Out of her coat pocket, she drew an envelope. Affixing the flap was a red wax seal stamped S.A.
CHAPTER IX
A Rescue at Night
While they were talking, they had come to the train station.
“We’re in luck,” said Watson. “There is a train in fifteen minutes. We can be in London in an hour. By the time we’ve had dinner, it will be dark, and we can reconnoiter around Miss Rappaccini’s home. Remember that we have a lady in distress to rescue, although I have no idea how it is to be accomplished.”
“Diana, put that letter away until we get on the train,” said Mary. “Then we can look at it properly. You do know that stealing is wrong, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Diana. “And you can thank me later.”
Once they were seated in the first-class compartment, Diana produced the letter out of her pocket.
Holmes held out his hand.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Mary can open it. You’re bossy enough as it is.”
“Diana!” said Mary. But she was rather pleased to be the one to take the envelope. After all, this was her mystery, more than it was the detective’s. He wasn’t personally involved. She was. It was her father who had been a member of the Société des Alchimistes, and who had done . . . what? Committed murder, certainly. But there must have been more. After all, that murder had not been connected to the society, as far as she knew. Who were its members? What were its goals and aims? The envelope was addressed to John Seward, M.D., at the Purfleet Asylum. “It’s to the director,” she said. “Not to Dr. Balfour. This must have been one of the letters he was sorting for Dr. Seward.” She opened the flap, breaking the seal with a pang of guilt. But didn’t she have a right to know what was in the letter, what this mystery was all about? Surely if anyone had a right to open that letter, she did. She pulled out a sheet of paper and read the rather florid handwriting.
My dear friend John,
Thank you for sending me your so interesting paper, which I think is almost ready for presentation before the meeting of the Société in Budapest. There are a few points—I do not question your methodology, my friend, but your conclusions may be challenged by those who are more conservative than we are. Anticipate and be prepared for their criticism. I will send you some notes on your paper once I have completed my own manuscript, later this week. Please do you the same, and tell me what you think of mine. I would welcome your suggestions.
It is most important, at this juncture, for the Société to support our line of research. When I began working on the biological problem, as our colleague Moreau called it, our members did not approve of my goals and methods. But acceptance has been growing, and after the setbacks of the last few years, we can finally show results. Research is ever like this, friend John! If only our goals had not been discredited by our predecessor, if such a word can be used for him. You know of whom I speak. I confess to you, my friend, that I was concerned about my own experiment for some time. The change did not seem to be taking effect, and when it did, the alteration was so drastic that I thought I would lose her altogether. But in the last month, all has worked as I have wished, and I believe my results will be persuasive, at least to the majority of our members. I assume you will be traveling with Mr. Prendick? Poor man, I hope he may someday be ready to participate fully in our community again. I cannot tell you how I mourn the loss of Moreau. You and Prendick belong to a younger generation. You do not know what it was like for us old fogeys, as you may call us, resurrecting the Société from the decrepitude into which it had fallen and redirecting its energies to biology, to the material of life itself! I am proud of the organization we have built, but distressed to have lost some of our most important men. Alas, scientific exploration has a price! More than once, my friend, I have nearly lost my own life in the pursuit of truth.
I know we can count on the support of my friend Professor Arminius, of Budapest University. I look forward to introducing you to him at last. I am not so certain that our president will look upon our research benevolently! Alas that even our elected leader is prejudiced, conservative, thinking the old ways are best. But we are not living in the eighteenth century! This is the age of Herbert Spencer, of Francis Galton. Well, we shall have to be convincing, and your paper will be instrumental in that endeavor. I look forward to seeing you, and to introducing you also to some excellent Tokaj that Arminius brought me when he came to observe my methods. I hope your voyage goes well, and give my regards to Mr. Prendick, whom I also look forward to seeing.
Yours most truly,
Abraham Van Helsing
Mary put the letter down on her lap. She stared at Holmes and Watson. “What does it all mean?”
