CHAPTER II
Consulting Mr. Holmes
Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time!” said Mrs. Poole. “But I don’t think anyone who once saw Mr. Hyde could forget him. You were so young, just out of the nursery and into the schoolroom. Such a solemn child you were, calm and quiet, unlike other children, with big gray eyes that always seemed to be asking questions. Do you remember Miss Murray, with her globes and French grammar? You used to come see me when you were tired of conjugating or declining, or whatever you call it, and I would give you a bit of ginger cake. I don’t know if you ever saw him yourself, though he was here often enough.”
“I did, once,” said Mary. “But tell me what you remember about him. I have a particular reason for asking.”
“I was head chambermaid then, so I rarely saw gentlemen guests. My father was still alive, bless his soul. ‘It’s not my place to criticize Dr. Jekyll’s guests,’ he would tell me. ‘But that Mr. Hyde just makes me feel like taking a shower, with plenty of soap!’ He spent most of his time with your father in the laboratory. But I saw him once or twice, creeping down the stairs as he did, with an evil look on his face. The sight of him made me shiver. I remember it to this day!”
“I saw him once,” said Mary, thoughtfully. “He was standing outside my mother’s bedroom door. He had his hand raised, as though about to knock. But he turned and saw me, then lowered it and gave me such a look—almost of guilt, but also a sort of glee. He grinned, and I remember being frightened and running back to my room. Later, I told Miss Murray that I had seen Rumpelstiltskin.” She looked back down at the documents spread over the sofa. “What do you remember about the murder?”
“Shocking, it was!” said Mrs. Poole. “That old gentleman, Sir Danvers Carew, beaten to death with a cane. Such a brutal crime!”
“And Mr. Hyde was implicated,” said Mary.
“Oh, I don’t think there was any question of his guilt! It was a dreadful time. The police coming around, questioning us all as though we were criminals. I’m convinced it hastened your poor father’s death. But Hyde disappeared, and hasn’t been heard of since. Good riddance, I say!”
“Until now. Look, this is what Mr. Guest gave me.” Mary held the account book out to Mrs. Poole, turned so the housekeeper could see the list of figures, and repeated what the solicitor had told her.
Mrs. Poole looked down at the book, then back up again at Mary. Astonishment was written on her face, and for a moment, she could not speak. Then, she said, “I don’t know what to make of that, miss.”
“I don’t know what to make of it either. Except that my mother knew where Hyde was, and was sending him money each month. Could he have been blackmailing her?”
“With what, miss? Your mother hadn’t a secret in the world.”
“But I think my father did. I’ve been reading one of these letters.” Mary picked up the letter and stared at it, frowning. “There are references I don’t understand—scientific references, in part. But I’m starting to think that my father was involved in some strange things, Mrs. Poole.”
“Well, he was always a secretive gentleman. Shall I take your plate, miss? I’d like to wash up before banking the stove for the night.”
“I’m sorry,” said Mary. “I’m being inconsiderate. Sometimes I forget it’s just the two of us now—and you’re the one actually doing all the work. If only you would let me help.”
Mrs. Poole removed the plate and cutlery in a way that expressed her complete disapproval. She has always had the remarkable ability to show exactly what she thinks without saying a word. It’s a very annoying trait. No, you may not add a comment here, Mrs. Poole.
“I hope you don’t stay up too late,” said the housekeeper. “And do light the gas when it gets dark. I don’t want you ruining your eyes.”
“I won’t stay up,” said Mary. “But I want to finish looking through these documents. I have a sort of idea . . . Mrs. Poole, wasn’t there a reward offered for information leading to the apprehension of Hyde?”
“A hundred pounds, it was. Why, miss? Do you think you could get that hundred pounds by turning him in? It’s been so long. Surely they won’t pay that much now.” Mrs. Poole did not specify who they might be.
“I don’t know,” said Mary. “But I think I know who to ask. It was so long ago, but I still remember . . .”
She did not finish her sentence. Mrs. Poole carried the tray out, shutting the parlor door behind her. Mary wondered what secrets her mother had taken to the grave. An idea was starting to form in her head, a course of action. Tomorrow . . .
But no, she would not think about that yet. She still had the rest of the documents to read through. Perhaps they would tell her more about what had happened all those years ago. She picked up her father’s notebook and continued where she had left off. The fire had burned low by the time she finally put the documents back into the portfolio, then rose and went upstairs to the bedroom she had slept in since leaving the nursery.
Once in bed, she could not get to sleep. The house was so silent! There had always been noises: her mother waking in the night, Nurse Adams going down to heat some milk. The house felt so empty around her. Mrs. Poole was two floors down, in the housekeeper’s room by the kitchen. She was tempted to go down and sleep in Alice’s bed, just so she could hear Mrs. Poole snoring through the wall. But she was Miss Mary Jekyll, of 11 Park Terrace. A lady might feel fear, but she must not give in to it, or so her governess had taught her. So she stared into the darkness until she finally fell asleep, and dreamed of a leering Mr. Hyde walking through the lamplit streets of London, brandishing his murderous cane.
MRS. POOLE: I do not snore!
MARY: I don’t remember dreaming any such thing. How can you say I dreamed it, if I don’t remember?
CATHERINE: You don’t remember not dreaming it, do you? Well then. You must have dreamed something. I can’t just write, Mary dreamed something but she doesn’t remember. You have absolutely no sense of drama.
MARY: Well, I don’t tell lies, if that’s what you mean.
The next morning, after an early breakfast of toast and tea, she asked Mrs. Poole for the key to the laboratory. With a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she crossed the courtyard at the back of the house and unlocked the laboratory door, which had been locked for—how long now? Since her mother had become too ill to be cared for by the servants and Mary had hired Nurse Adams. That must be . . . seven years ago. Even before that, it had only been entered by the maids, for an annual cleaning.