The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter

by Theodora Goss

  The giant said, “Are you sure the new brain will be blank, that I’ll be able to influence it as I wish?”

  “No, of course I’m not sure,” said Prendick. “That was Frankenstein’s theory, but it seems obvious that although you lost your memories, your essential characteristics survived the process. You are the man you were before he brought you back to life—the criminal he found on the gallows, with parts of other corpses where your body had decomposed past recovery. Just as this is still essentially Justine Moritz, the virtuous servant of the Frankensteins. What you will find in the brain of Susanna Moore, I don’t know. I can guarantee nothing. Particularly not in this circumstance, when you have asked me to do the impossible with the inadequate. I’m a biologist, not a surgeon.”

  “You will do as you’re told, or I’ll send the story of how you betrayed Moreau to your damned society. Do you think they will allow you to live, after learning that you took Moreau’s killer as your concubine? The next time you have a guilty conscience, Prendick, do not take opium where others are likely to overhear.”

  “I’ve checked on the Italian girl.” That voice! Mary shifted position, inadvertently elbowing Holmes out of the way. She could see him: a small, twisted man standing by the door to the storage room. With a gasp, she sat down on the cobblestones, with her back pressed into the brick wall.

  “What is it?” asked Holmes.

  “That’s Hyde. He looks exactly as he did when I was a child. But that’s not possible. He died. My father died.”

  “Hush! Let me hear!” whispered a familiar voice out of the darkness.

  Startled, Mary turned toward it. Catherine was crouched beside her.

  “How did you—”

  “I’m a cat. I’ve been here, listening, for some time. Now hush!”

  “. . . will take a while for the poison to work, but it should accumulate quickly within a locked room. The girl should be dead within the hour.”

  “Wouldn’t it be quicker to kill her yourself?” said the giant, impatiently.

  “Unlike you, I’m not a killer,” said Hyde. “And there will not be a mark on her. Remember that your butchery has Scotland Yard on our trail. Even after I convinced that imbecile to confess, you wanted another brain—fresher, you said! Your actions continually put us in danger of discovery.”

  “Well, then you have time to assist Prendick,” said the giant.

  “I’m a chemist, not a surgeon. Although I can appreciate the skill with which Frankenstein created her. A woman Prendick created for you would never have been so finely made, whatever the starting material.”

  “Thank you for your confidence,” said Prendick drily. “Perhaps, as a chemist, you can help me with the ether, which does not, at the moment, seem to be working.”

  Hyde bowed, a mocking, twisted bow.

  “I’m surrounded by incompetents!” roared the giant, once again setting the Beast Men in the cages pacing and calling.

  “I think we’ve seen enough,” whispered Mary. She had been transfixed by the spectacle, but now was the time to act. As for Hyde—she could not think about him right now. “We need to rescue Justine and Beatrice before they figure out the ether and start cutting Justine’s brain out!”

  “Alice too,” said Catherine.

  “Who’s Alice?” asked Mary, but Catherine waved for them to follow her and then ran across the dark road, as lightly as—yes, as a cat. On the other side, she ducked into an alley between two warehouses. There, barely visible in the darkness, stood Diana, Charlie, and Watson.

  “Look who I found!” said Catherine.

  “Holmes! Good to see you, old man,” said Watson. “I was wondering how you were getting on.”

  “Well, I think, all things considered,” said Holmes.

  “Oh bloody hell,” said Diana. “Just tell us what you saw. And next time, I’m coming too. I hate being left behind!”

  In the alley, Mary described what they had seen in the warehouse office—the bottles on the shelves, the operating table, Justine’s plight. “And someone is being poisoned, we don’t know where. Are they trying to poison Beatrice? How would they do that? But it doesn’t matter—we have to rescue them as quickly as possible.”

  “Who is this Adam?” asked Watson. “He seems to be their leader, and the chief perpetrator of this madness.”

  “Can you not guess?” said Holmes. “He is the first monstrous creation of Victor Frankenstein.”

  “But the monster perished,” said Watson. “It says so in Mrs. Shelley’s account.”

