlemen.”
When Diana shook her head, she said, “Well, if you ever are, remember Kate Bright-Eyes at The Bells. Any friend of your mum’s will be a friend of yours, and don’t you forget it.”
“I think we’ve done all we can here,” said Holmes, after handing her the sovereign and thanking her for the information she had provided. “It’s long past time for tea. Watson is used to my habits—I often eat irregularly when I’m on a case. But the two of you must be hungry.” Just then, Diana’s stomach gave a low growl. “Watson can take you back to Regent’s Park. I must go with Lestrade. We have a great deal to talk about.”
“But Mr. Holmes,” said Mary, “this man, this twisted gentleman with the low voice who looks like Punch. That’s a description of Mr. Hyde. I thought of him immediately, after we saw Molly Keane’s body. Remember that he was my father’s assistant—he has surgical knowledge.”
Holmes smiled. “That’s an interesting connection, Miss Jekyll, and one I had considered myself, which is why I allowed you to stay and participate in this investigation. But rather tenuous, don’t you think? There must be many small, twisted men in London who could wield a scalpel, and Hyde has not been seen since the Carew murder. Beware the idée fixe: you’ve been thinking of Hyde, so he seems an obvious suspect. But he also presents significant problems. We don’t even know if he’s still alive.”
“Who is this Hyde?” asked Lestrade. “Should I add him to the list of suspects?”
“I’m surprised you don’t remember,” said Holmes. “He was involved in the case I mentioned—the murder of Sir Danvers Carew, the Liberal MP who was at one point spoken of as a possible prime minister. Hyde was identified by a reliable witness as the murderer, but when the police went to arrest him, he had disappeared. He has not been heard of since, although Miss Jekyll briefly thought she was on his track.”
“Well, of course it was years ago,” said Lestrade, looking put out. “I’ll have to go through the records again. And you think this Hyde may be in London, murdering prostitutes?”
“It seems unlikely,” said Holmes. “Although I never discount the improbable until it has been proven impossible.”
“I thought the previous victims were maids and shop girls?” said Mary. Wasn’t that what the newspaper boys had been crying for the last few days?
“Oh, that’s the line we’ve been giving the newspapers, but they’re what you might call ladies of the evening right enough. I don’t think we can hold back that knowledge much longer. Imagine how much larger the headlines will be with a sex angle thrown in! And then the newspapers will start on why the London police haven’t solved these murders. Incompetence of the police—that’s how it always goes.” Lestrade pulled on his mustache and looked bitter.
“You think my father’s been going around murdering prostitutes?” said Diana. She broke into a peal of laughter.
“Now watch yourself, miss,” said Lestrade. “I don’t like young ladies getting hysterics.”
“Clearly, Miss Hyde has some information she would like to share with us,” said Holmes.
Diana laughed again. “Jekyll’s dead, according to Miss Mary, here. That means Hyde’s dead. My mum told me that Hyde was just another name for Jekyll. Hyde was a disguise Jekyll used when he didn’t want to be found out. Like a cloak.”
“That’s not possible,” said Mary. “I met Hyde, when my father was still alive. My housekeeper, Mrs. Poole, remembers him. He looked nothing like my father.”
“Are you calling my mother a liar?” asked Diana, scowling.
“I think we must rely on Miss Jekyll’s evidence in this case,” said Holmes. “Your mother may have been deceived. Hyde may have told her that he was Jekyll, in order to act the part of a gentleman. Perhaps even to use Jekyll’s credit.”
There was a look on Diana’s face: anger at not being believed, and something that startled Mary, a grimace as though she were about to cry.
DIANA: Oh, bosh.
MARY: No, that’s exactly what I remember.
“My father had many secrets,” said Mary. “I don’t know what sort of relationship he had with Mr. Hyde. Of course what Diana suggests is impossible—I’m sorry,” she said, turning to Diana, “but one man can’t simply disguise himself as another, not when their appearances are so different. Hyde was at least a foot shorter than my father. However, there must be something more to their relationship than we are aware of, or why would my mother support his child? I know my supposition is farfetched, Mr. Holmes, but the description fits Hyde perfectly. I still remember that low voice and the chill it sent down my spine. Like ice, as Kate Bright-Eyes said.”
“If there’s a possibility that Hyde is still out there, I want to know about it,” said Lestrade. “We don’t want murderers walking the streets of London, and there’s Carew to pay for. But he’s likely long gone, to Australia or South America.”
“You’re almost certainly right,” said Holmes. “Nevertheless, I would like Miss Jekyll to examine her father’s papers again. Could you do that, Miss Jekyll? And report back to me tomorrow?”
“Of course,” said Mary. She wanted to read through the notebook again in particular, systematically this time. There had been some mention of Hyde . . . but she could not remember in what context. And what in the world was she going to do
with Diana?
“Watson, can you take these ladies home? I’ll meet you back at Baker Street after I’ve talked with Lestrade.” Holmes looked from one of them to the other. It was difficult to tell what he was thinking, but Mary thought he seemed . . . well, almost amused.
“Come on,” said Mary to Diana. She was not interested in amusing Mr. Holmes. She was grateful to him for having included her in the investigation, but also irritated—she was not sure why. “I have a lot of work to do. And you need a bath.”
“No, I don’t,” said Diana.
“Bath, or you won’t get dinner.” Mary grabbed Diana by a dirty wrist and pulled her along. Watson walked beside them, trying not to smile as Diana glared and muttered under her breath. Mary resolutely ignored her. She would ask Mrs. Poole to make a strong pot of tea and she would stay up all night, if she had to. What secrets did those papers hold? What had she missed the first time? She did not know, but she wanted to find out.
CHAPTER V
The Letter from Italy
Climbing down from the cab, Mary found it difficult to believe that she had just come from Whitechapel—that such a place even existed. Park Terrace was broad and quiet, and the only sound was the clopping of the horse’s hooves as it stepped impatiently in place. The brick buildings, dating from the time of one of the Georges—she could never remember which—stood along the street in respectable rows. Over the roofs and chimney pots of the row opposite from the Jekyll residence, she could see the tops of the trees in Regent’s Park.
“Well, isn’t this swell?” said Diana.
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 7