Thanks again to Musique et Amour, my beta, co-author, and friend.
Happy to see that you all are enjoying this! Mary Reilly is undoubtedly one of my favorite books and movies of all time!
Again, the characters of Jekyll, Hyde, and Mary, etc. do not belong to me!
There were questions, of course. Questions and speculation and gossip.
Where did that assistant of his go? A murderer! and loose on the streets! Poor Sir Danvers! Beat to death with a cane! How monstrous!
Why would a man of Dr.Jekyll's status and reputation kill himself? Why, he couldn't take the guilt on his soul and the blood on his hands, of course!
Why was that maid of his found with his body? Well, don't you know? Obviously, she was serving the master more than just his meals...
Even six weeks after the night that the Doctor died, there were still questions and glances cast my way, whispers about what I had been to Dr. Jekyll. His mistress was the popular guess.
I knew what I had been to him, and that was all that mattered to me. He'd told me that I was the only one he could rely on, that there was no one he trusted more with his secret. I knew more than I had ever wanted or dreamed to know, but I didn't turn away. I couldn't have if I'd wanted to. Who else would he have had? No one. I was the only one who cared for him and not just for the wages paid or the afternoons off. Even Mr. Poole, who had been with him for so long. When the end had came, he'd just seemed relieved. Mrs.Kensington had been ready to move on. Bradshaw had had a good laugh. And Annie had packed her bags and left without a word. But she'd always been a cool one.
He'd had no family, and barely a friend to be found. When he'd died, they'd ruled his death as a suicide; something that had pained me fiercely, because I'd known who had killed him. But how could I admit that Edward Hyde had been there, with myself as witness and not found myself an accessory to murder? The Bow Street Runners had been there that day that I'd denied seeing the Doctor's assistant when Sir Danvers had been done to death by the man.
The Doctor had been so upset by me that day...
They'd taken his body away, ruled it a suicide by poisoning, then followed through with the last wishes of his will and testament and had him cremated.
Because they believed he'd taken his own life, he was denied a proper funeral and burial of the urn. I'd offered to take it and keep it, even if it only made it seem more so that I'd been his whore, but I didn't care. The thought of his ashes being cast out on some potter's field as fodder made me ill.
I kept the urn in my trunk, packed away in an old, tattered velvet bag my mum had given me years ago when I'd first gone into service. It was the last thing she'd ever given me. And now the only man I'd ever loved rested in it. It may have seemed dark to some – to have a body with you always – but there was a darkness in me that I could never scrub out; one from my father, and the other from him. Maybe it was a bit of light within me to know that he was safe and not in unhallowed ground.
It had been hard to leave the house of the Doctor behind, to know that I'd never step foot in there again, that another household would take residence. The laboratory would be locked up forever; he'd made the stipulation in his will that the south building would not be sold with the house, but boarded up, everything within left exactly as it had been. We'd wanted to give it a final cleaning, to sweep up the shattered glass of the cabinets and make everything neat, or at least I had, but Mr. Poole had pushed me out, broom in my hand and locked the doors.
None of us knew why he'd not wanted anything removed...maybe he feared that if it was destroyed, someone would have to have a good look at it. I think he feared the world knowing such a secret as what he'd done to himself.
It had taken me some time to find a new position in a household. There was so much speculation attached to the events surrounding the murder of Sir Danvers, the the disappearance of Mr. Edward Hyde, and the suicide of Dr. Henry Jekyll that most took one look at my references, drew their own conclusions and then turned me away sharply.
Even Runners were indiscreet. When Mr. Poole had been forced to tell them, it spread like wildfire that I had been one of the last to spend any amount of time with the Doctor alone, also that I found his half-clothed body. Because of this, there were some who feared that they would be gossiped about; some butlers and heads of staff who looked at me with suspicion and wondered if I'd try to seduce their masters, and some who simply didn't want to take the risk of taking on a maid who might be carrying a bastard child. It wouldn't have mattered none if I'd told them that I'd never had more than an embrace with the Doctor, even if a horrible part of me wanted and craved more from him...and from him... It was safer to simply not hire me than take that imagined risk in their minds.
When I'd at last responded to the ad for a house maid at the residence of Sir Clive and been thoroughly interrogated by Mr. Davies, an old friend of Mr. Poole, my reference with that gentleman at least spoke well of me. In a week's time I had received word from the Clive House and packed what belongings I had from the now nearly empty Doctor's home before taking up residence at my new place.
