CHAPTER XVII 
Rescue in Southwark
I’ve never been south of the Thames,” said Alice. “Truth to tell, it doesn’t look that different from Soho.”
“But you have been many new places recently,” said Beatrice. “Cornwall, for instance. That is quite different from London, whether north or south of the Thames.”
“Yes,” said Alice. She paused for a moment, then said, “These adventures—they don’t really stop, do they?”
“No, they do not,” said Beatrice, looking at her thoughtfully. “Would you like them to? You did not need to come with me. There are other ways we could have planned to rescue Martin and the other mesmerists.”
“No,” said Alice. “I should be here. At least, I think I should. But after this, I think I would like to go back to being kitchen maid for a while.”
They were standing across the street from a tenement. It looked very much like one of the tenements of the East End, and very different from the elegant house by Lincoln’s Inn Fields where Beatrice had last seen Professor Petronius, when he had exhibited her at the Royal College of Surgeons as the Poisonous Girl.
“I hope the Baker Street boys were right and this is the house.” Beatrice looked at it appraisingly. “Are you quite certain, Alice? We could ask Mr. Wiggins and his followers to rush in and effect a rescue, as they did at the British Museum.”
“And a lot of good that did!” said Alice. “If the Baker Street boys did that, I’m sure someone would get hurt. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially not Martin—he’s such a gentle soul. All right, I think I’m ready, miss.”
But was Beatrice ready? She wished she did not have to face Professor Petronius again. She would much rather have forgotten that particular episode in her life. Instead of standing here, she wished she could be back in her conservatory of poisonous plants, surrounded by their silent companionship. That was where she was happiest nowadays—and with Clarence of course, but her plants provided her with an uncomplicated joy, whereas her happiness at being with Clarence was always complicated by the care she had to take not to hurt him. Inwardly, she sighed. If only things were different! But they were not, and no amount of wishing would make them so. She might love Clarence, but she was a scientist. She believed there were implacable realities of life that could not be changed, and her poisonous nature was one of them.
Here, again, there was no use wishing the situation could be different. What had to be done might as well be done now. “All right,” she said to Alice. “Set fire to the house.”
Alice waved her hands. Suddenly, Beatrice could see flames through the upstairs windows of the tenement. Smoke poured through them, black and acrid. It all looked so real! The rising flames, the dark smoke—she could even feel the heat of it. Then, she heard a scream.
The door of the building opened with a bang. First, out rushed an elderly woman. Ah yes, that was Professor Petronius’s housekeeper—a Mrs. Thorpe, if Beatrice remembered correctly. She had been kind enough to Beatrice in her own way, but completely under the control of the man she had always referred to, reverently, as the Professor. She was followed out by a tall man in a black frock coat, with a top hat in one hand and a pistol in the other. As soon as he stepped out the door, he automatically put the top hat on his head. He still had the thick black mustache that Beatrice remembered—a bit too black to be convincing. She suspected him of using hair dye.
“Come on, come on,” he shouted. “Come out here at once!” Behind him came a line of three men and two women, the men in shirtsleeves. One of them was tall and lean, with long, dark hair. That must be Martin—he fit Catherine’s description perfectly.
“Over here, and don’t any of you dare make a run for it.” Professor Petronius waved his pistol at them. “Even if you manage to get away from me, Mrs. Raymond will hunt you down personally! You don’t want to face her wrath again, do you now? So just stand here like good boys and girls, in a straight line as though doing recitation at school, until the fire brigade comes and puts out that blaze.”
“There won’t be much left by that time,” said Mrs. Thorpe. “I don’t know how it could have started. I banked the stove so carefully, and there was no fire burning in any of the upstairs rooms.”
“Which means one of you set it deliberately!” said Professor Petronius, waving his pistol around in a way that Mary would have found completely irresponsible. “Which of you did it? When Mrs. Raymond finds out—”
This was the part Beatrice had been worried about. Would Alice be able to do it?
“Petronius!” It was the voice of Mrs. Raymond, and it emanated from the effigy of Mrs. Raymond that stood at Beatrice’s side. Good for Alice! It was a perfect imitation.
Professor Petronius noticed them for the first time. He stepped back, startled. Mrs. Raymond strode toward him. “This is your responsibility. I told you to keep guard over these mesmerists, and see what has happened?” She pointed to the blazing house and looked at him coldly. “However, I have no more need of them, so you are to let them go. As for your pistol, lower it immediately or I will turn it into a poisonous snake.”
