MARY: He would say that.
CATHERINE: Can we not discuss the Wilde scandal in the middle of my book? You’re going to get it banned in Boston, and such other puritanical places.
BEATRICE: I think we must stand up for what we believe to be right. Surely you do not think that Mr. Wilde should have been confined in such a barbaric fashion, for so trivial a reason? I’ve heard that his health is entirely ruined. We cannot help whom we love.
JUSTINE: Are you speaking of Mr. Wilde, or of yourself and Clarence?
MARY: So it’s your book, is it? I thought you said it was our book. Why is it always your book when you want to leave something out, but our book when you want us to contribute?
“Thank you, my friend,” said Dr. Watson, gripping Mr. Gray’s hand. “If you do hear anything more of Holmes, you’ll contact me, won’t you? And remember that the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street are at your service.”
“I will, Dr. Watson,” said Mr. Gray. “And thank you—your conversation over these last few days—your friendship—has meant a great deal to me. There are not many men in England who would speak to me as kindly as you have. I am an outcast in this country—for a short time, you made me feel as though I were an Englishman like any other. I hope to see you again, in a better place than this.”
“Why not come with us?” said Watson. “You are welcome to lunch—or is it dinner? I’ve lost track of time in this place. You would feel better for fresh air, and exercise, and Mrs. Hudson’s cooking.”
“You are most kind,” said Mr. Gray, with a melancholy smile, “but I think I will remain here for some time at least. I have a great deal—more than most men—to forget. And, Mr. Frank, remember, I count upon you for a visit.”
Dr. Watson shook his head, but took his leave of Mr. Gray. Mary and Justine followed him back though the rooms of the opium den, to the entrance where the supposed Chinaman—Bobby who played cricket and spoke with a cockney accent—accepted a rather large sum of money from Watson and bowed them out ostentatiously. Mary felt so much better when they were out on the street again, away from all those fumes. They had given her a headache!
It was already midafternoon by the time they reached Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson sighed with relief to see Dr. Watson, then exclaimed over the state of their clothes—none of them looked particularly reputable, Mary least of all! “I’ll bring up some tea,” she said. “Surely you all need it, after whatever adventure you have been on.” She looked once again surreptitiously at Mary, who drew her shawl more closely around her borrowed dress.
“Tell me what you know of Mr. Holmes and this mysterious errand of his,” Mary said once they were seated in the parlor, waiting for tea and sandwiches from Mrs. Hudson.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” said Watson. He ran his fingers through his hair. Mary had never seen him look so perplexed or put out. “He disappeared shortly after you left for Europe, saying his brother Mycroft had sent him on an errand of such secrecy and urgency that he could not even tell me about it. After that I heard nothing of or from him until Poor Richard came to me with his message. I was terribly worried, but did not wish to betray his trust by attempting to track him down—he would not have welcomed my interference. However, when Poor Richard told me that Holmes had requested my help, I knew that I had to act. But what are you, Miss Jekyll and Miss Frankenstein, doing back from Europe? How did you come to be in that den of iniquity?”
As succinctly as she could, Mary told him about the telegram they had received and Alice’s disappearance, as well as what they had discovered up to that point—what little they had discovered, because they still knew so very little about where Alice might be.
“So you see,” said Mary, “we followed the clues we had—the list of addresses on your blotter—as Mr. Holmes himself would have done.” She did not apologize for intruding into his room. Surely Holmes would have done the same? “But we must also look for any clues as to Mrs. Raymond’s whereabouts. Or Mrs. Herbert’s, if indeed they are the same woman. Do you remember—”
“The Herbert murder case?” said Watson. “Yes, vaguely. I’m certain Holmes has the files—he has records of every murder committed in London for the last twenty years. So Mrs. Raymond may be Mrs. Herbert! Well, with her notoriety, she would have had to leave the country or hide under another name. Half of London believed she was innocent, while the other half was calling for her blood. But let me see if I can find the case file.”
“Allow me,” said Mary. After all, she was the one in charge of the files, was she not? She was Mr. Holmes’s assistant. She had never seen that particular case, but guessed where it might be—there was a box of cases in his room that she had not yet filed. She would look in there.
By the time Mrs. Hudson brought up tea and sandwiches, they were already deep into the files of the Herbert murder case, which had indeed been in that box. No wonder Mary had never seen it before, or she might at least have remembered the name.
“Third gentleman found dead in the vicinity of Paul Street.” Mary looked down at a notice clipped out of The Times. “That was on June third, 1883. The account in The Daily Mail says he appears to have died of fright, like the other two men—but you know these sensational papers. You can’t trust a thing they say!”
“August seventeenth, Herbert himself was found dead. Look here—” Dr. Watson pointed at another article that had been neatly clipped and filed. “The Herald contains a particularly gruesome description of the victim—evidently, his face was frozen in a ghastly expression of fear, as though he had seen something too terrible to be borne. That’s The Herald for you—an objective account isn’t enough. It must be embellished with all sorts of gothic flourishes. It says his widow is suspected of doing away with him for the insurance money. The Times again, October seventh: ‘Mrs. Herbert, who was recently acquitted in the murder of her husband, Mr. Charles Herbert of Paul Street, has been reported missing. The Metropolitan Police are particularly anxious to find her, as she is with child.’ I’m not sure this enlightens us at all, Miss Jekyll. Even if Mrs. Raymond had a disreputable past—even if, as Mrs. Herbert, she murdered her husband and those other three fellows—what does that have to do with the disappearance of little Alice?”
“Pardon me, Dr. Watson, but remember that little Alice is also Lydia Raymond,” said Justine. “Or so Frau Gottleib told us, and we have no reason to disbelieve her. If Mrs. Raymond was with child, perhaps that child was Alice? Perhaps she kidnapped Alice because she wished to be reunited with her daughter.”
“I rather doubt that Mrs. Raymond is overflowing with maternal instincts,” said Mary. What sorts of sandwiches had Mrs. Hudson brought up? Ham and cucumber. She felt in need of ham. She was not entirely recovered from the miasma of the opium dens. A ham sandwich and very strong tea—that was what she needed. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson’s tea was always strong and hot. She added sugar, which she did not usually take, to revive her spirits, and then a slice of lemon. “If she kidnapped Alice, it may be because of her mesmerical powers, as Ayesha suggested. After all, according to Frau Gottleib, Mrs. Raymond had those powers herself, as a result of Dr. Raymond’s experiments.”