“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “And we will see you . . .” When?
“Tomorrow, perhaps. I will of course bring you news of Watson. But you—I believe you should all get some rest. It has been a difficult night for you all.”
Mary nodded. Yes, it had been difficult. But exciting too, she could not deny that. Did she want to experience any more such nights, stalking a suspect through London with Mr. Holmes, solving mysteries? Well, not tonight, that was for certain!
Holmes bowed and said, “Until tomorrow, then.” With a couple of long strides, he was out the door. As he passed her, Alice started, as though remembering where she was, and then followed him out, still holding the breakfast tray.
Mary heard the voice of Mrs. Poole below, then the front door closing. And then silence.
Suddenly, she realized they were all looking at her—Justine leaning back against her pillow, Diana sitting cross-legged on the bed, Catherine with her legs curled under her like a cat. Beatrice in her chair by the window. They were all waiting for Mary to speak.
“Well?” said Diana. “Now what?”
Now what, indeed. She knew what she wanted to say, but would they agree? The only way to find out was to ask. “What I’d like is for you all to stay here. I’ve lost all the family I had . . .” Hyde did not count, of course. “I think we’ve all lost our families, haven’t we? Diana has no one. Beatrice may still have relations in Italy”—Beatrice shook her head—“but anyone Justine knew is long dead. And Cat—well, she had no human family, at least. I want us to be a family for each other. Anyway, we still have a mystery to solve. As Mr. Holmes said, we know who committed the Whitechapel Murders, but we know almost nothing about the Alchemical Society. What sorts of experiments were our fathers conducting? What were they trying to prove? We know it had to do with biological transmutation, but there were papers . . . they met to give papers, remember? Are there papers about Beatrice, or Catherine, or even Justine? Is there a journal? Societies usually have journals, don’t they? Beatrice, didn’t you mention a journal of some sort? There’s still so much we don’t know. It seems clear that the society was not directly responsible for the Whitechapel Murders. My father had been cast out of the society, and Prendick, who is still a member, was hiding his activities from them. Adam was an experiment, wasn’t he? Rather than a scientist. And he mentioned that they, whoever they are, wouldn’t let him join. But the society did sanction the creation of . . . well, of monsters. Girl monsters. Is it continuing those activities? If so, it must be stopped. I have no idea what we’re going to live on, because we’ll run out of money soon. Still, I think we should all stay here and find a way.”
There, she had said it. Now she waited to see how they would all respond.
Justine nodded. “Yes, we should certainly try to stop the Société, although it will not be easy. You are right—we must solve this mystery together. We are—like sisters, are we not? I lost my own sisters when I was sent into service, and then when I died and was reborn. I would like to have sisters again.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Diana, with an expression of disgust. “I have one sister, and she’s bad enough. Anyway, what about Poison Breath? I saw what happened in that warehouse! Are we all going to die in our sleep?”
“That was scarcely her fault!” said Mary.
“No, Diana is right,” said Beatrice. “I will always be dangerous. If I stay here, I must spend most of my time in the laboratory, so my poison does not affect you all. I agree that we must try to stop the Société des Alchimistes. But are you certain that you wish me to stay?”
“No,” said Diana, and “Yes,” and “Yes, of course,” said Mary and Justine simultaneously.
“Catherine?” said Mary, realizing she had not yet spoken.
“I don’t know,” said Catherine. “We’ll fight, inevitably. I don’t just mean Diana sticking knives into people, which doesn’t count. What I mean is that we’re opinionated. We’ll want our own way. Except maybe Justine, who has to be gentle because she’s so strong. It won’t be a peaceful life, with all of us here.”
“I know,” said Mary. “But families do fight, don’t they? Anyway, I think we’re stronger together than apart.”
“Maybe.” Catherine frowned. “Anyway, I’m a puma. I’m solitary and secretive, according to the Encyclopaedia Britannica in your father’s study. Yes, we need to stop the society, if it’s still creating—well, more of us. But I’m not sure I want to be anyone’s sister.”