Looking at her with an expression of incredulity, Professor Petronius lowered his pistol. “But you said I was to guard them, to make sure they didn’t escape. You said you might still have use for them.” He sounded upset, as though he had been ill-used.
“The situation has changed,” said Mrs. Raymond haughtily. “They are useless to me now.” She turned to the group of mesmerists, who were huddled together and staring at her with fear—it was clear that Mrs. Raymond had made an impression on them. “All of you, go! I do not need you anymore. Except you, Marvelous Martin. You must stay. And as for you, Professor, I would like you to leave London and never return again, on pain of my wrath, as you called it.”
“But I haven’t been paid!” he protested. “You promised me twenty pounds for my services!”
“Why don’t I pay you instead?” said Beatrice sweetly. “You remember me, don’t you, professor? I’m working with Mrs. Raymond now. Let me show you how I repay those who help me as you have.”
Professor Petronius was so startled to see her that he simply stood, mouth agape, while she approached, stood up on her tiptoe, and kissed him on the cheek. It was a longer kiss than any she had given Clarence.
“Bloody hell!” shouted Professor Petronius, jumping back and clapping his hand to his cheek. “You bitch!”
“That was to thank you for all the help you gave me when I first came to England,” said Beatrice, in her usual sweet tones. When he lowered his hand, she could see the shape of her lips seared into his cheek. That mark would never come off, not as long as he lived. “Go, Professor—although in truth you are no professor, but a charlatan. Leave London, as Mrs. Raymond has ordered, or I will come find you and leave a similar mark on the other cheek!”
He glowered at her, then turned and, without a word, ran up the street toward the Thames. Mrs. Thorpe ran after him, shouting, “Professor! Professor, wait for me!
Beatrice turned to Mrs. Raymond. “I always knew he was a coward,” she said with satisfaction.
“But I’m not,” said Martin, in his deep, sad voice. The other mesmerists were still behind him, huddled together. Evidently, despite their fear, they had not wanted to desert their friend. “I won’t tell you any more about Alice. I’m sorry I told you what I did, and I hope you never find her.”
“And we’re not going without Martin,” said a woman standing behind him. “We’re circus people, and we stick together. If you want to keep him captive, you’ll have to keep us as well.”
Beatrice turned to Mrs. Raymond, to see how she would respond. The director of the Magdalen Society waved her hand. The flames in the house died down, then disappeared as though they had never been. And there, beside her, stood Alice once more.
“My dear girl,” said Martin, evidently astonished. “What in the world—”
“I’ve learned a few new tricks,” said Alice, smiling. Then, she threw her arms around Martin in a way Beatrice could not help envying. “I’m so glad you’re safe—that you’re all safe,” she said, looking at the other mesmerists, who were also looking at her—most of them respectfully, some a little doubtfully, as though expecting her to turn back into Mrs. Raymond at any moment.
“That was an impressive demonstration,” said the woman who had stood up for Martin. “Thank you for getting rid of Professor Petronius, Miss—”
“I’m not a miss, I’m just Alice,” said Alice. Now that she was back to herself, she spoke with her usual shyness.
“You’re not just anything,” said Beatrice. “Come, let us all return to Park Terrace. Mrs. Poole will have luncheon waiting, and you’re all welcome to join us.”
MRS. POOLE: Well, you could have told me we’d have a troupe of mesmerists coming to lunch! Five extra mouths to feed is no laughing matter!
BEATRICE: I am truly sorry, Mrs. Poole. Luckily Mary, Diana, Catherine, and Justine were out that day, although I remember Lucinda kept asking the mesmerists to make things appear and disappear.
ALICE: That’s what gave Martin the idea for our show. There had never been a show of mesmerists working together before—it was always one mesmerist giving a demonstration. A show of all the best mesmerists in London—well, other than Merton the Magnificent, who had gone home instead of coming to lunch. You can’t blame him, with Mrs. Merton having a new baby and all. The show’s been quite successful, with all five of us working together.
BEATRICE: Especially you, Alice. You are becoming the star attraction.
ALICE: Oh, I very much doubt that! Martin is still so much better than me at talking to people. I’m good at manipulating the waves, but I can’t do the patter the way he can.
LUCINDA: I’m so glad I gave you the idea! It’s a wonderful show, especially the part in the mummy’s tomb when the sarcophagus rises and the mummy appears—I scream every time I see it.
Catherine looked around at the headquarters of the Baker Street Irregulars. She was not particularly impressed.