Watson shook his head but did not answer. Even Holmes was silent.
“Is anyone not a member of this society?” asked Diana. “We seem to be running into it wherever we go.”
“Van Helsing and this Arminius he mentioned, Seward and his friend Prendick, Rappaccini, Moreau, and the president of the society, whoever that might be,” said Mary. “We’re up to seven, but there are certainly more. You can’t have a scientific society, even a secret one, with only seven members. And if there’s a conference . . .”
“It seems as though Moreau is dead,” said Holmes. “But clearly the others are continuing the work of the society—amid some controversy, it seems. How that work is linked to the murders, if it is, I do not know. Van Helsing and Seward could scarcely have been murdering women in Whitechapel if they are in Amsterdam, as Balfour told us. And that would explain this unopened letter. Presumably it was sent before a situation arose that necessitated Seward’s presence. Clearly it does not anticipate his trip to Amsterdam. Let me see it for a moment, if you please, Miss Jekyll.”
Mary handed him the letter.
“Van Helsing writes, The change did not seem to be taking effect, and when it did, the alteration was so drastic that I thought I would lose her altogether. But in the last month, all has worked as I have wished. Perhaps it stopped working, and that’s why Seward was summoned, likely by telegram.”
“What stopped working?” asked Diana. “And who’s she? Are they poisoning another girl?”
“Perhaps they have confederates in England,” said Watson.
“Or perhaps they’re not in Amsterdam at all, and the summons was a ruse. Perhaps they’re the ones who are really killing women in Whitechapel,” said Mary.
Diana frowned. “You’re giving me a headache.”
“One thing can’t be denied,” said Watson. “Wherever we turn, we run up against this society. What now, Holmes?”
“Well, at least that’s obvious,” said Diana. “We need Poison Breath to tell us what’s going on. We need to break her out.”
“Yes,” said Holmes. “That does seem to be indicated. And as Watson has pointed out, we can scarcely show up at the lady’s residence before dark. Miss Jekyll, could you oblige us with dinner, whatever your cook can provide? It would allow us to look through your father’s papers more closely—if you will allow it.”
“Yes, of course,” said Mary. Whatever her cook could provide. As though she had a cook! And was there enough food in the house for two men? She imagined they would want a proper meal. Men did, didn’t they? She wished that she could have spoken to Mrs. Poole before leaving for Purfleet. At least she had money now. She put her hand on her purse and almost patted it, in the comforting knowledge that it contained a whole pound in change. But would it do her any good? By the time they reached the house, the shops would be closed. Perhaps Mrs. Poole could send for something from a pub.
But there was to be no time for a reading of the letters, not that day. At Fenchurch Street, they found a hackney carriage, the kind popularly known as a growler for the noise of its wheels on the cobbled streets, to take them back to Park Terrace. As they jolted along the London thoroughfares, on which the lamps had already been lit, Mary wondered if she would be facing the wrath of Mrs. Poole, left with no information a
s to where they had gone or when they would be back, and expected to produce dinner as though by magic.
MRS. POOLE: Wrath! Well, I never. When have any of you ever faced my wrath?
JUSTINE: Yesterday.
BEATRICE: You remember, Mrs. Poole. When you realized we hadn’t cleaned up in the parlor after our meeting with Prince Rupert.
MRS. POOLE: Well, I can’t abide it when you girls leave a mess. It’s just me and Alice looking after the lot of you, as you know. It’s not as though we have any other servants in this house. Alice was up until all hours sweeping up the broken glass.
ALICE: I don’t mind, Mrs. Poole.
MARY: We were trying to capture the masked men who had shot at the Prince. We would have caught them, too, if they hadn’t jumped on the back steps of an omnibus. Why is it that one can never find a cab in London when one really needs it? And when we got back, we had to take care of Prince Rupert, who had fainted on the sofa. I’m sorry—we would have cleaned it up the next morning. It was just the glass cover for the wax flowers. I’m afraid the flowers are shot to bits, though. And I think there’s a hole in one of Justine’s paintings.
