DIANA: Oh, you just had to put that in there, didn’t you?
“I know what they are, but it’s impossible. They look like the creatures my father made. Like Beast Men.” For a moment, memory took Catherine back to the island, to the menagerie of Dr. Moreau. Men whose legs were too short, arms too long. Who spoke in gruff voices and were hairy beneath their clothes. But all his creations had died on the island. Of them all, only she had survived.
“I see him!” said Diana. “Come on, if we run across that court, we’ll be in the streets of Chelsea. We can lose them in the alleys.”
“How well do you know London?” asked Catherine.
“As well as I know the palms of my hands!” Diana grinned like a wicked monkey.
JUSTINE: I don’t think that’s such an insult. Monkeys are quite clever.
DIANA: [Diana’s comments, being unprintable, are not included here.]
CATHERINE: Yes, I know you’re the one who got us safely home. And I’m grateful, truly I am. But you do have a wicked grin, you can’t deny. . . . Oh, all right, I take it back already! I apologize, really I do. Just for goodness’ sake let me finish this chapter.
To those of our readers who are not familiar with London, who may be reading this in the wilds of America, where we hear there are bears and savages, or in the wilds of Australia, where there are also savages but no bears (unless, adds Justine, they are marsupial bears), the problem that now presented itself to Catherine and Diana was as follows. How to get from Chelsea, in the south of London, to Regent’s Park in the north? They would have to cross a tangle of streets, and then the open spaces of Hyde Park, before emerging in Marylebone. It was a trip that could take hours by omnibus in London traffic. They were on foot, evading pursuers who seemed to follow them by scent, as hounds follow a rabbit. And neither of them had any money. Putting all their money into one purse and giving it to Justine might not have been the most sensible plan, Catherine realized, too late. But at least Justine would be all right. Catherine could take care of herself, couldn’t she?
She turned to Diana. “What do you suggest?”
Diana considered for a moment, looking at the green lawn they still had to traverse, and beyond it the buildings of Chelsea. “How well can you climb?”
Catherine made a sound that could have been a laugh or a growl. Then, “Look!” she said. There they were again, two hunched figures loping across the grass toward them. “Wherever you go, I’ll follow. Now run!”
They raced across the final stretch of lawn, then darted into the narrow streets, as though entering a maze. Here, buildings blocked out the light; once again they were in the shadow of London. To the astonishment of two boys playing at marbles and an old woman smoking a noxious pipe, Diana pulled off her jacket and began taking off her boots. “Rooftop,” she said, when she could take a breath.
“Keep the boots, you’ll need them later,” said Catherine, hopping on one foot as she untied her own boots, then tying the laces together and hanging them around her neck. “Here,” she said, tossing her jacket to one of the boys. “You’ll grow into it!”
“Can’t, they’re button,” said Diana, leaving her boots on the pavement. She scrambled up a ladder attached to a brick wall that led to a wrought-iron balcony. The building she had chosen had a series of such balconies, one on each floor. Catherine looked up, estimating how far she would have to climb after the last balcony to get to the roof. Could she do it? She could not climb as well as Diana, although she hated to admit that. But what choice did she have?
She tossed Diana’s boots and jacket to the other boy. “Happy unbirthday! Unless it’s your birthday . . . ,” she said, then started climbing up the ladder.
When she reached the final balcony, Catherine looked down. At the bottom, the two Beast Men were starting to follow. The first had reached the lowest balcony; the second was still on the ladder. Would they be able to climb all the way to the roof?
Above her, Diana scrambled up the last stretch of wall. “Staples!” she called down. Catherine looked up, confused, until she saw the iron staples that someone, for some reason, had once driven into the mortar between the bricks. In a moment, she had joined Diana on the rooftop. They looked down at the Beast Men, who were following them but with increasing difficulty. When they reached the top balcony, they stopped, looking up at Catherine and Diana. One of them howled with anger.
“I thought so,” said Catherine. “They smell like wolves. I think they’re Wolf Men, which means that as long as we stay on the rooftops, we’re safe.”