“You’re going to come with me,” Diana had said earlier that morning. “You’re the one who got Jimmy court-martialed in the first place, and I want you there to protect him in case any of the Baker Street boys decide they don’t like our suggestion. Not that I can’t protect him myself with my little knife, but you have teeth. Sometimes I wish I had sharp teeth. It would be useful to carry your weapons around in your mouth all the time.”
Jimmy Bucket had looked at them, frightened. He was a small boy, with brown hair that seemed to have been cut with nail scissors. It stuck out every which way. “I don’t know if I should go back to headquarters,” he had said. “Wiggins was powerful angry with me. He might court-martial me all over again.”
“First of all, he can’t do that—you can’t court-martial someone twice. And second of all, we’re not going to let him,” Catherine had said. “Don’t you want to be a Baker Street boy again?”
“Ye-es,” he had responded, sounding as though he were not entirely sure.
But he was standing steadily enough beside her now.
“Why should we reinstate him?” asked Wiggins. His arms were crossed and he was leaning back against his desk. His mouth was set in an obdurate line. Behind him were Buster and Dennys. Evidently, Buster was well enough to start taking up his old duties again, although he was seated in a chair rather than standing up, and gauze bandages were visible where his shirt collar was unbuttoned. He was looking fixedly at the floor.
“Because I asked you to,” said Diana.
“Because the Athena Club is asking you to,” said Catherine. This was not all about Diana! Not everything was about Diana.
“And why should I do what the Athena Club asks?” Wiggins looked at them skeptically.
“Because we rescued Mr. Holmes,” said Catherine. “We were there when you couldn’t be, and we will be again in the future. And you will be there when we can’t. Would you rather fight us or have our assistance? Would you rather be our friend or foe?”
“Why do you care so much about Jimmy Bucket anyway?” asked Wiggins.
“I don’t,” said Diana scornfully. “If it were up to me, he would stay court-martialed.”
“It’s Beatrice and Justine who care,” said Catherine. “Beatrice says he’s just a little boy who didn’t know better, and Justine says you can’t blame a man for stealing bread when his family is hungry.”
“Whatever that means!” said Diana. “Sometimes I think everyone else in the Athena Club is barmy.”
Dennys rolled his eyes. Evidently, he agreed with her.
Wiggins looked again at the scrawny boy standing before him and hanging his head in penitence, or shame, or perhaps both. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, Jimmy?”
Jimmy looked up at him with watery blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wiggins. I didn’t mean no harm. Lady Crowe said she could help with my sister’s treatments if I told her about the ladies—Miss Moreau and the others. What they were doing, when they went out, that kind of thing. And she did—Jenny is doing ever so much better now. I wouldn’t have done it for any other reason, but she’s my only sister, and I don’t know what Mum would do without her. My little brother can’t do anything to help—he’s only four years old. I’m the man of the house since Da died. So I had to do something, you see.”
“That doesn’t justify breaking your oath to me and the Baker Street Irregulars,” said Wiggins severely. “If I let you join again, do you promise not to do such a thing ever again so long as you’re a member? You’ll be on probation. And you won’t be reinstated a second time, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy, sniffing and wiping his nose with his sleeve. “But will the boys accept me back? They wouldn’t look at me as I came upstairs. Buster won’t look at me even now.”
Buster looked up and stared at him, eyes narrowed. Jimmy shook a little in front of that glare.
“They’d better, or they’ll feel the prick of my little knife,” said Diana, drawing that knife out of wherever she kept it—she must have some sort of sheath in her waistband. She glared back at Buster. “And the bite of Catherine’s teeth!”
Not likely! Catherine had no intention of biting any Baker Street boys. For one thing, she was not sure how often they washed. Dennys looked clean enough, but Buster had dirt around his collar.
“Well, Buster, Dennys?” asked Wiggins. “Shall we give Mr. Bucket another chance?”
“No,” said Buster decisively, in his deep voice.
“Are you pulling our leg?” said Dennys. “We don’t want traitors here.”
“Oh, so it’s no from the two of you, is it?” Wiggins turned his head as though to look at them, although he could only have seen Buster at that angle. “I’m inclined to let him back in, myself. So that’s two against one. And whose vote counts around here?”
“Yours, Bill,” said Dennys, immediately. “If you say he’s in, he’s in, and the boys won’t gainsay it. They won’t be happy, but they’ll accept it if you say so.”