It had taken some getting used to. Sir Clive was nothing like the Doctor. He barely acknowledged us beyond to cast us a bored glance and wave us away. He never raised his voice or his hand, as I'd known some men to do to their staff, but rather seemed to not even realize we existed outside of his need for us. He didn't rely on the maids to warm his bed, thank God, but had mistresses and the houses of ill repute he visited to fill those needs.
I sometimes wondered if he ever paid visits to Mrs. Farraday's. She'd disappeared after the afternoon she'd come to see the Doctor...
I could still smell the blood that had been pooled upon the laboratory's theatre table after she'd went in...and perhaps never came out.
Mrs. Fogarty, the housekeeper, was not as open and friendly as Mrs. Kensington had been, but was dour and cool instead, her long face barely ever breaking a smile. The two footmen, Phillips and Lockby, were both younger than I by a year or two and the best of chums, each of them possessing a mocking, disrespectful attitude toward both Mr. Davies and Mrs. Fogarty behind their backs, but held their tongues like saints when their superiors were about. They were mainly concerned with the attentions and teases of the two tweenies, Darcy and Martha Kirk, two sisters, aged sixteen and seventeen respectively.
At least I had my own room, even if it was in the cellar and the only window I had was a small rectangular pane of glass filtering down watery moonlight onto my bed from the fog laden cobbled courtyard above. I had to sleep turned away from it. There was an irrational fear within me that I should wake in the night and see the feet of a man standing there.
But I did come to adjust – even if the others were no more friendly to me than they absolutely had to be. Mr. Davies may have accepted me, but Mrs. Fogarty, Phillips, Lockby, and the Kirk sisters all regarded me with either chilly disapproval, mocking amusement, or whispered and giggled speculation.
But the past didn't die for me, and even though they were gone, they lived as vividly in my memories, my dreams, my fears...and even my darkest desires. I said I wasn't going to be afraid and that I wouldn't care what the world thought of me. But I cared when I was gestured upon and whispered about...because it was a mockery of how much I felt for him. And I feared still because when I least expected it, the memory of his terrible hold upon me, both mind and body, returned...and I felt as if I would never be free of him...
...And did I even want to be?
That answer wasn't any clearer to me as twin sensations of terror and a primal thrill went careening down my spine at the sound of that whispered voice, so familiar and haunting in my ears.
I whirled from the wrought iron railing, the brush and tin of wax both falling from my grasp as my hands went nerveless, one clapping over my mouth, the other covering my heart through the thick wool of my gown.
No one was there. Only that lonesome call of a coal train in the distance and a dog howling somewhere in the maze of streets greeted me.
My hands stayed locked against me as I strained my hearing, trying to fight past the thundering of my pulse. I couldn't even will myself to breathe; my lungs felt as if they were weighted with stone and burning in my chest. Breathless fear...
My eyes strained upon every window of every house that loomed overhead, expecting the see the pale, strong oval of his face, shrouded on either side by dark hair. They flicked between every alley and courtyard, anticipating seeing the shuffle and jerk of his form out of the gloom. My body cringed in on itself, just knowing that I'd feel large, manicured hands take me in a cruel, bruising grip that would swiftly turn to a terrifying caress.
But beyond that first whisper of my name in that distinct voice, there was nothing.
Just your imagination and nothing more...dormant terror and wishful thinking...
With a hoarse wheeze, the air exploded from my lungs and I shuddered as the sudden rush of oxygen left me dizzy. Curling my fingers into the high collar of my gown, I slid my fingers from my mouth and into the hair under the muslin of my cap, habitually making certain that my hair remained pinned there and in place.
As the trembling finally ceased, I bent to retrieve the wax and brush and was dismayed to find the tin had cracked and the thick slab of wax had struck the cement and shattered into chunks and shards, the fog and fine drizzle of the morning melting it into black rivulets, sinking into the stoop.
With a sound of frustration in my throat, I sank into a crouch and plucked the pieces up as quickly as I could, and dropped them back into the damaged tin, holding it secure in one hand. Each chunk and splinter left streaks of wet black upon my pale fingers.
I did not hear the steps of the other behind me until they cleared their throat.
