While the train traveled through the countryside, Mary recounted the adventures of that morning. She described the letters in Latin with their red seals. She hated admitting to Mr. Holmes that she could not read them. And yet why? Most women could not read Latin. It was nothing to be ashamed of. Her account would have taken less time if Diana had not kept interrupting. “Yes, but that’s not relevant,” Mary would reply to her descriptions of Charles Byrne and the two-headed baby in the specimen jar.
Holmes listened in silence, staring out the window. Mary could only tell that he was paying attention by his stillness. When she told the story of Beatrice, Watson exclaimed, “The poor girl!”
“So you see,” she concluded, “we need to rescue Beatrice Rappaccini, not only for her own sake, but also so she can tell us about this mysterious society.”
Holmes turned to look at her, with a serious expression on his face. “Are you prepared to take responsibility for her, Miss Jekyll? Remember that she is dangerous, even deadly. Will you take her into your own home?”
“I—don’t know,” said Mary. “I haven’t thought that far. But surely she needs to be rescued. Our duty that far is clear, is it not?”
“Of course it is!” said Watson. “Holmes is right—we must make certain she poses no risk to the general public. But of course she must be rescued.”
“So you are both determined,” said Holmes. “Well, don’t let Lestrade know you’re about to let a poisonous woman loose in the city of London. He won’t take it well, I assure you.”
“She won’t be loose, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “I’ll take care of her somehow, I promise.”
“Just as long as you don’t put her in my room,” said Diana. “I don’t want to die in my sleep.”
Mary ignored her and continued. “Here’s how I see the mystery we are trying to solve. The death of Molly Keane, and perhaps the other girls, can be connected to this Société des Alchimistes. The watch fob in her hand, the seal on the letters, and Miss Rappaccini’s words create a logical trail from the body in Whitechapel to the society. We know the society was conducting experiments on women—young women. We know that at least three scientists were involved: my father, Dr. Rappaccini, and a colleague of theirs named Moreau.”
“I just remembered where I’ve heard that name!” said Watson. “It was in my medical school days. He was a professor—had to leave his post because the anti-vivisection league made a fuss about some experiments of his. I don’t remember what they were exactly. I always thought anti-vivisection was a lot of nonsense. I’m as fond of animals as the next man, Miss Jekyll, but human knowledge must progress. We cannot stop scientific research.”
“I wonder if you would have approved of Dr. Moreau’s research, Watson,” said Holmes. “I remembered the case as soon as Miss Jekyll mentioned his name. That was why I suggested she accompany us on this journey. Moreau was grafting together parts of animals, hybridizing in order to create new species. The experiment over which he lost his post involved surgically altering the brains of pigs so they would become capable of human speech.”
“Human speech!” said Watson. “That is indeed shocking. I had no idea.”
“All his papers were burned after his departure,” said Holmes. “The medical school wanted to keep the incident as quiet as possible. I learned about it only because around the same time, the dean called me in on another matter, of drugs missing from the school’s pharmacy. The thief, I determined, was a man named Montgomery, a medical student who had gotten into the habit of betting on dog fights and was selling those drugs to pay his gambling debts. He left the school before we could confront him, but his guilt was clear.”
“Montgomery!” said Mary. “He was in the letter too. He was going to present a paper for Dr. Moreau at a meeting of the society in Vienna.”
“Ah, Miss Jekyll, I wish you had told me that at once,” said Holmes. “Or brought the letter with you so I could read it for myself.”
Mary flushed. Of course she should have brought the letter. But she had not wanted to expose her father’s correspondence to the eyes of strangers. Even to the eyes of Mr. Holmes. She still felt an obscure desire to protect him. The portfolio was in the drawer of her mother’s desk, in the morning room. Somehow, she had wanted it to remain in that darkness.
“How could Mary have brought it?” said Diana. “She didn’t know this morning that you would be interested, and anyway, it’s been raining all day. Only an idiot would bring an important letter out in the rain.”