“Good,” said Diana. “But we’d better get going. We still have a whole bloody city to cross.”
They looked around. There was London, spread before them: a different city, the London of the rooftops. (If you wish to travel across London and are as agile as Catherine and Diana, the rooftops are like roads that can take you from one end of the city to the other.) They walked or sometimes crawled across the roofs, balancing on ridges, trying to avoid chimney pots. Where the alleys were narrow, they leaped from one rooftop to another, always heading north. From time to time, they had to descend to the streets, and it was with trepidation that they crossed Hyde Park. By then it was getting late. The trees of the park threw long shadows across the grass, and the setting sun shone on the Serpentine, creating a path of gold across the water. But they neither saw nor smelled their pursuers.
“Why should they follow us?” said Diana. “They know where Mary lives. They can just go back there and wait.”
“If they were smarter, they would have done that in the first place,” said Catherine. “But if they’re Wolf Men, it’s in their nature to hunt. They couldn’t help following us.”
Once they had crossed Hyde Park, there were only the streets of Marylebone to navigate, and to her credit, Diana got lost only once. It was dark before they saw the lights of 11 Park Terrace.
Was the house being watched? They could not see the Wolf Men, and more importantly, Catherine could not smell them. So taking a chance, they ran up the steps to the front door and rang the bell.
It was opened almost at once. “Come in, come in quickly,” said Mrs. Poole. “Poor Miss Frankenstein has killed a man!”
CHAPTER XII
Catherine’s Story
It was probably the strangest sight the respectable parlor of Dr. Jekyll had ever seen, at least since the days when Mr. Hyde roamed through the house at will. In the light of the gas lamps, which were turned up high, Catherine and Diana could see four men gathered around the body of another, lying on the floor, with a handkerchief draped over his face. The carpet had been pulled back, so he lay directly on the parquet in front of the fireplace. It took them a moment to realize that two of the men were Mary and Beatrice, who had not yet changed out of their masculine clothes. The other two were strangers to Catherine, but Diana immediately recognized Holmes and Watson. The parlor itself was a shambles, with furniture knocked over and the painting of Mrs. Jekyll hanging crooked on the wall.
“Oh, I’m so glad to see you both! We were worried sick,” said Mary. And then, looking at them more closely, she exclaimed, “You’re absolutely filthy!”
“We came by rooftop,” said Catherine. “What is this about Justine? Where is she?”
“Upstairs, lying down,” said Mary. “She’s completely distraught. We arrived home without incident, but the house was being watched. As I opened the front door, this man tried to force his way in. We fought back—you can see the result! I tried to hit him over the head with my umbrella, and Beatrice did her best to weaken him with her breath. But it was Justine who saved us: she got her hands around his neck and—she strangled him, right here in the parlor. He was so strong! He twisted Beatrice’s arm—you can see the bruise, all green and blue.”
“I’m all right,” said Beatrice. “Charlie was around the corner—he seems to have appointed himself our guardian angel!”
“More like guardian street urchin,” said Diana under her breath.
“He hear
d the altercation—that is the right word, is it not? And ran to get Mr. Holmes.”
“I’m glad he’s keeping a watch on the house,” said Holmes. “I asked him to let us know if there was anything amiss.” He turned to Catherine. “You must be Miss Moreau. We’ve been hearing about your adventures this morning. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
“Is it safe for you to continue this investigation?” asked Watson. “You are certainly courageous young women, but you seem to be running into increasing danger. And this . . .” He gestured at the man lying on the floor. “I scarcely know what to make of it!”
Catherine walked over to the dead man and removed the handkerchief from his face. It was strangely distorted: the eyes small and set close together, the nose upturned and flat, the chin almost nonexistent with a few prominent bristles. “I can tell you what to make of him, Dr. Watson. But Diana and I are tired and famished. If we could sit down and have something to eat, I believe I could provide you with an explanation—although it may deepen this mystery rather than elucidating it. But first I must see Justine. . . .”