BEATRICE: I never liked those flowers anyway. I would not have shot at them of course, but now we can buy something new at Harrods. Something modern, in the style they call l’art nouveau.
MARY: As soon as you start speaking French, I know it’s going to be expensive.
MRS. POOLE: In my day, young ladies had nothing to do with masked men, or princes, or madcap chases through the streets. I can’t stop you from having these adventures, but I insist on keeping a decent house.
As the carriage drove up to 11 Park Terrace, Charlie leaped off the steps, where he had been waiting.
“Mr. Holmes!” he said. “Old Carrot Top wants you right away. There’s been another murder.”
“Another!” said Watson. “How is that possible? Renfield has been under observation since he returned to Purfleet. Did he somehow manage to escape?”
“I don’t know about any Renfield,” said Charlie. “But this afternoon another doxy was killed, same way as the last one. And her brain was missing!”
“What!” said Holmes sharply. “Are you quite certain?”
“That’s what Carrot Top told me. Inspector Lestrade, I mean. I ain’t seen her for myself. He found Tommy in front of Scotland Yard and sent him to find me. He said to bring you as soon as I could. I figured you’d be coming back here or to Baker Street. Tommy’s watching for you there.”
“If her brain was taken—that’s the first time any of these crimes have been repeated,” said Mary.
“So you noticed that as well?” said Holmes. “Watson, stay with Miss Jekyll and her sister. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Driver, can you take me to Scotland Yard?”
“Aye, sir. Hop on back in,” said the driver. And then Holmes was off again. They stood looking at the back of the carriage as it drove away from them down the street.
“Well,” said Mary. It was all she could think of to say.
Suddenly, the door opened behind them. “Where have you been?” said Mrs. Poole.
Dinner consisted of Irish stew, since Mrs. Poole did not consider cold meats sufficient for a gentleman of Dr. Watson’s reputation. Mary said it would take too long, but “I made it this morning,” said Mrs. Poole. “I thought it would be cheap, and last several days for you girls. It’ll just be a matter of warming it up, and I bought some rolls at Maudie’s. Ladies may go hungry, but gentlemen have to eat, you know.” She was rather intimidated by Watson, and bustled around making sure he was comfortable. She even whispered to Mary that they should open a bottle of Dr. Jekyll’s port. They ate in the dining room, with its large mahogany table, which had not been used in—how many years? Mary could not remember. How strange it was to sit there now, with Watson and Diana.
MRS. POOLE: Me, intimidated by Dr. Watson? Stuff and nonsense.
JUSTINE: Is there really a hole in my painting? The one of the girl holding sunflowers? I was hoping to sell that one at the Grosvenor. . . .
The stew was a success, filling and hearty, with beef and potatoes and carrots. Watson thanked Mrs. Poole for the port, but would accept only a glass, and insisted that Mary have a glass as well. “You’ll need it to keep your spirits up tonight,” he said. “It will be cold, and dark, and our mission is dangerous.”
“What about me?” said Diana. “I need my spirits kept up too, you know.”
“Your spirits are already high enough,” said Mary.
They ate as quickly as they could, punctuated by Diana’s slurping and Mary’s “For goodness’ sake, stop that! It’s a disgusting habit.”
As they sat at the table over the remains of dinner and empty coffee cups, Watson said, “Are you ladies ready?”
“As ready as we’ll ever be, I suppose,” said Mary. “How ever am I going to tell Mrs. Poole what we’re up to?”
“I find the direct way is always best,” said Watson.
So when Mrs. Poole came back into the dining room to clear the table, Mary said, “Mrs. Poole, I’m afraid we’re going out again tonight. Beatrice Rappaccini, the girl in the advertisement, is being held captive near Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and we need to rescue her.”
“Well, wrap up warmly,” said Mrs. Poole. “I don’t want either of you catching a cold.”