Mr. Holmes smiled. “You are correct, Miss Hyde, and I stand rebuked. I apologize, Miss Jekyll. Perhaps we can examine this letter at a later date?”
“Of course,” said Mary. She did not know whether to be angry at Diana for her rudeness or grateful for her support.
DIANA: I only said it because he was being an idiot.
MARY: You said it because you wanted to protect me. Because despite your insufferable behavior, you love your sister. That’s why.
DIANA: If you kiss me again, I’m going to hit you.
“As I was saying,” she continued, “this society was conducting experiments in transmutation . . .”
“And what may that be?” asked Watson.
“Transmutation was the goal of the medieval alchemists,” said Holmes. “They were attempting to turn base metals into gold. It sounds as though these modern alchemists are attempting something more complicated: Moreau’s experiments point toward a biological transmutation. He was attempting to create new species, to alter the fundamental material of life itself. But Miss Jekyll, remember that the only connection between the murders and this society remains the initials on a fob torn from a watch chain—initials that could have another meaning altogether. And we have a confession on our hands. Watson, I believe you made a copy of the telegram Lestrade received last night?” He added, with a shade of sarcasm, “Watson always takes notes, in case he wishes to write up one of our adventures later.”
“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Watson. He drew a small notebook out of his breast pocket, opened it, and read, “RE WHITECHAPEL MURDERS RENFIELD A LUNATIC MISSING TWO WEEKS RETURNED LAST NIGHT AND CONFESSED TO MURDERS HOLDING AT PURFLEET ASYLUM PLEASE SEND POLICE INSPECTOR AS SOON AS POSSIBLE GABRIEL BALFOUR M.D. That does seem fairly definitive, Miss Jekyll.”
“How do you know?” asked Diana. “You haven’t even talked to him yet. How do you know he’s not making the whole thing up? He’s a lunatic.”
“That’s why we’re going to interview him,” said Holmes. “I believe we’re approaching Purfleet.”
And they were. The train drew into the station. Mary gathered up her belongings, as well as Diana’s. The girl was fourteen—couldn’t she keep track of her hat, at least? But Mary had to remind her to put it back on her head. She remembered all the times she had longed for a sister, someone to play with and later, someone to help with the household. And now she had one. A completely annoying one! Still, she could not help saying, “Here, hold still,” and straightening Diana’s hat, which was of course askew, before they left the compartment.
DIANA: I don’t see the point of hats.
MARY: They’re a social convention. One wears them because one is expected to, whether one needs them or not.
DIANA: How does that contradict what I just said?
JUSTINE: For once, I agree with Diana. I don’t see the point of following social conventions. Why wear a hat unless it is cold outside? An umbrella keeps the rain off your head, a parasol keeps the sun out of your eyes. Why follow social conventions if they’re silly?
CATHERINE: Because we’re unusual enough without drawing additional attention to ourselves.
Mary was so used to the crowds and smog of London that she looked in wonder at Purfleet, with its orderly shops and detached houses surrounded by small gardens. It was not the country exactly, but as they walked from the train station into the center of town, they passed the Thames, flowing between banks covered with grass and furze, so different from the embankment in London. On the other side of the road grew oaks and beeches, beyond which she could see a wilderness of marshland. The closest she had come to wilderness for many years was Kensington Gardens. She was delighted to have left the city behind, if only for a little while.
When was the last time she had left London? Yes, the visit to her grandfather when she was a child. Her father had still been alive, and they had traveled by train for most of a day. She remembered watching the city disappear, and then green fields and hills proceed past the train window. In Yorkshire, there had been a large country house and an even larger garden, with quince trees. Each morning, the housekeeper had put glass jars of golden quince jam on the breakfast table. Mary had ridden a pony in the paddock, and her mother had shown her how to make a necklace of oxeye daisies. She had made one for her mother, but it was too small, and her mother had laughed, then worn it on her head as a crown. Was that the last time she remembered her mother happy? For there had been a quarrel—between her father and grandfather, she remembered, about evolution. Her grandfather had denounced it as blasphemy, and her father had called him—something dreadful, and they had left early.