“But you’ve been like a sister to me,” said Justine gently.
Catherine merely shook her head and said, “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Perhaps we should all do that,” said Mary. “Let’s get some rest. We all need it. And then we can talk again later? I’m sure if I ask nicely, Mrs. Poole will make us a proper tea. With sandwiches and cakes. And sausages, of course,” she said, looking at Catherine. “And delicious green goo,” she added, for Beatrice’s sake.
Diana stuck a finger in her mouth and pretended to vomit. Presumably commenting on Beatrice’s choice of nourishment?
“You know,” said Mary dispassionately, “you may not have to wait for Beatrice’s poison. I’m seriously considering smothering you with a pillow while you sleep, just to keep you quiet for a while.”
Suddenly, Justine started to laugh. She put a hand over her mouth as though embarrassed, trying to hold it in. But then Beatrice started as well—elegant, musical laughter, as one might expect from Beatrice. Catherine threw her head back and laughed heartily, without restraint. Mary looked startled, but then even she started, and could not stop until her sides hurt. She had not laughed since . . . well, when had she ever laughed? It was painful, yet it brought a sense of release, as though a key had turned in her chest and opened a lock she did not know was there.
“I’d like to see you try!” said Diana indignantly. “Anyway, I’m going to my room. I had a long night rescuing Poison Breath over there, in case anyone’s forgotten.” She yawned conspicuously, crammed the last of Justine’s toast into her mouth, and walked out of the room, nose in the air, with a smear of marmalade across one cheek, like a damp, barefoot duchess.
“Her room!” said Mary. “When did it become her room?”
“Just now, I think,” said Beatrice, wiping tears from her eyes. “You said you wanted us all to stay, didn’t you? Including Diana. But I think we had better go to our rooms as well. Justine is getting no rest with us here.”
Before they left, Mary persuaded Justine to finish the vegetable broth. Then she took the tray back down to the kitchen and checked with Mrs. Poole to make sure the housekeeper still had enough money for necessities.
Yes, Mrs. Poole told her, for the moment. She was being economical, but the rates were coming due, and Diana would eat them out of house and home for sure. Mary thought again about her bank balance: forty-one pounds, twelve shillings. How would it feed seven—herself, Diana, Beatrice, Catherine, and Justine, plus Alice and Mrs. Poole? Well, six, since Beatrice barely ate—she assumed green goo was cheap. But she was too tired to think about it right now.
She walked back upstairs to her room. On the way, she checked on Justine, who was fast sleep and snoring gently under a blanket that did not quite cover the more than six feet of her. Catherine’s door was closed, but Mary supposed she was asleep as well. Diana was still awake, lying in Mary’s childhood bed with her knees up and a book propped on them. “Go away,” she said, sticking her tongue out. Mary went in and kissed Diana on the forehead, as her mother had kissed her when she was a child. Why had she done that? She did not know—instinct, she supposed. To her surprise, Diana did not actually hit her, but she did rub her head as though wiping away the offending kiss. “Gross,” was all she said.
DIANA: And it was. And it still is.
MARY: But you didn’t hit me. You never hit me when I do it.
DIANA: Is that supposed to mean something? Because it doesn’t.
CATHERINE: Not hitt
ing people is how you show affection.
She lay down on her bed. Just for a minute . . . then she would get up and change into a nightgown. In just a minute . . . By the time that minute had passed, she was asleep.
Diana had not wanted to sleep. Mary had told her to sleep, so she wouldn’t. When she got to her room, she sat on the floor, looking at the bookshelf. These must be the books Mary had grown up with. A Child’s History of England—boooring. Poetical Fancies—who named these books? Alice in Wonderland—that looked better. She took it off the shelf and into bed with her. Ah, this was more like it! Soon, she was down the rabbit hole and in a land as chaotic as her own mind, with caucus-races and Cheshire Cats that disappeared, leaving their grins, and Mad Hatters holding tea parties. She particularly admired the Queen of Hearts.