  “Oh yes, because everything written down is true,” said Diana. “Like the rot you write about Sherlock here.”

  “We don’t have time to argue,” said Mary. “Who’s going to rescue Beatrice? She’s locked up somewhere in that warehouse.”

  “If it’s a lock you’re talking about, I’m the one to pick it,” said Diana.

  “I’ll go with her, to protect her,” said Charlie.

  “I don’t need protecting.”

  “Thank you, Charlie. And the rest of us need to rescue Justine before she goes under completely.” Mary looked around at the circle of potential rescuers. She could barely see their faces in the darkness. “Four of us against five of them—Hyde, Prendick, the monster Adam, the Bear Man, and that small shuffling one . . .”

  “An Orangutan Man, if I’m not mistaken,” said Holmes. “They are—they must be—the animals stolen from Lord Avebury’s menagerie, transformed into men, or approximations of men. Lord Avebury sent me a list of the stolen animals. One of the bears and one of the boars is dead. Which leaves—well, if I remember his list correctly, I hope that cage is securely locked. If we had time, we could form a plan—rushing into that room and trusting in the element of surprise is scarcely the wisest course of action.”

  “I know,” said Mary, “but what choice do we have? Our friends are in there. Who knows how long Justine has?”

  “Of course we’re going in,” said Catherine. “Come on, already!”

  “Miss Jekyll is right,” said Watson. “This is no time to hold back out of consideration for our safety. Although the thought of you ladies going into that warehouse . . .”

  “You’re not going to dissuade us, Dr. Watson,” said Mary. Could this possibly work? It would have to.

  “I was going to say, the thought of you going in weaponless . . . But I only have my revolver. Holmes?”

  “I have mine,” said Holmes. “You’d better keep yours, Watson. I’ll give mine to either Miss Jekyll or Miss Moreau. And I shall fight with my fists. I have been trained in baritsu, remember. You misunderstood me, Miss Jekyll. I was certainly not going to suggest leaving Miss Frankenstein in danger.”

  “I don’t need your revolver, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. Out of her purse, she drew her father’s revolver. It was small, the sort of weapon a gentleman could carry concealed. She wondered if he had bought it for his excursions as Mr. Hyde. Who was alive . . . which meant her father was alive.

  MRS. POOLE: Were you carrying a revolver all that time?

  MARY: I put it in my purse before we left for Soho. I thought if Dr. Watson carried a revolver, I should as well when accompanying Mr. Holmes. One never knows when a revolver will come in handy.

  MRS. POOLE: Very sensible of you, miss.

  MARY: I had to leave my purse in that alley, and forgot to retrieve it afterward. At least I remembered to tuck the rest of the money and the house key into my waistband. I suppose Diana’s right—women’s clothes really aren’t made for adventures.

  DIANA: Told you.

  “I don’t need a weapon either,” said Catherine. “I am a weapon. Remember that I killed a man with my hands—and teeth!”

  “Then follow me,” said Holmes. “I shall go in first. These are criminals, and remember, in this matter I am acting for Lestrade and Scotland Yard. I am an official representative of the law.”

  Both the larger and smaller warehouse doors were locked, but Diana picked the lock of the smaller one with wha
t looked suspiciously like one of Mary’s hatpins, which had been stuck through the underside of her lapel. “I could do this when I was seven!” she whispered to Holmes, who was standing behind her. Cautiously, she pushed open the door. It opened onto a dark hallway that ran the length of the warehouse. At its end was a window, through which a bit of moonlight shone on a spiral wrought-iron staircase up to the second floor. Holmes stepped past Diana, revolver in hand. Mary followed him in, and then the rest of them followed one by one, as silently as they could until they all stood in the hallway. Watson, who was in the rear, shut the front door behind them. On the left side of the hallway, they could see the outline of a door—that must lead to the larger loading area. On the right side were three doors, the first of which had a line of brighter light underneath it. From it they could hear the vague murmur of several voices: that must be the door to the room in which Justine was being held.