“It’s lovely here,” she said.
“Give me London any day,” said Diana. “I don’t know how anyone can live in this racket. What is it, anyway?”
“Birdsong,” said Watson. “You would become accustomed to it in time, Miss Hyde.”
Diana snorted. They were walking together, some steps behind Holmes, Lestrade, and Sergeant Evans, who were discussing how best to approach the coming interview.
The asylum was beyond the town and past an old chalk quarry. Mary was tired when they arrived. It had already been a long day. Perhaps she should not have come? And this might be a false lead after all. The lunatic might be making it all up. She glanced at Diana, who complained often enough, but never seemed to tire. Well, there was no turning back now. Although what Mrs. Poole would think of all this, she did not know.
MRS. POOLE: I was worried sick because I had no idea where you were or when you were coming back. As far as I knew, you’d been poisoned by that Poisonous Girl in the advertisement. Imagine leaving the city without telling me!
MARY: I’m sorry, Mrs. Poole. Truly, I am. I can apologize again if you would like.
MRS. POOLE: That won’t be necessary, miss. Just don’t do it again. Unless you absolutely have to, I mean. I know how you girls get when you’re in the middle of an adventure.
“Holmes,” said Lestrade when they were standing at the front gates of the asylum, “I don’t want those girls anywhere near a dangerous lunatic. Do you understand? He’s already killed four that we know of. I don’t want an injury—or even a death—on my hands.”
“He’s confessed to killing four, which is an altogether different thing,” said Holmes. “I understand your concerns, Lestrade, but I would like Miss Jekyll to be present at the interview. If this man had any connection with her father, she may remember him from her childhood.”
“So you’re still stuck on that, are you?” said Lestrade. “I won’t take responsibility for her, and if she comes, Watson stays out. This is a police investigation, damn it! Not a tea party. Anyway, he’ll need to watch that hellcat—Evans is not a nursemaid.”
The asylum grounds were surrounded by a brick wall topped with metal spikes. It was almost twice Mary’s height, and the front gates were spiked at the top as well. Mary wondered how the lunatic had gotten out. The place seemed impregnable.
They rang a bell, and an attendant in a white coat came running across the lawn. “Hello!” he called. “Is that Scotland Yard? We’ve been expecting you.” When he reached the gates, he looked at them curiously. Evidently, he had not expected Scotland Yard to bring two young women. However, Lestrade confirmed their identity.
The attendant opened one of the gates and ushered them in. He was a large, clumsily built man with a ruddy face and blond hair that looked as though he’d been running his hands through it. “Dr. Balfour will be glad to see you, Inspector. I’m Joe Abernathy, one of the day attendants. I was the one as found Renfield, wandering about the grounds.” He led them up a flagstone path across the lawn, toward the asylum. It was a building in the modern style, also of brick, and looked as though it might have been an ordinary if rather large house—but the windows on the third story were barred.
“I’m surprised your patient was able to escape,” said Holmes. “Those walls are high, and I imagine the spikes on top are sharp.”
“Oh, we’re not as secure here as we oughter be,” said Joe. “The wall is high enough between the road and the asylum, but on the other side is Carfax House, which has been empty these many years. It’s surrounded by woods—Carfax Woods, they’re called—and they stretch back a ways, wild and overgrown. The wall on that side belongs to Carfax, not the asylum, and it’s their responsibility to maintain it—but being as nobody’s there, it’s tumbled down in places. This isn’t the first time the old devil has gotten out, either.”
“So this man Renfield has escaped before?” said Lestrade.
“Oh, aye. He makes a regular career of it. He’s been here as long as I can remember, and I’ve been here these ten years at least. He’s gotten out every few months, regular. I used to think he just wanted to stretch his legs and go on a little walk by moonlight. He seemed such a harmless old devil, until this happened.”