“You let her rest,” said Mrs. Poole. “She’s safe, and what she needs right now is some quiet. She’ll come down when she’s ready.”
Catherine frowned. She had never liked being told what to do, and wasn’t it her responsibility to look after Justine? But she had to admit that Mrs. Poole was probably right. She knew, better than any of them, that what Justine often needed was simply solitude.
“Diana!” Mary exclaimed suddenly. “Your feet!”
They all looked. From Diana’s bare feet, a pool of blood was spreading over the floor.
“What,” she said. “I had to leave my boots.”
“Show them to me,” said Beatrice. She knelt and examined the bleeding feet without touching them, then insisted Diana show her the soles. “All the wounds are shallow. You have merely torn up the skin, but in so many places!”
“If you’d like me to take a look . . . ,” said Watson.
“Not you!” said Diana. “Last time you did that, I thought you’d set me on fire.”
“The alcohol was necessary to clean the cut,” said Watson, looking put out. “I had no intention of harming you, I can assure you, Miss Hyde.”
“It’s quite all right, Dr. Watson,” said Beatrice. “I can take care of Diana’s wounds. My father was a physician and trained me in his techniques. Come, Diana. I will find something in the kitchen to make you a poultice.”
“It’s no big deal,” Diana insisted. “Doesn’t even hurt.” But she followed Poison Breath, as she still thought of Beatrice, downstairs. At least in the kitchen she would be close to food.
MRS. POOLE: And a time I had of it, trying to scrub away that bloodstain!
ALICE: It’s still there. Lye and carbolic couldn’t get rid of it. Good thing the carpet covers it, Mrs. Poole, or we’d have some explaining to do when visitors come!
It was an hour before they all sat together in the parlor, where the dead man still lay on the floor, and Catherine began the story that would perhaps explain his presence—and peculiarities. First, on the orders of Mrs. Poole, Catherine and Diana had to clean themselves in basins of hot water (“Before you sit down on any of the furniture, please!”) and change into clothing more suitable for the young women Watson had called them. Mary and Beatrice changed as well, and Mary wondered if she had enough dresses left to keep supplying them all in this fashion. If they kept losing or destroying their clothes, they would all have to start sewing! When suitably clean and dressed, they had a cold supper of meat and pudding (“And not in the room with the dead man!”). Justine had still not come down, so Mrs. Poole brought supper up to her (“I don’t care how upset she is, she needs to eat!”).
Despite Mrs. Poole’s consternation, Holmes and Watson restored the parlor to its usual order, so by the time Mary and the others had finished their supper, the furniture was once again upright and the painting hung straight on the wall. The only thing out of order was the man on the floor, who once again had a handkerchief hiding his strange features. Mary, Diana, and Catherine sat on the sofa, Holmes and Watson in the two armchairs. Beatrice sat on the window seat, as far away from them as possible. Where would Justine sit, if she came down? Mary thought of the furniture that had once been in this room, when it had been a proper gentleman’s parlor, and sighed. The only remaining carpet was threadbare. She consoled herself with the thought that Mr. Holmes probably had not noticed. He would not notice a rug unless there was a clue on it. But Beatrice was thinking, How nice that this parlor is not overfurnished! Why do the English overfurnish their houses? Although the walls should not be the color of porridge. They should be blue, a blue like the sea on a calm day, or yellow like sunshine . . .
BEATRICE: So they are, now. And with Justine’s wonderful border of flowers.
JUSTINE: Is the story supposed to be jumping around like that, from Mary’s head, to Diana’s, to Beatrice’s?
CATHERINE: I told you, this is a new way of writing. How can I write a story about all of us if I don’t show what we were all thinking? Do you want the story to be just about Mary?
DIANA: That would be as dull as ditch water.
JUSTINE: No, of course not. It’s just . . . different. As though it’s been stitched together of various parts. Like my father’s monsters.
CATHERINE: Well, we’re different. I have to tell the story in a way that fits who we are.