DIANA: See? You can write perfectly well from my perspective when you want to. Told you so.
Catherine had gone to her room and shut the door, wanting to be alone. She was secretive and solitary, right? The room, which had been Mrs. Jekyll’s, had an air of delicate femininity: blue silk curtains matched the blue silk coverlet on the bed, and the furniture stood on slender mahogany legs as though about to start dancing. Catherine had the urge to scratch it all up. It reminded her too much of Lady Tibbett’s house. She took off Holmes’s frock coat, which she had been wearing since last night—it seemed a thousand years ago. Surely there must be something for her to wear? From the wardrobe, she chose a pair of drawers and an embroidered chemise. That would do.
She opened the window. Below her was the courtyard that separated the main house from the laboratory, where Beatrice was probably sleeping. She looked up: there was a drainpipe running all the way to the third floor, close enough that she could reach it. How strong was it? Would it bear her weight?
She climbed out the window and up the drainpipe. It was sturdy enough to support her weight, but ran up only to what must be a third-floor bathroom, or more likely a sink and water closet. If she could just reach from where the drainpipe ended to one of the window frames, and from there to the gutter . . . In a moment, she was up on the roof, among the chimney pots. It was a clear day—clear for London, anyhow—and she could see across the tops of the houses. London seemed to go on forever.
She turned and crossed the roof. She felt a savage delight in being up so high, the delight she must have felt on a cliff in the Andes, before Moreau transformed her into a woman. In one direction was a succession of alleys and mews. In the other was Regent’s Park, with its green treetops swaying in the wind. How strange life was! She had been born in the mountains of Argentina, then born again on Moreau’s island. Now here she was, at the center of the largest city in the world.
Somewhere in that city was Edward Prendick. One day, she would meet him again, and then, she would tear out his throat.
DIANA: And you all think I’m violent!
CATHERINE: I’m supposed to be violent. I’m a puma, remember?
DIANA: As though you let us forget it.
But for now . . . should she stay here? She could go anywhere, she could survive under any conditions, but Justine needed a home. This one would do, at least for now. After all, she had enjoyed the camaraderie of the circus. She supposed that was the human part of her, the part Moreau had created. She would have to tell Lorenzo what had happened to his performers. He had always treated her well, and he deserved to know—not the whole story, but at least that she and Justine had found another home. And then, they would begin a new life. It would, in some ways, be not much different from the circus. Both the circus and the house on Park Terrace had their monsters. . . .
CATHERINE: Yes, Mary, I know how you feel about that word. But I’m not going to stop using it. So you can stop cluttering up my story with your objections.
The adventures of the previous night had not tired Catherine as much as the others—she was nocturnal, after all. But she, too, needed rest. She clambered down the drainpipe and climbed through the window, then curled up under the blue silk covers and fell asleep, twitching as she dreamed of hunting deer on the slopes of the Andes.
JUSTINE: I like Catherine’s writing. It’s dramatic—perhaps overly dramatic at times. But I can see what she saw, feel what she felt, as an animal transformed by Dr. Moreau. That is good storytelling, I think.
CATHERINE: Thank you! And if any of you want to write this book, you’re more than welcome to try.
Beatrice was not asleep. She looked around the room that had once been a laboratory, and before that an operating theater. Yes, she thought it would do. The glass dome let in plenty of light. She could put plants on the desks where students had once sat observing dissections and demonstrations. The laboratory could become an indoor greenhouse. Some of the plants would be poisonous—would Mary allow that? She did not know.
She climbed up the stairs to the office. What had happened here, so long ago? How had Dr. Jekyll falsified his own death, to escape as Hyde?