“So there’s never been a problem with him before?” said Watson.
“No, and I was shocked to hear him say he’d killed those women. I’ve never heard of him hurting anyone before—except his flies. But Dr. Balfour will tell you all about it.”
Except his flies? Mary wondered what that could mean. They walked up the front steps of the asylum and into an entrance hall, painted a plain and glaring white, with wooden benches along the walls. From the inside, the building reminded her of a hospital. There was the same smell of carbolic, the same bustle of attendants in white coats. Here and there she could see what were evidently patients, because they were dressed in uniforms of light blue serge: shirts and trousers for the men, gowns for the women, all shapeless.
They followed Joe Abernathy up a flight of stairs and down a corridor, to a door marked GABRIEL BALFOUR, M.D. Joe knocked on the door, opened it just a crack, and said, “Sir, the inspector from Scotland Yard is here to see you.”
“Why, let him in, man,” said a cheerful voice with a strong Scottish accent.
Dr. Balfour’s office was a mess. There were piles of medical books on the floor, beside empty shelves, and files spilling out of boxes. Several framed diplomas, one from the University of Edinburgh, leaned against the walls.
“I take it you’re the director of the asylum,” said Lestrade, looking around him with a frown. Obviously, he did not think much of the director’s organizational skills.
“The director!” said Dr. Balfour. “Oh Lord, no. I’m the assistant director, hired only a month ago after the former assistant director, Dr. Hennessey, retired—rather suddenly, I gather. The director is Dr. Seward, but he’s been away for the last three weeks. I’d only just completed my medical training when I applied for this position, and I thought myself lucky to get it, the economic situation being what it is in England and Scotland, both. But a week after I arrived, Dr. Seward went off to Amsterdam to consult on a patient, and he hasn’t returned since. I understand it was a situation that demanded his immediate attention—nevertheless, he could have given me some time to learn the ropes, so to speak. Meanwhile, one of the patients goes missing, and when he turns up again, he confesses to four murders! Honestly, Inspector, I’m glad you’re here to take charge of this affair. They didn’t teach us to deal with murderers in medical school.”
“Well, let’s see what this lunatic has to say for himself,” said Lestrade. “Mr. Holmes and I will see him—and yes, Miss Jekyll too, if Holmes still insists on such a foolish procedure. If it turns out that he’s our murderer, Evans and I will take him to Newgate. Before we left London, I sent a message to the warden, directing him to send a wagon for the prisoner. It should be here within the hour.”
“How did he come to tell you he had murdered those women?” asked Holmes.
“Well, I was assured he was harmless—it’s a pleasure to meet you, of course, Mr. Holmes. I’ve read Dr. Watson’s fascinating accounts of your cases. When I was a medical student, it was my favorite way to avoid studying for exams!”
Mary looked quickly at Holmes and tried not to smile. Although he listened and nodded politely, she could tell he was annoyed. A distraction from studying for exams! It was certainly not how he wanted his work to be perceived. She could not help being amused. Despite her respect for him, he could sometimes be a little . . . self-important? But now was not the time to think about Mr. Holmes, whatever his character. What had Dr. Balfour been saying? “He’s run away before, so the staff thought nothing of it. He usually turns up again in a day or two, when he gets hungry. When he did not return after several days, we alerted the local police. But we never imagined he would harm anyone. We assumed he would be the one in danger, from boys throwing sticks or from inclement weather. Yesterday afternoon, Joe found him wandering about the grounds. His clothes were filthy and spotted with blood. When we asked where he had been, he told us he’d been in London, and done terrible things there. Those are the words he used—terrible things. When we asked him what he had done that was so terrible, he said he’d killed four—women of the streets, if the young ladies will pardon the expression. But you’ll want to hear all this from him directly.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes. “Can you take us to him? Inspector Lestrade, Sergeant Evans, Miss Jekyll, and I will accompany you. Could the others wait here?”
