“Moriarty!” said Lestrade. “He’s a gent I’ve wanted to get my hands on for a while now. We thought he was dead, but a month ago Mr. Holmes tipped us off that he was back, though keeping a low profile. He’s responsible for half the crime in London—in low places and high, but we’ve never been able to prove it. He’s too clever by half, and Moran does the dirty work for him. I thought we’d be able to catch him tonight at the museum—we got word from an informant that he would be trying to steal artifacts from one of the Egyptian exhibitions, and he must have succeeded, since a mummy seems to be missing. We were disappointed to find only yourselves and a bunch of boys on the scene! Indeed, you must have frightened him off and lost us our quarry. If you have any information as to his whereabouts, Miss Jekyll—”
What was she going to say, that Moriarty and his lieutenant were small piles of white ash on the floor of the British Museum? Lestrade would never believe her.
“If I hear anything of Professor Moriarty, I will certainly inform you.” Mary could say that with a clear conscience—she knew perfectly well that she would not be hearing anything of Moriarty again. This time, he truly was dead.
Lestrade nodded approvingly. “That’s right, Miss Jekyll. Scotland Yard is the proper authority to handle a matter of that sort—not some interfering private detective!”
Once again Mary had to bite her tongue in the metaphorical sense. But there was another piece of information she wanted from him. “Inspector, there is a death I’m curious about, that of Professor Trelawny, the Egyptologist. Do you know if anyone investigated—”
“Outside of my jurisdiction,” said Lestrade. “The Professor died in his house in Cornwall, where he kept his collection. That’s the one in the museum, isn’t it—the Trelawny Exhibit? It must be Trelawny’s mummy that’s gone missing. I told you to stay out of this case, Miss Jekyll. At any rate, his death was an accident. He was using some electrical apparatus and it malfunctioned, or so I gathered from The Times. You should not concern yourself with deaths, whether deliberate or accidental. It’s morbid, and no young lady should be morbid. Embroidery, I tell you! Now, I must be on my way.” He drank the last of his port. “Thank you, Mrs. Poole. I’m glad to see a nice, respectable woman such as yourself in charge around here. You’ll keep these girls in order, I’m sure. Good God, what is that?”
It was Archibald, dressed in his footman’s uniform. It had once belonged to Mary’s footman Joseph, who had married Enid, the housemaid. Now, they kept a public house together in Basingstoke. Mrs. Poole had cut the uniform down considerably for the Orangutan Man. He was carrying Lestrade’s overcoat and hat.
“Just a poor boy we took in from the streets. We’re training him to be a footman,” said Mrs. Poole. “He’s very teachable, although not very bright and a bit odd-looking, poor lad. Do come again, Inspector. It’s such a pleasure to meet a member of the Metropolitan Police. I’m sure we should all be grateful that you and your men are out on the streets of London, enforcing the law.”
“We are here to serve, dear lady,” said Lestrade, putting on his overcoat and looking at Archibald dubiously. “And do try to keep these girls from getting into any more mischief. I won’t always be there to save them, you know. It was irresponsible of Holmes to get you involved in the first place, and now he seems to have disappeared—along with the mummy that was supposed to go on display tomorrow. I don’t understand this fascination with mummies myself—they’re just dried-up corpses. But people seem to be going barmy over anything Egyptian nowadays! I even caught Mrs. Lestrade reading a book called The Mummy’s Curse. Sheer nonsense, I told her. ‘Stolen mummy! Stolen mummy!’ all the newsboys will be crying tomorrow morning. And of course we will be expected to do something about it. If, as you say, Mr. Holmes is pursuing the thieves, his first duty is to communicate all he knows to the Metropolitan Police. If you hear from him, Miss Jekyll, you tell him so.”
“Of course, Inspector,” said Mary, doing her best to look humble and obedient. There was no point in antagonizing Lestrade further. He was angry enough at them as it was.
After Mrs. Poole had let him out and returned to the parlor to gather up the tray, Mary said, “Girls! I’m twenty-one. I am not a girl.”
“Of course you’re not, my dear,” said Mrs. Poole. “But sometimes it’s best to let gentlemen talk. If you had argued with him, he would not have given you so much information about Mrs. Raymond. Honey catches more flies than vinegar, you know.”
MARY: That reminds me of poor Mr. Renfield. How is he? Does anyone know?
CATHERINE: He’s doing better under the new director of the Purfleet Asylum. They asked Dr. Hennessey, the old associate director, to come back from Ireland, and he has all sorts of ideas about how to treat the mentally ill, as he calls them. He’s letting Renfield catch his flies, which makes him very happy, and Joe Abernathy has been promoted to head day attendant. Also, Florence can speak again—Joe says it was a new treatment from Vienna that helped her. I suspect Dr. Hennessey is implementing the ideas of Dr. Freud. She’s going to be discharged next month. But Lady Hollingston is as mad as ever!
Justine was lying in bed, her head almost touching the headboard. Once, this had been Dr. Jekyll’s room—his bed was the only one long enough for her. Mary sat down beside her and took her hand. It was cold, but then Justine’s hand always was.
Well, at least she was breathing! She looked asleep, but it was a deep sleep—they had tried putting a bottle of sal volatile under her nose, bathing her face with eau de cologne, even shaking her. Justine had not woken up.
“You have to eat something, miss,” said Mrs. Poole, putting a tray on the bedside table. “I have some cutlets here, potatoes, and carrots—everything’s cold I’m afraid, since I didn’t know when you would be coming back. Where in the world have you girls been since Friday afternoon? Why did Inspector Lestrade think you were investigating a robbery in the British Museum? And why are there coal smudges all over your clothes?”
As clearly and rapidly as she could, Mary explained the events of the past two days while picking at her carrots. She felt too sick to eat, even though a hollow feeling in her stomach told her that she must. Where were Alice and Mr. Holmes? How in the world was she going to find them now?
“Well, I don’t believe for a moment that Alice was helping that woman,” said Mrs. Poole after Mary had described what had happened in Soho. “I trained Alice myself—she would never do such a thing.”
“Then why was she holding Mrs. Raymond’s hand, and why was she all dressed up like that?” Diana came into the room and plopped herself on the bed. “Mary, can I have one of your cutlets?”
“No, you may not,” said Mrs. Poole. “I’ll bring you a plate of your own. Don’t you dare take Miss Mary’s food. And can’t you wipe your face? Come here and stand still for a moment—I’ll do it. You have jam all over your cheeks, and a little in your hair, mixed with coal dust.” She wiped Diana’s face with Mary’s napkin.
“What in the world are we going to do?” asked Mary. She was so tired! The glass of port had probably not helped, although it had certainly felt good going down. “I can’t believe Queen Tera reduced those men to ash. I don’t think even Ayesha could do that. I just don’t know how we’re going to find her now—or rescue Alice and Mr. Holmes!”