“Oh, you poor dear,” said the woman. Was she a housekeeper? No—this must be the famous Mrs. Hudson! “Mr. Holmes is upstairs, and I’m sure he’ll be able to help you, whatever trouble you’re in. He won’t mind being disturbed. Not, that is, if you’re bringing him a case, as I imagine you are. He does love his cases.”
Mary could not help smiling. Mrs. Hudson had obviously decided she was some sort of damsel in distress, anxious to see the great detective. Who probably would very much mind being disturbed, but Mary couldn’t help that.
“Thank you, Mrs. . . .”
“Hudson. Mrs. Hudson. I let rooms and do for the gentlemen upstairs. Or I would, if they ever let me. I have to warn you, miss, it’s a terrible mess up there.”
Mary followed Mrs. Hudson up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor.
At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Hudson knocked. “There’s a lady to see you, Mr. Holmes,” she called through the door.
A shot rang out, and then another.
Mary flinched, both times, but Mrs. Hudson seemed not to notice.
She waited for a moment, then said, “It’s important, Mr. Holmes.”
Another shot, and then—
“All right, let her in.” The voice implied that whoever she was, she would be an infernal nuisance.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door. “In you go, miss,” she said to Mary. “And don’t let Mr. Holmes intimidate you. If anyone can help you with your problem, he can.”
Mrs. Hudson paused for a moment, in case Mary might reveal what that problem was. An angry father? An absconding fiancé? But Mary said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Hudson,” and walked into the flat.
Yes, it was indeed a terrible mess.
On the mantelpiece, above the fireplace, were skulls, representing what Mary recognized as different physiognomic types, in a row from highest to lowest. The last one in the row was obviously the skull of an ape, but in an effort to be humorous, perhaps, someone had put a top hat on it. By the window stood a camera, from which an opera cape was hanging, probably for whomever was going to wear the top hat. The long table in front of the window was covered with equipment of various sorts, just as her father’s laboratory table had been: she could see a smaller portable camera, a Bunsen burner and microscope, glass jars filled with what looked like human ears swimming in liquid. Casts of hand-and fingerprints. Boxes of dirt in a variety of colors, from light red to black. Along the wall across from the fireplace were bookshelves, overflowing with books. There were books stacked on the floor, the sofa, and one of the armchairs. On the other armchair was a violin.
The man in the middle of the room was holding a pistol. He was tall, with a high forehead and the sort of nose they call aquiline. He looked, Mary thought, like an inquisitive eagle. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, and he was pointing the pistol at the wall.
DIANA: You’re not going to make him the hero, are you? Because that would be sickening.
BEATRICE: I think Mr. Holmes would make a very good hero.
DIANA: You would!
By the mantle, the wallpaper was pocked with bullet holes in a pattern: VR, VR, VR—Victoria Regina. For a moment, Mary wondered if she should have gone straight to Scotland Yard.
The second occupant of the room rose from behind a stack of books on the sofa. “What are you thinking, Holmes? You’ll scare the girl.” He was shorter, stockier, with a mustache. Unlike his friend, he was properly dressed, in a jacket and tie.
“I’m not scared, Dr. Watson,” said Mary. “I’ve read your accounts of Mr. Holmes’s cases, and am aware of his peculiarities. Although shooting inside a flat seems somewhat theatrical, doesn’t it? Honestly, I thought you had made it up for dramatic effect.”
“Ha! She’s got you there, Watson!” said the man holding the pistol. “Or perhaps she’s got me. There’s nothing quite like the clear-sighted irony of a modern young lady to make one feel ridiculous. Although I swear this was a practical experiment, however it may appear. Well then, madam, tell me who you are and what sort of assistance you need this morning. Lost a pug or Pomeranian? I seem to be in the business of retrieving missing pets lately. I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this, as you have so brilliantly deduced, is my associate, Dr. Watson.”
“No,” said Mary. Lost pug or Pomeranian, indeed! “I’m here to ask about a murder that happened fourteen years ago. I believe you were involved with the investigation. My name is Mary Jekyll.”
“Is it now!” said Holmes. He put the pistol on the table, next to the microscope. “Come sit down, Miss Jekyll. I remember the case, and your father, Dr. Henry Jekyll, although it was a long time ago. I was interested in chemistry, and he was described to me as the best man in his field. Not quite sound in his theories, perhaps, but the best. Do you remember the murder of Sir Danvers Carew, Watson? It was in the early days of our association, when I was just beginning to establish my practice as a consulting detective. Miss Jekyll must have been . . .”
Mary put her umbrella in the stand, beside a pair of fencing foils.
“Here, Miss Jekyll,” said Watson, moving the stack of books from the armchair nearest the door. She sat down, noting the cigarette burns on the arms, and put the portfolio on her lap.
“It was almost fourteen years ago,” she said. “I was seven years old.”
“Yes, I remember a daughter. And a mother.”
“My mother died recently,” said Mary.
“My condolences,” said Watson, bowing to Mary. “But no, I don’t remember the case, Holmes.”
“Thank you.” Her mother’s death was the last thing Mary wanted to discuss at the moment. She turned to Holmes and said, “At the time, there was a reward . . .”