Wiggins nodded. “Well, I do say so. Buster, make sure all the boys know that Jimmy’s under my personal protection. And Diana’s, of course.” Diana had been about to protest, hadn’t she? Now, Catherine noticed that she was looking at Wiggins with smug satisfaction. “All right, Jimmy,” Wiggins continued. “You’ll get one more chance, on account of your age and family circumstances. But it’s your last one!”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jimmy, looking down again and shuffling his feet. Catherine hoped he was properly grateful for what they had done that morning. She could think of many things she would rather have been doing than pleading Jimmy’s case in front of the Baker Street Irregulars. But at least Beatrice and Justine would be pleased.
She was startled when Wiggins turned to her and said, “Miss Moreau, are you really a puma? Charlie says you showed him your teeth.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake, as Mary often said! “Yes, I’m a puma,” she replied impatiently. In a moment he would ask to see her teeth as well, and then she would have to be the Puma Woman, just like in the circus, for an audience of Baker Street Irregulars! Ah well, perhaps it was good for Mr. Holmes’s boys to learn about the abilities of the Athena Club. They would no doubt have to work together again in the future.
MARY: They were very helpful when we had to recover the naval treaty Colonel Protheroe so stupidly left on the table in his study while he went out on the balcony for a smoke. Although I think Wiggins and Charlie are going to have to decide which of them is Diana’s admirer. They almost came to blows about who was going to rescue her from the Russian Embassy.
DIANA: As though I needed rescuing! And if they’re going to be such idiots, I don’t want anything to do with either of them. I don’t need an admirer, thank you very much.
LUCINDA: I admire you, Diana, for your courage and cleverness. If it were not for you, I would probably have died in that madhouse in Vienna.
DIANA: Well, that’s different. You can admire me without being stupid about it.
Mary looked down at the face of Sherlock Holmes. It was softer in sleep than when he was awake. The alert, inquisitive look that always characterized it was gone. It was still lean, angular, with a certain elegance to it that lay deep in the bone. But it seemed younger, less lined with cares. She pulled up the blanket to cover his bare shoulder, with the white linen bandage wrapped around it and down his side. He shifted and turned. For a moment, she though he might wake up, but his eyes did not open.
“How is he? Dr. Watson asked me to check on him and send word as soon as he wakes.” Bill Wiggins was standing in the door of the infirmary. Behind him were Catherine and Diana.
While she was glad to see them, she was grateful to have had the infirmary to herself that morning. Buster was ambulatory, Charlie was hopping about despite doctor’s order, and Dr. Watson, who was still recovering, had been moved to 221B Baker Street so he could be nursed by Mrs. Hudson. Watson had not wanted to leave Holmes, but Dr. Radko had insisted. “His wounds are much worse than yours,” Dr. Radko had said. “He needs absolute quiet, while you are ready for company and amusement. He will recover better if you are not here. However, you may visit as soon as you are well enough.”
In the meantime, Mary had been the one at his side. She had barely left it for the last few days. “Sleeping well,” she said. “He does not have a fever. But he has not woken yet.”
“Right, then,” said Wiggins. “I’ll come back later to check on him, and Dr. Radko is coming this afternoon. He says it’s a miracle Mr. Holmes survived.”
“Mary, you should get out yourself,” said Catherine. “You’ve been here three days now. Have you slept at all? You don’t want to make yourself sick, either. Mrs. Poole says unless you come home for a bath and change of clothes, she’s going to come fetch you herself.”
“I lay down on one of the other beds for a while,” she said. “Dennys showed me a place to wash, and Alice brought new underclothes this morning. I’m all right, Cat. I just want to be here when he wakes up. I was the one who shot him, you know.”
“That was an accident,” said Wiggins. “You can’t blame yourself for that, Miss Jekyll. You didn’t mean to shoot him.”
“Thank you. I’ll try not to.” But she did blame herself, didn’t she? It was completely her fault. Whether or not she had meant to shoot Sherlock, she had pulled the trigger that had sent the bullet into his shoulder. He had almost died from loss of blood because of her.
“Remember we have a meeting with Ayesha this afternoon,” said Catherine. “You’ll be there, right? We need to discuss Athena Club business before she leaves for Budapest.”
“Yes, I’ll be there,” said Mary, scarcely listening. If only he would wake up! She felt something around her shoulders and looked up, startled. Had Diana actually hugged her?
“We’ll see you back home, Sis,” said Diana. “Remember, if he dies, you’ve still got us!”
“He’s not going to die!” said Catherine. “Dr. Radko said so, and so did Ayesha. Mary, he’s not going to die. Mr. Wiggins, could you show us out? I think I’d better take Diana home before she tries to say anything else helpful.”
“What?” said Diana. “What did I say this time?”