“Either of us?” said Diana.
“Yes, either of you!” said Mrs. Poole. “With a cold, you’d be even more trouble than you are now, Miss Scamp!”
MARY: You didn’t object at all, Mrs. Poole!
MRS. POOLE: There was someone needed rescuing. I’ve never objected when it’s really important, have I?
They took a cab toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields, asking the cabbie to let them out on High Holborn Street. From High Holborn, they turned into a smaller street—it was Searle, Mary remembered from that morning, although she could not have seen the sign at this hour. The streets were lit, and they walked along the pavement through pools of lamplight, but the park at the center of the square was a tangle of shadows cast by tree limbs. She held Watson’s arm so they would look like a married couple, with Diana as their daughter. As they passed the house Beatrice had pointed out to Mary and Diana earlier that day, they noticed a light in one of the ground floor windows.
“I’m going to see who’s there,” said Diana.
Before Mary could object, Diana had scampered over the front railing and crept to the window, pulling herself up to look over the sill. In a moment, she was back. “Professor Petronius and a woman are sitting at a table, counting money. And there’s a dog, a big black one, sleeping by the fire. Beatrice isn’t there.”
“Don’t ever do that again!” said Mary. “You can’t simply go off by yourself whenever you want to. We have to work together. We have to follow a plan.”
“Well, what’s your plan then?” said Diana, crossing her arms.
“She told us her room was in the back, and they locked her in at night. She’s probably there now, locked in. We need to go around to the back.”
They walked down Searle Street and, at the end of the block of houses, turned into an alley. On one side were the backs of the houses on Searle, on the other were the backs of the houses on the next street over. Here, there were no lamps. The only light came from the windows, mostly dark at this hour. One of the windows at the back of Professor Petronius’s house was lit, but it was on the second floor.
“That may be her room,” said Mary. “She may be looking for us tonight, and the light may be her signal.”
“So now what?” asked Diana. “What’s your plan now, sister?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary. “Let me think.”
“We need to communicate with her,” said Watson. “But I don’t see any way of getting up there. If only we had a sweep’s ladder! Could we throw up pebbles and see if she notices? Perhaps she’ll come to the window.”
“We don’t know if that’s her room,” said Mary. “Or if she’s alone in i
t. No, we need to get up there somehow.”
“Oh, fiddlesticks for you and your plans!” said Diana.
Before Mary could stop her, she had run over to the wall of the house, silently as a cat, and crouched down in the shadows.
“What is she doing?” whispered Mary, urgently.
“I believe she’s taking off her clothes,” said Watson.
“What? Taking off—what?”
Sure enough, Diana was removing her hat, gloves, coat, boots, and stockings. Mary could see her in the dim light that came from the window, standing beside the wall in only her dress and bare feet. Then she clutched at the drainpipe that ran down the wall and began climbing, pulling herself up the pipe with her bare hands and feet, now and then supporting herself by putting her toes on the joints.
“She looks like a monkey!” said Mary. “I’m afraid she’ll fall.”
“A monkey would not,” said Watson. “And judging by her agility, I don’t think your sister will either.” Mary could not see his expression in the darkness, but he sounded—amused.
Mary shivered. It was not the cold, for the night was warm, at least for a late spring night in London. No, it was the sight of Diana climbing up the drainpipe in that primitive way. Wasn’t Diana her sister? And Hyde’s daughter. What sorts of experiments had her father been conducting, to turn himself into Hyde? What had Hyde been? And what, pray tell, was his daughter? She remembered how shocked Beatrice had been to learn that Diana was Hyde’s child. What had the girl inherited from her father, other than his unpleasant temperament?
When Diana reached the second floor, she let go of the pipe and crept along a narrow ledge to the window. Mary could see her silhouetted against the square of light. Then a face appeared. “That’s Beatrice!” said Mary. The window was pulled up, and Diana crawled in. “What is she doing? I don’t like this.”
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 14