  Mary whispered, “Diana, try those other doors! If Beatrice is in one of those rooms, and you can free her, you may both be able to help us. If not, try upstairs, and we’ll have to go in without you. There’s no time to wait.”

  “All right,” said Diana. “Come on, Charlie.”

  And now we must once again separate our narrative into two parts: one that follows Diana down the hallway, and another that stays with Mary and Catherine.

  CATHERINE: I can’t write from Diana’s point of view.

  MARY: Of course you can. You’re a writer; you can write anything. Just find your inner Diana.

  CATHERINE: I don’t have an inner Diana.

  DIANA: Ha! You wish. Everyone has an inner Diana.

  Diana’s thoughts were in chaos. But then, they always were, so this was nothing new. At that moment, her inner monologue sounded something like this: That was Dad in there the bloody bastard haven’t seen him since I was a baby so he is alive after all wonder what Mum would think of that don’t know why Mary treats me like a child after all I’m fourteen I can pick locks and climb and bloody well do what the other girls do except poison people and bite them through the throat but I’m as clever as anyone tea was a long time ago I wonder if we’ll get anything to eat?

  MARY: All right, you’ve made your point! Stop picking on Diana and get on with the story.

  It took only a moment for Diana to pick the locks on the second and third doors. Beatrice was not in either of those rooms, which were filled with crates labeled ALDERNEY SHIPPING. She would need to look on the second floor. She waved at Mary and pointed up the staircase to indicate where she was going. The rescue would have to proceed without her. Mary waved back.

  Diana mounted the spiral staircase, Charlie climbing after her. “You’re awfully good at those locks, ain’t you, miss?” he said as they reached the second floor.

  She was both annoyed and pleased by his attention. Pleased because it was a fitting tribute to her skill, and annoyed because of course she was good at them. She was Diana Hyde, wasn’t she? She had always been able to pick locks and pockets, and climb into and out of windows. She had often thought that if no better opportunity presented itself, she might one day become a burglar.

  DIANA: And I still might!

  The second floor had doors only on the left—which had, of course, on the floor below, been their right. There was once again a window at the end of the hall, this time overlooking the street. Either it had no shutters or they were open, for it let in just enough moonlight to see by. Once again, there were three doors.

  The first room was empty. Just as Diana was about to pick the lock of the second door, she heard a faint moaning from the door at the end of the hall. As silently as she could, she ran to the third door and picked the lock. The room had one window, through which moonlight shone into the room. In the farthest corner sat Beatrice. Her wrists and ankles were tied together with rope, and there was a piece of cloth tied across her mouth. Across the room from her, beneath the window, lay a girl who was moaning and moving slightly, as though in her sleep.

  And there were other sounds, coming through the floor: downstairs, someone was shouting. Whatever was happening down there had begun.

  Diana stepped into the room, but immediately stepped out again. A sweet odor wafted out after her, as though the room contained a wonderful garden.

  “Don’t breathe that!” she told Charlie. “It’s Beatrice’s poison. Here, do you have a handkerchief about you?”

  Charlie produced a large, rough handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handed it to her.

  “Open the window,” she said, pointing to the one at the end of the hall. He nodded and ran to open it. How nice it was to have someone who, when you told him to do something, just did it—without arguing!

  Diana put the handkerchief over her mouth, ran into the room, and struggled with the rusted latch of the window. It took her a few minutes, and finally she had to drop the handkerchief so she could use both hands. The air was so sweet, so fragrant. All she wanted to do was sit down, breathe it in, remain in that garden forever. With a final tug, she opened the latch and pushed the window panes outward. Fresh air! She breathed deeply.

  She grabbed the girl on the floor and lifted her to the window as best she could, with her arms around the girl’s chest. The girl was not heavy, but she was as limp as a sack of grain.

  “Come on, breathe!” said Diana. The girl was not dead, not yet, although she was barely breathing. When she breathed in the fresh air, she began coughing—rough, hacking coughs that shook her body. It was difficult for Diana to hold her up, but she propped the girl’s body on the windowsill and held her there, with her head outside the window.