The room itself was spotlessly clean. The only pieces of furniture were a desk and chair, two glass-fronted cabinets, empty now, and the sofa on which she had slept the first night she had arrived. In one corner stood a cheval glass. What must it have seen so many years ago? Jekyll’s transformations into Hyde, she guessed. She looked into its depths, but saw only herself—a woman of uncanny beauty.
BEATRICE: Catherine, you know I don’t think of myself that way.
CATHERINE: Well, everyone else does. Really, your modesty is one of the most annoying things about you. That and your absolute mania about Votes for Women and Dress Reform. And no, you can’t comment here about the importance of the suffrage movement or the dangers of tight lacing.
DIANA: Is this one of those scenes where the monster looks in a mirror?
It had been one of the most terrible nights of her life. She had almost killed another human being—a child, this time. She must never do that again. Here she could stay secluded, away from others. And perhaps her medicines could heal—making up in some measure for the deaths she had caused.
Beatrice lay down on the sofa and pulled a blanket over herself. She was so tired . . . not from lack of sleep, but from a sense of hopelessness that had been with her since the death of Giovanni. Here, she thought, she might find . . . not happiness, but peace.
Beatrice closed her eyes and dreamed whatever flowers dream.
BEATRICE: That’s very poetic, but they don’t dream anything. Flowers have no cerebral cortex.
CATHERINE: Oh, for goodness’ sake. Can’t you be the romantic heroine? Mary is too sensible, Diana is too impulsive, and Justine is too tall.
BEATRICE: But I’m not a romantic heroine. I’m a scientist.
When Mary woke again, it was almost dark. She looked at her wristwatch, but could not make out the hands. She must have slept all day! And in her clothes, too.
She heard voices downstairs, and for a confused moment she thought it must be Enid and Nurse Adams. Then she remembered the events of the past week. Had it all really happened? It must have—she could not have made such a thing up. Not Poisonous Girls and Beast Men and Adam Frankenstein.
Who else was awake?
When she went downstairs, rubbing her eyes, she found they all were. The gas had been lit in the parlor, and there was a fire in the grate. Catherine, Justine, and Diana were sitting around the tea table, on which there were cakes and sandwiches, as she had predicted. Beatrice was still sitting away from the group, by the window.
“We didn’t want to wake you,” said Catherine. “We’ve been making plans.”
“What sorts of plans?” Were they going to stay? Or had they been talking about going back to the circus? Even Beatrice could make a good living in the circus sideshow. Mary hoped, more than she had hoped anything in the past week, that they would be staying. After all they had been through, she wanted them together, in this house.
Just then, Alice walked into the parlor, holding a glass filled with . . . well, it was green. “Mrs. Poole sent me up with this,
miss,” she said to Beatrice, handing her the concoction. “She says she’ll be up herself in a moment.”
“That’s very kind of you, Alice,” said Beatrice. “Particularly since I almost poisoned you. I cannot apologize enough—”
“Oh, that weren’t your fault. You couldn’t help it, being all tied up.”
Beatrice sipped from the glass and smiled. “Mrs. Poole is a genius, I think. This is perfect. Will you tell her from me, Alice? And—if I am to remain here, if this is to become my home, you must call me by my name. I have no intention of standing on ceremony with anyone.”
“Yes, miss . . . Beatrice,” said Alice. “If you’ll excuse me . . .” And then she was gone again, like a mouse that disappears into the woodwork before you’ve had the chance to blink.
“I hope she’s not afraid of me,” said Beatrice, sipping her green sludge. What in the world had Mrs. Poole put into it? It looked like weed soup. “After all, I almost killed her.”
“No, she’s just shy,” said Mary. “She always has been, since she first came here. I would never have expected quiet little Alice to be as brave as she was last night. So . . . what were you talking about before I came in? Will you stay?”
“Of course we’re going to stay,” said Catherine, as though it were obvious. She picked up a sandwich, looked at it, and said, “Watercress. That’s pig food.” She handed it to Justine. “Where’s the ham?”
Just then, Mrs. Poole came in with the teapot.
The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter Page 34