MARY: He hates me. He absolutely hates me.
CATHERINE: But probably less than he hates Sherlock Holmes.
MARY: Is that supposed to be a source of comfort?
CATHERINE: No, not really.
“I don’t expect that hellcat to know any better,” said Inspector Lestrade, looking pointedly at Diana. “But you, Miss Jekyll. Why don’t you stay home quietly, embroidering or whatever it is ladies do all day? Mrs. Lestrade says she finds needlework very soothing. The next time Mr. Holmes asks you and your friends to help him with one of his investigations, I hope you will find a more productive way to spend your time. Involving those Baker Street boys is bad enough, but how he can put you young ladies in such a dangerous situation is beyond me.”
“Yes, Inspector,” said Mary, biting her tongue. She could have told him a thing or two about what young ladies were capable of. After all, she had spent the better part of the last two days locked in a dungeon—apparently it was Sunday afternoon, and she had once again missed going to church. She was tired, hungry, and dirty. But he had helped her transport Justine back to 11 Park Terrace in a police wagon, so that she was now lying in her own bed upstairs, still unconscious. Mary was desperately worried about her. She was so grateful to Lestrade for helping them that she merely nodded, as though agreeing that embroidery was the appropriate occupation for any young lady, no matter her ambition or intellect. At least he had believed her story that they were merely helping Mr. Holmes investigate a ring of thieves stealing ancient artifacts!
They stood in the parlor, by the mantel with Mrs. Jekyll’s portrait over it. Mrs. Poole had not yet had time to light a fire. Should she? Did Lestrade intend to stay for a while? She had no idea.
Diana was lying on the sofa, half asleep. No wonder she was so quiet! But in response to his comment, she opened her mouth—oh goodness, she was about to say something, wasn’t she? Something obnoxious, no doubt. That would only make Inspector Lestrade more angry.
Like the angel of perfect timing, Mrs. Poole bustled in. She was carrying a tray with a bottle and two glasses. “Would you care for some port, Inspector? Dr. Jekyll’s best bottle. I know you officers of the law don’t drink while working, but surely after the events of this morning… If I may be so bold as to suggest a medicinal quantity? And I cannot thank you enough for bringing the girls safely home. You don’t know how I worry! I know their behavior is not quite what one might wish, but they are all poor, motherless orphans, with no one to teach them better—just me. I do my best, you know, but I am no substitute.”
“I’m sure you do your best, Mrs. Poole,” said Lestrade, looking at her approvingly. Apparently, the one member of the 11 Park Street household who met his standards of proper behavior was the housekeeper. “It’s not your fault if they go running around London at all hours. And that one”—he glared at Diana—“I don’t know who or what could contain her.”
Diana stuck her tongue out at him. Oh, Mary would have liked to slap her!
“Ah well, she was brought up badly,” said Mrs. Poole. “She was under the care of Mrs. Raymond—you know whom I mean, of the Magdalen Society. A terrible woman.”
“Who may also have been Mrs. Herbert, of the Paul Street Murders,” said Mary. “Do you know anything about her?”
Lestrade looked at her disapprovingly. “Don’t you go getting mixed up in any more murders, Miss Jekyll. If Mrs. Raymond is Mrs. Herbert, then she’s a dangerous woman. The men who died in Paul Street—we never could connect the murders to her. There was no apparent motive, you see, and no murder weapon. They seemed to have died of sheer fright. But I believed then, and I believe now, that she was responsible. Poor Charles Herbert was completely taken in by her. Spent his fortune on a house in London for her, with fine furniture, a fancy carriage, fabulous jewels—everything a woman could want. I thought we might get her for his murder at least—juries don’t like women who kill their husbands. But she looked so young and innocent on the witness stand, as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. She was a beautiful woman, with masses of wavy black hair—it reminded me of Medusa’s snakes! She was acquitted of all charges, but she was as guilty as sin, I can tell you that.”
“And after the trial, she disappeared?” said Mary.
Mrs. Poole poured a glass of port for Lestrade, who did not refuse it, then another for Mary, who took a small sip. She did not usually enjoy alcohol, but today the warmth of it was welcome.
“What about me?” asked Diana petulantly. She sat up on the sofa. Well, at least she was no longer sprawled all over the place!
“Roly-poly pudding on the kitchen table,” said Mrs. Poole.
“Right-ho.” Diana sprang up, and in the moment she was out the door. Once again, Mary mentally thanked the Lord and his angels for Mrs. Poole. What in the world would they do without her?
MRS. POOLE: You would get by, miss. You are all resourceful young women.
BEATRICE: We might get by, but it would not be the same. We could not possibly do without you, Mrs. Poole.
JUSTINE: Indeed, we could not. It would not be at all the same.
CATHERINE: I hate to join the chorus, but we would be a complete mess. Don’t even start, Diana. You know perfectly well we would be.
DIANA: I wasn’t going to say anything. Why do you always assume I’m going to say something nasty?
MARY: Because you always do?
“Yes, Mrs. Herbert disappeared after the trial,” said Lestrade. “Several years later, there was a set of murders in high society. I was called in when Lord Argentine was found dead in his bedchamber. Each of the men—peers of the realm, barristers, surgeons, even an orchestra conductor—was found dead in his home. There seemed to be no connection between the murders, except that each man had an expression on his face of sheer terror, which was what made me suspicious. I discovered that before returning home on the evening of their deaths, each had been at the house of a Mrs. Beaumont, who hosted literary and artistic salons. I went to Mrs. Beaumont’s house in Mayfair. That house—well, she was getting money from somewhere, living like a duchess. But it was empty—Mrs. Beaumont was gone. She must have been frightened off by the investigation into Argentine’s death. In her parlor, I saw a portrait over the mantelpiece. It was by Mr. Sargent, the society painter. She was slightly older, but I could see that it was a portrait of Mrs. Herbert. I never heard of her again—until now.”
“This information was not in Mr. Holmes’s files,” said Mary.
“Well, sometimes the police know things that interfering private detectives don’t,” he replied, in acidic tones. “The public blames us for any murders left unsolved, and gives them credit for the few they manage to solve—through lucky guesses, like as not! But you say Mrs. Herbert is also Mrs. Raymond?”
“Yes,” said Mary, taking another sip of the port. She would not remind him of all the times Mr. Holmes had helped him and taken no credit for it! She would simply continue to bite her tongue. It was going to feel awfully sore after this conversation, in a metaphorical sense. “Mrs. Raymond was associated with Professor Moriarty and Colonel Moran.”