  “What can I do, miss?” asked Charlie. There was no need to whisper now: they could hear shouts coming from downstairs, and a loud crash. What was happening? But there was no time to wonder.

  “Help Beatrice,” said Diana.

  Keeping the girl propped on the windowsill, she turned her head—Charlie had taken a knife out of his pocket and was cutting the strip of cloth over Beatrice’s mouth, the ropes on her wrists and ankles.

  “Oh, I’m so happy to see you!” said Beatrice. “Quick, let me out into the hall so I’m no longer poisoning this room! That poor girl . . .”

  “Lean on me, miss,” said Charlie, holding out his hand.

  “No, my touch will burn.” Beatrice helped herself up against the wall, then stumbled past him toward the door.

  The girl was leaning out the window, drawing fresh air into her lungs.

  “Come on,” said Diana. “You’re going to be all right. We have to get you downstairs. Can you walk?” The girl nodded.

  “Charlie!” Diana said. “Can you get her out of the house?”

  “Sure,” said Charlie. “Come on, miss. You lean on me and I’ll get you out of here. We’ll have to go down the stairs to the front door. Do you understand?”

  The girl nodded again, weakly.

  “I’ll go first,” said Diana. “We don’t know what’s happening down there.”

  From downstairs, they could hear the murmur of voices, but just as they reached the doorway, a shot rang out.

  “What’s happening? Where are Mary and Catherine?” asked Beatrice.

  “Down there,” said Diana. “The man who made the beasts—the Beast Men, I mean—he’s going to operate on Justine. Take out her brain and replace it. They’re down there with Watson and Holmes. They have guns. They must have shot someone. Come on, Charlie will get you out—I have to go help them.”

  “I’m going with you,” said Beatrice.

  Diana nodded. She and Beatrice ran down the hall, their boots clattering on the floor and then clanging on the metal stairs. But they could not worry about the noise now. As Diana reached the bottom of the stairs, she looked up. Charlie was supporting the girl, who stumbled beside him. “All clear!” Diana called up. The hallway was empty. Whatever was happening, it was happening in the office at the end of the hallway. The door to the office was open: a rectangle of light lay across the floor.


  “Listen!” said Beatrice. “What is that?” They could hear the most infernal sounds, a cacophony of shouts, screams, and roars, as though a menagerie had been let loose. Then, more shots! They looked at each other with fear in their eyes and ran to the rectangle of light.

  DIANA: There was no fear in my eyes!

  BEATRICE: Well, there certainly was in mine.

  The sight that greeted them through the open door was horrific beyond belief. A menagerie had indeed been let loose: standing by the door of the cage was the madman Renfield. The Beast Men were out—all but one. That one was pacing back and forth, still behind the closed door of the cage.

  Quickly, Diana looked around the room: Mary and Holmes were standing in one corner, revolvers raised, guarding Watson. He was lying on the floor, a red stain spreading across his shoulder. A Wolf Man lay dead at his side. Another lay only a few feet away, in front of Mary, still alive but clearly dying. He held a hand up, as though pleading for mercy. But he could no longer stand, no longer even move himself along the floor. Both his wolf and man brains knew that death was coming. He raised his head and howled. In another corner stood Catherine, guarding Justine, who leaned against the wall as though about to faint. How had she gotten out of the restraints and off the operating table? The Bear Man and a Boar Man were both crouched before her, about to attack. Prendick and Hyde were still standing at the table, but the Orangutan Man had hidden under it. Prendick was clutching the table for support. Hyde was holding a scalpel in front of him, like a weapon. At the far end of the room, next to a desk where the manager of Alderney Shipping had once, no doubt, sat to do his accounts, stood the giant, Adam, holding a hand to his chest. On the desk was a lamp, and by its light she could see that his shirt was stained red. But more frightening than the red on his shirt was his face, twisted with fury, pale as a corpse except for the blood running down one temple.

  “Do you think you can defeat me? Me, Adam Frankenstein?” he shouted. And as the Wolf Man howled, he threw back his head and roared. The rest of the Beast Men shrieked in response—an unnatural cacophony in the silence of the London night.