Dr. Balfour nodded. “Yes, of course. I was just sorting through Dr. Seward’s mail, separating the private correspondence from asylum business. I would be happy to take you to poor Renfield. Joe, could you stay with Dr. Watson and Miss—the young miss here, in case they need anything?”
“As you wish,” said Joe, sounding none too pleased to be left out of the action.
As Mary passed Diana, following Dr. Balfour and the other men, she whispered, “Behave yourself!”
“Not likely!” came the whisper back.
Ah well, she had done what she could. Dr. Watson would have to handle Diana.
The lunatic was housed another flight up, on the third floor. As they approached his room, Dr. Balfour told them his history.
“Dr. Hennessey could tell you more, of course—but he’s returned to Ireland, and I don’t happen to have a forwarding address. Based on his files, Renfield has been an inmate here these twenty years. It’s a pity that a respectable gentleman, a man of science, should fall into madness. He took ill on a trip abroad—in Austria or Romania, one of those Mittel-European countries—and returned a broken man. His family confined him to this asylum, and he has lived here peacefully since. Oh, he runs away once in a while, but from what Joe tells me, there’s never been trouble like this! When you see him, you’ll find it as difficult as I do to believe he committed these dreadful crimes. And yet—well, here we are, and you can hear it from his own lips.”
In front of the door stood another attendant, a strapping young fellow who looked as though he could subdue a bull. “We didn’t used to have a guard on him, never thinking he’d do any harm,” said Dr. Balfour, “but he’s been watched since he returned yesterday.” At the assistant director’s request, the attendant unlocked the door and let them in.
The room was very plain—white walls, a narrow iron bed with white linens, a table under the window on which were set a basin and ewer. Across the window were iron bars. The only sources of color were a blue bowl on the table and the man who sat on the bed. Like the other inmates, he was dressed in blue serge, but his uniform was streaked and stained with dirt. On the shirt, there were several large red splotches, now dried. He sat hunched forward, his shoulders rounded, head hanging down.
“Renfield,” said Dr. Balfour, “here are some gentlemen to see you.”
He did not look up.
“This is Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard, and Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
At the detective’s name, Renfield gave them a sideways, almost surreptitious glance. He was a small man, with hair that had gone prematurely white, and large, somewhat protuberant eyes. Indeed, he looked as though he would not hurt a fly.
Just then, a fly flew into the room through the window. It circled around the table. The room was so quiet that Mary could hear it buzz. Renfield’s attention was immediately on it: he watched as it settled on the rim of the blue bowl. In a moment, he was across the room, the fly in his cupped hand, the cupped hand at his mouth. With a triumphant expression, he opened his hand: it was empty. He had swallowed the fly!
Mary could not help shivering. His movements had been so quick!
“Stop that!” said Dr. Balfour. “Didn’t I tell you, no more flies? Who put that bowl of sugar water in the room?”
“No, don’t take it away!” said Renfield. His voice was highly pitched, and piteous. “Dr. Seward always allowed me to have the flies, and spiders too! Without the flies, how will I live? How will I live forever?”
“This is his mania,” said Dr. Balfour. “He collects flies and eats them. He believes they sustain his life.”
“They do, they do!” said Renfield. “So big and juicy! There’s nothing like a big fat fly, unless it’s a big fat spider! If only I could have a spider!”
“I don’t know why Dr. Seward allowed him to feed this mania,” said Dr. Balfour to them. Then he turned and said to the lunatic, “No flies, nor spiders either. These gentlemen are here to ask you about the murders.”
“Oh yes, the murders.” Renfield sat back down on the bed, his shoulders once again hunched. He seemed uninterested in the murders.
“Come, we were told you had confessed,” said Lestrade. “Did you commit these murders or not?”
“Oh yes,” said Renfield, still looking at the floor. “Tuesday was the day I ran away, that was very wrong of me. Thursday evening I found Sally Hayward and chopped her legs off at the knees. Friday was Anna Pettingill, I took her arms. Pauline Delacroix, that was on Monday, because I wouldn’t kill on a Sunday, not me! Or God would smite me for sure. I took her head that time. Right pretty she was! Then Molly Keane on Tuesday, that was brains. I killed them in Whitechapel. I killed them, and I deserve to be punished.” He looked up again. “Will it hurt very much, being punished?”