My fingers tightened convulsively upon wax chunks and tin alike, but I kept my grip upon them, black oozing from my fingertips as I turned, with my eyes lowered, expecting to find Phillips or Lockby come to make some snide comment about my making a mess. Well appointed wingtips greeted me instead and I raised my gaze to his face, nibbling on my lower lip.
Mr. Poole stood before me, his face aged surely twenty years.
His dark eyes crinkled slowly with a gentle, but weary smile.
My lips trembled into a small smile of surprise and unease.
"Good morning, Mr. Poole," I offered and glanced down in shame at my black smeared fingers, the wax dripping steadily from them onto the stoop. My face flushed. He'd have given me a thorough raking over the coals for such an offense. I turned and bent to replace the tin into my supply box and wipe my fingers clean, but his hand on my shoulder stopped me.
"Good morning, Mary. I don't have much time before I must go, but I came by to speak to you." Removing his bowler, he scanned the front of the house. "Is your Master at home?"
My brow furrowed at his rushed and uneasy tone and I glanced up at the windows above us, their curtains drawn.
"No, he's in Somerset with his father and sis–"
"Good, good. So we can be private?"
I turned my head and met his worried eyes, an expression I'd only seen in his eyes a spare handful of times. I shook my head.
"No, Mr. Poole. The others..the staff...they're inside. I'm the only one with outside duty in the mornings." Why would he wish to speak to me in private?
Wrapping one hand about my arm, he led me to underneath the portico of the front door, his weary gaze looking up and down the length of the street both ways. I moved to stand beside of him, transferring the last of the chunks of wax to the tin, then rubbed my dripping fingers together to try to sop up the black paste. It didn't help. I finally just fisted my hand and hid the mess.
"Mary," he began, bowing his head slightly to look down into my eyes. "There's something that I must tell you. It is unpleasant, at best, but mistakes are made, and I suppose that this will not be the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last. Common criminals will stoop to all manner of thievery." His voice was grave, his eyes containing a pained sadness that kept me silent, even though he confused me dreadfully.
From the pocket of his wool overcoat, he pulled a folded newssheet, a small square cut loose.
When he opened it, the edges of it ragged from where it had been torn free, I could see that the date in bold type across the unsoiled top was today's.
The head line read:
Ghastly Body Thefts From Well-Known Funeral Parlor Discovered Only Yesterday: Stolen Corpses Replaced with Closed Caskets and Wooden Ashes
He offered the piece of newssheet to me and I took it with shaking fingers that left damp, black smears upon the paper. A cool blanket of dread settled over me and turning it, I read it silently, mouthing the words.
Only yesterday it came to light, through an investigation by Scotland Yard, that a rash of body thefts occurred nearly six weeks ago at the Jacobs and Smithe Funeral Parlor. Approximately six bodies were stolen on the night of March 15, 1889. The corpses were some of those delivered from the morgue just that day. A broken window latch was found on the premises and it is believed the bodies were removed in that manner.
As of yet, the names of the late London residents taken from Jacobs and Smithe have not been released to the public. Family members and executors of estate are now being notified.
The thefts were discovered when the remains of a widower's late wife were to be exumed and relocated to his family's newly purchased resting place. The casket was opened to insure for proper identification, and was found to be filled with bricks. When Jacobs and Smithe was questioned, an undertaker apprentice confessed that he'd found the bodies missing on the morning of March 16, and afraid for his posistion and the threat of criminal charges, simply had empty closed caskets weighted with bricks buried in the place of the departed and those whose loved ones were set for cremation were given an urn of wooden ashes.
The thefts are believed to be related to a series of Hospital Theatres receiving unidentified bodies. So far, only five of those bodies have been accounted for through descriptions given to Scotland Yard on the stolen deceased. The remains kept by the medical theatres will be correctly interred this week.
The authorities will continue to make inquiries into the whereabouts of the sixth body.
I stared at the wax smeared words for several moments more, my head shaking slowly in disbelief.
"No...No, it can't..."
"I felt you should know, Mary, because you are the keeper of his remains..." His voice was patience itself, nothing like the curt tones I'd remembered.
I looked up at him and was horrified to feel the tears flood.
"W..where d..did they find h..him? H..he needs a p..proper funeral..."
"Mary," he reached out and took my hand, staining his own fingers in the process. "The body they cannot find is Dr, Jekyll's."