Mary walked across the room and sat down next to him on an ottoman. “Hello, love,” she said in what she hoped was a convincing Whitechapel accent but was probably not—our Mary is not very good at accents.
MARY: I did the best I could! I’m sorry that I’m not as good at acting as Diana. I’m not used to lying about myself.
Dr. Watson looked up at her, startled. But he looked even more startled when he saw her face and recognized Miss Mary Jekyll, of 11 Park Terrace, under the rouge and lampblack.
“I’m Mary Mulligan,” she said rapidly, before he could make a fuss. “And this is Mr. Justin Frank, who brought me here. He’s a friend of yours, remember?”
“Of course, of course,” said Dr. Watson, looking up at Justine. “This is Mr. Gray.” He gestured toward the fair-haired man who was looking at them curiously. When Mary saw his face, she was startled by its youth and beauty. He had a look of perfect innocence, as though a vile or unworthy thought had never entered his head. What was he doing in a place like this? “He has been providing me with information. I am not partaking of the drug, I assure you. I am here trying to locate Holmes, who has been missing for some time. I’ve looked for him in several of these places—this is the first time I have been able to hear anything of him. But what are you doing back from—well, this is not the time. Mr. Gray, this is Miss Mary Mulligan. She is also an associate of Mr. Holmes.”
“Is she now?” said Mr. Gray, looking at her curiously, no doubt wondering why Mr. Holmes would have such an associate. He glanced at Justine, and his eyes widened just a little, as though in surprise.
“What sort of information?” asked Mary. She looked around—no one seemed to be paying attention to them. Could they talk freely here? She was not sure. And who was Mr. Gray? Was he involved in this matter somehow?
“Sir, if you’ll take a seat,” said Mr. Gray to Justine, indicating a place beside him on the ottoman. He smiled—it was a particularly engaging smile—and his eyes expressed frank admiration. Well, Justine did make a particularly handsome man, after all! Mary, a little annoyed to be overlooked, sat down on the other side of Watson.
“Among other things, he has told me that Holmes was here more than a week ago, and that he left in the company of the proprietor of the place—and not willingly.”
“The proprietor?” said Mary. “Do you know who he is? Poor Richard told us he was not the Chinaman who greeted us at the door, but an Englishman—a Colonel Moran.”
Mr. Gray gave a low laugh. “That Chinaman isn’t even Chinese, although he enjoys playing the part. Mr. Bintang is from Sumatra, although he’s lived in London for twenty years. He goes by Bobby and plays cricket on his days off. And no, Moran is merely an agent of a higher and more sinister power. The proprietor is a man named Moriarty, who styles himself a professor, and a poisonous man he is. Moran is simply his chief henchman. I would not come here myself—but it’s one of the few places in London where I’m still welcome.”
“Moriarty—I have heard that name before,” said Justine. “But I cannot recall where?”
“You are French!” said Mr. Gray, looking at Justine with curiosity as well as admiration. “I cannot quite place your accent. I myself adore the French—their fashions, their novels, their jeu d’esprit. Do you ever go to Antibes? I have a house there. If you ever wish to visit…”
“I am Swiss,” said Justine, looking both pleased and a little confused. “I have never been to the south of France. I have heard it is very pleasant, and a wonderful place to paint.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake! They were sitting in an opium den, trying to find two of their friends who had, it now seemed, both been kidnapped! This was no time for a flirtation.
Mary leaned forward. “You’ve heard that name because Catherine read us Dr. Watson’s stories in The Strand, remember? While Mrs. Poole was teaching me to knit, and Beatrice was doing some sort of intricate embroidery, and you were—I don’t remember what you were doing. But Professor Moriarty died at Reichenbach Falls. At least, that is what Dr. Watson wrote.” She looked at Watson almost accusingly.
“That is what Holmes himself told me,” said Watson. “But then, I believed Holmes to be dead as well. I was astonished when he revealed that he had not died in the waters of the falls but found a small ledge to stand upon. It seems Professor Moriarty also escaped the falls alive, and has been conducting his nefarious operations here in London for some time. Miss—Mulligan, I think I had better get you and your friend home. I came here because Holmes was last seen in one of these places—the beggar Poor Richard conveyed this information to me. Mr. Gray has confirmed that Holmes spent considerable time in this establishment—he saw Mr. Holmes here himself about a fortnight ago. But I have been here three days without finding out any more, although Mr. Gray has been very helpful—he has, among other things, informed me that Professor Moriarty is still alive. We can conjecture that Holmes’s old enemy Moriarty, as well as his lieutenant Moran, are somehow involved in his disappearance. I am surprised to see you back from Budapest, but now that you are here, perhaps we had better regroup and recalibrate. You know I hesitate to involve you in such a dangerous enterprise, but this is a matter of Holmes’s life. I would be most grateful for your help.”
“And I for yours,” said Mary. Should she tell him about Alice? No, not here—she was not at all sure whether to trust Mr. Gray, and anyway, they still did not know if Alice’s kidnapping had anything to do with Mr. Holmes’s disappearance. It could be a separate matter altogether.
“You will call upon me, will you not?” Mr. Gray was saying to Justine. “At my house in Grosvenor Square, I have some art I would like to show you—lovely pieces. Sculptures as well, tapestries… I am a collector, you see. And remember, you are always welcome in Antibes.”
“Thank you,” said Justine, lowering her eyes. How utterly ridiculous—she was actually responding to his advances! Although Mary had to admit that if the force of Mr. Gray’s charms had been turned on her, she might well have behaved in the same way.
MARY: I would most certainly have not! Mr. Gray was not at all my type. Who was he, anyway? A man we met in an opium den! Imagine what sort of dissolute life he must lead, although indeed he did not look like the sort of person one would expect to see there. He had a sort of choir boy look about him, as though one might meet him at a Sunday School outing.
BEATRICE: Do you truly not know who he was? Mr. Dorian Gray, the lover of Mr. Oscar Wilde, who was sent to Reading Gaol for—well, for holding opinions that society does not approve of! For believing in beauty, and art, and love. What guilt and remorse he must feel, for causing the downfall of the greatest playwright of the age! It was Mr. Gray’s dissolute parties, the antics of his hedonistic friends, that exposed Mr. Wilde to scandal and opprobrium. No wonder he has fallen prey to the narcotic.
MARY: Or he could just like opium. He didn’t seem particularly remorseful, Bea.
JUSTINE: Mr. Gray is not what society deems him to be. He has been greatly misunderstood. He assures me that he had no intention of harming Mr. Wilde.