“Why, man,” said Lestrade “the penalty for murder is being hanged by the neck until you are dead.”
“But it won’t hurt, will it?” said Renfield. “And then I’ll have eternal life.”
“Burning in hellfire, he will,” said Sergeant Evans under his breath.
“Well, I think that’s all we need,” said Lestrade. “He knows the dates and times of the murders. He’s confessed to them, and there’s the blood, right on his shirt. Doctor, thank you for your promptness in contacting us. You will no doubt be called upon as a witness at trial. As soon as the wagon from Newgate arrives, we’ll take him off your hands, which I’m sure will be a relief to you.”
“As the wagon has not yet arrived, there are a few questions I would like to ask Mr. Renfield,” said Holmes.
The lunatic looked up again and watched the detective warily.
“Certainly,” said Dr. Balfour.
“If you must,” said Lestrade.
Mary waited, curious. What would he ask? The case seemed so very open and shut, now that Renfield had named the women. How else could he have known their names or when they had died? He must, after all, be the murderer.
“Where did you stay while you were in London?” Holmes asked.
“Where did I stay?” Renfield looked puzzled. “Where did I . . .”
“Why does this matter, Holmes?” asked Lestrade. “Surely he stayed wherever he could—under bridges, in doorways!”
“Yes—yes,” said Renfield. “The inspector is right. I slept under bridges. And—in doorways.”
“What did you eat?” asked Holmes.
“What did I—oh, rubbish. Whatever I could, on the streets, you know. What people threw away.”
“Did you have any help in committing these crimes? Did you have a confederate to assist you?”
“No!” said Renfield. “No, I did it all by myself.”
“Did you? And what weapon did you use to cut those women in two?”
“A knife. Yes, I used a knife.”
“And where is it now?”
“I threw it into the Thames!” Renfield said this with glee, as though he had scored a point against the detective.
“But Molly Keane’s neck was snapped. How did you manage to do that? You don’t look particularly strong, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Oh, I have the strength of a madman,” said Renfield. “Haven’t you heard, Mr. Holmes? Madmen are strong! Joe said that, when I told him all about it. I snapped her neck just like I would snap a matchstick.” He smiled gently.
“I see,” said Holmes. “Well, Miss Jekyll, have you ever seen this man before? Could he have any connection with your father?”
Mary looked at him again carefully, trying to imagine what he might have looked like fourteen years ago. Surely the same? “No, Mr. Holmes. I’m afraid I haven’t. As far as I know, he never visited my father’s house. But I was only a child. I wouldn’t have known all his colleagues and confederates.”
Renfield looked at her with blank, innocuous eyes. It was clear that he did not recognize her either.
She thought for a moment. “May I ask him a question?”
“Of course not,” and “Certainly,” said Lestrade and Holmes at the same time.
“Why did you kill those women?” asked Mary.
“Why?” said Renfield. He stared at her, his eyes wide.
“Because he’s a lunatic,” said Lestrade.
“Yes. Yes, that’s right, I’m a lunatic.” Renfield smiled again, that strange, gentle smile, as though he had explained everything. Yet Mary could have sworn that when she had asked the question, he did not have a response.
“Doctor, the wagon has arrived from Newgate.” It was Joe Abernathy. He had opened the door a few inches and was peering through.
“All right,” said Lestrade. “Sergeant, handcuff him and take him down. I think he’ll come quietly.”
Renfield allowed Sergeant Evans to fasten the cuffs on his wrists. “Yes, yes, I’ll come quietly,” Mary heard him mutter to himself. “And then eternal life!” She followed Lestrade, the sergeant leading the handcuffed prisoner, and Holmes, with Dr. Balfour and the two attendants bringing up in the rear. What a strange procession it was, winding its way down the stairs of the asylum! Diana and Dr. Watson were already waiting for them in the entrance hall. “Took you long enough,” said Diana.