JUSTINE: You are the author, so I suppose you know best.
CATHERINE: You could try to sound a little less doubtful!
Mrs. Poole insisted on making tea. “You could all use a cup, I’m sure,” she said, leaving the teapot on the table so Mary could pour out, before returning to the kitchen.
“Please take a cup if you wish,” said Catherine. “I’m afraid my story will be a long one. And I must begin with a lesson on anatomy.” Just as she was about to begin, Justine joined them, pausing hesitantly at the threshold. She wore a dress that had once belonged to Mary’s mother, which was too large for her thin frame but hung down only to her calves. Her eyes were still red.
“Are you all right?” asked Catherine. “The housekeeper said you were resting. Come and take my seat.”
“Please, don’t mind me,” said Justine, but she took Catherine’s seat on the sofa. Catherine walked over to the dead man.
It was clear, from the way he leaned forward, that Holmes wanted to know who she was, this woman who was taller than most men. But he refrained. “Miss Moreau, please continue,” he said. One story at a time, his countenance seemed to say. He could wait.
“First,” said Catherine, “this is not a man. Justine, you did not kill a man. What you killed was an animal. Look at the disproportion of the limbs, look”—she drew back the handkerchief again—“at the scars, here and here and here. Look at the face. The nose resembles a snout, the eyes and ears are too small. What you have killed is a pig, specifically a boar pig, surgically transformed into a man.”
“That’s impossible,” said Watson.
“Improbable, but not impossible,” said Holmes. “Remember Dr. Moreau’s experiments.”
“But I thought he was dead,” said Mary. “The letter Dr. Seward received—the one we found in his office. It said Dr. Moreau had died. . . .”
“Yes, he’s dead,” said Catherine. “I know, because I killed him myself.”
JUSTINE: What a terrible night that was! The man I killed . . .
MARY: Pig. You killed a pig.
JUSTINE: But Mary, he had been transformed into a man, with a man’s brain. Does that not mean he was a man, as Catherine is a woman? I am responsible for his death. . . .
MARY: When are you going to let this go? You have to stop feeling guilty about it. He was hurting Beatrice.
DIANA: Justine, is that why you don’t eat meat?
“In order to understand my story,” said Catherine, “you have to understand Moreau’s experiments.” She looked down at
the floor, her hands clasped in front of her, as though preparing herself for a long narrative. Mary leaned back into the sofa. She noticed that Diana, who was sitting next to her, put her feet up on the cushions although Mrs. Poole had expressly forbidden her from doing so. Beatrice shifted on the window seat. Watson poured himself another cup of tea.
“It was Beatrice’s father who led the Alchemical Society in the direction of biological transmutation. He had been a follower of the Chevalier de Lamarck, when Lamarck was mocked for his theories of evolution. He believed in evolutionary theory before Mr. Darwin became famous for his proof of it. I’m sure you’re familiar with Lamarck’s theories, Mr. Holmes.”
“That a man can pass physical and mental characteristics acquired during his lifetime to his children,” said the detective. “A miner will pass on his strong arms. A philosopher will pass on his discerning mind.”
“A man—or a woman,” said Beatrice. “Yes, my father was a Lamarckian. He believed that by introducing traits from plants into living men and women, he could pass those traits on to the next generation. He could direct the course of evolution, create better, stronger human beings. That was why he created me. He believed any child I bore would inherit my ability to live off organic matter and sunlight—and my natural defenses, for that was how he saw my poisonous nature. But my father had been trained as a botanist. Dr. Moreau was not interested in plants: what interested him was the division between man and animal.”
Once again, Mary felt a little lost. Her lessons with Miss Murray had not covered Lamarck. She hated the sensation that Beatrice and Catherine, and sometimes even Justine, were speaking a language she did not understand. Well, all she could do was listen carefully. This was still her case, after all, even though it had grown so much larger than when she started her investigation. But it was she who had seen Molly Keane dead on the pavement, who had gone with Mr. Holmes to question Renfield in the asylum. She must not forget that.
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 19