At the sound of her voice, the prisoner stopped and jumped back as though startled, so that Holmes and Sergeant Evans had to stop as well. Dr. Balfour and the attendants almost crashed into them. If they had, Mary thought, they would all have gone down like dominoes. She stifled a laugh, then admonished herself to pay attention. This was certainly no time to be laughing! Why had the prisoner stopped so suddenly?
Renfield looked up at Diana and whispered, “Who are you?”
She stared back. “What business is it of yours?”
“This is my sister, Mr. Renfield,” said Mary. “My sister, Diana Hyde.”
At that, Renfield’s face took on a sly, crafty look she had not yet seen on it. Perhaps he had killed those women after all?
“You’re his daughter, you are. When you see your father, tell him I did well. Will you do that for me? Eternal life, that’s what I want. That’s what I was promised. You tell him I did everything I was told.”
Sergeant Evans wrenched the prisoner’s arm, so that he had to step forward not to fall. But as he started walking again at the sergeant’s insistence, he turned back to say, one last time, “Remember!”
“What did he mean by that?” asked Mary.
“Some nonsense,” said Lestrade. “Have you ever seen that man before, Miss Hyde?”
“If I had, I would remember,” said Diana. “He looks like a frog.”
“There you go!” said Lestrade. “A bunch of nonsense. I think this case is closed. I’m sorry, Holmes, that you weren’t able to perform one of your feats of deduction, but it was a simple case after all.”
The prison wagon was waiting in the drive. Mary looked at it and shivered. How forbidding it looked, with its barred windows! Renfield’s face was visible through the bars. He stared at them—no, she realized, it was Diana who had his attention—until the sergeant told him sharply to sit down. Inspector Lestrade locked them both in, then swung himself up beside the driver.
“It’s the train again for us,” said Watson. “Well, Holmes? Was it a simple case after all?”
“Not as simple as Lestrade thinks,” said Holmes. “He’s used to seeing what he expects to see. He expected to see a man who had murdered four women, so that’s what he saw: a dirty lunatic with blood on his clothes. The details Renfield was able to provide confirmed his guilt. Lestrade failed to notice the discrepancies in Renfield’s story—even in his appearance.”
“What discrepancies?” asked Mary.
“There were no bloodstains on his knees. You remember the body of Molly Keane. Her head lay in a pool of blood. How could he have cut her brain out without kneeling on the pavement? I asked if he had a confederate, but he said no. And I scarcely think Renfield was carrying a pocket watch. The asylum uniform has no pockets. That leaves the fob in Molly Keane’s hand unexplained. She might have torn it from someone else’s watch chain, but why? Surely she was defending herself against her attacker. And what of the man with the low, whispering voice Kate Bright-Eyes described? Finally, if Lestrade had looked more carefully at Renfield’s hands, he would have seen that although they were dirty, there was no dirt under his fingernails. After sleeping outdoors in London for a week, after scavenging for food in heaps of refuse, his nails should have been filthy. And how did he kill those women without getting blood under his nails? No, he washed his hands, and recently. The dirt was added later.”
“You didn’t mention any of this to Lestrade,” said Watson.
“He would not have listened to me, just as he paid no attention to the exchange between Renfield and Miss Hyde.”
“Yes, what do you make of that?” asked Mary.
“I don’t know what to make of it, yet. Unless Miss Hyde can enlighten us?”
“Not me,” said Diana. “I have no idea what he was on about. But I’ve got something else to show you. When that muscleman—Abercrombie, Aberwhatsit—left the office to let you know the wagon had arrived, we had a bit of a look around. It was Watson’s idea as much as mine, so don’t you go blaming me! And in a pile of letters, we found this.”
Out of her coat pocket, she drew an envelope. Affixing the flap was a red wax seal stamped S.A.