When they were gone, Mary looked back down at the sleeping face of Sherlock Holmes. She remembered how she had knelt by him in the field beneath the keep, pressing her hands to the place where the blood was bubbling up, bright red. Ayesha had come up beside her and said, “Move aside, Mary.” Then, as Mary stood watching, the President of the Alchemical Society had put her hands on the wound. A bright light had spread from them, a light that glimmered like opals. She had stayed like that for five minutes, ten, fifteen. The other girls had been doing things—carrying the body of Mrs. Raymond inside, for she had died almost instantly of Margaret Trelawny’s pistol shot, and locking Margaret herself in the dungeon. She had heard about all that later. At the time, she had noticed only the ghastly face of Sherlock Holmes as Ayesha fought for his life.
Finally, she had risen. “He will live,” she said. “I have done what I can. Time must do the rest. He will be ill for a long time, but he will not die.”
Mary had knelt beside him in the grass and cried, as she had never cried before in her life, because our Mary never cries—but she cried that day, ugly racking sobs, and her tears fell like the rain in Marazion.
“Mary.” The voice was familiar, although oh so tired!
Startled, she looked up. Sherlock Holmes was awake! He was looking at her with kind gray eyes.
“I shot you. I almost killed you.” She wanted to make sure he knew that—her culpability.
“I know. I remember.”
“I don’t expect you to forgive me. You could have died.”
He reached up and touched her cheek. “Mary.”
“If you wish me to hand in my letter of resignation, I will of course do so. I can’t imagine that you would want to work with me after—”
“Mary, come here.” He pulled her down toward him, and suddenly it seemed so natural, so inevitable, that she should lean down and kiss him with all the longing of the last few days, the last few months. His lips were soft and firm, his hand on her cheek both strong and tender. It was everything she had scarcely known she wanted in one moment of perfect, intensely felt life.
“Mary,” he said when she had pulled away again, afraid of hurting him, “I’ve never seen tears in your eyes.” He brushed them away with one finger.
She took his hand in hers. “They’re tears of gratitude, I think. But you should sleep now.”
“Yes, nurse,” he said, smiling, but his eyes were already half closed. She sat with him, holding his hand, until he fell into a deep, healing sleep.
MARY: Cat, is it absolutely necessary for you to include that scene?
CATHERINE: Yes.
Justine hesitated. Should she be here, standing in front of Dorian Gray’s elegant town house in Grosvenor Square? She still did not know what to think of Mr. Gray. And yet, somehow, she had felt that she should see him again, perhaps only to make up her mind about him.
Not certain whether she should or not, she rang the bell. Before it had stopped ringing, the door opened. She was startled to see Mr. Gray himself standing there, holding the door.
“I am short of domestic staff at the moment, Mr. Frank,” he said. “My English servants have left me, and I have sent my French staff ahead to my house in Antibes, where I intend to spend the winter. Do you wish to step over the threshold? You are most welcome, but you should be aware that you are entering the house of the most scandalous man in London. Or so my aunt Agatha calls me.”
Beatrice had mentioned a scandal of some sort, involving the playwright Mr. Wilde. But Justine never paid attention to such gossip.
“Mr. Gray,” she said, “I have come to correct a misapprehension. You see, when we met in the opium den where Mary and I were looking for Mr. Holmes, I was in disguise. I am, even now, in a disguise of sorts.” She looked down at her masculine clothes. “I am not Justin Frank, but Justine Frankenstein. Because of my height, it is easier for me to go about London dressed as a man. I apologize for the deception. I did not want our acquaintanceship to continue under false pretenses.”
“But you wanted it to continue?” he said with a smile. It was the innocent, angelic smile of a choir boy. “Come in, please come in—that is, if you wish.”
Justine stepped over the threshold and followed Dorian Gray down the hall into a parlor that made her gasp with astonishment. What would Beatrice think of this, if she could see it? The art on the walls, the furnishings, the bibelots, reminded her, more than anything else, of Irene Norton’s parlor in Vienna.
“Do you like it?” asked Mr. Gray. “I’m a collector, of sorts.” He looked as pleased as a child when you admire his new toy.
BEATRICE: I have seen his parlor since. It is magnificent, but might be more elegant if there were fewer objets d’art in it. He cannot seem to help his acquisitive instinct.
CATHERINE: And he collects people the way he collects those knick-knacks of his. I think he’s collected Justine as yet another curiosity.
JUSTINE: He most certainly has not. I know the rest of you do not like him, but Mr. Gray is my friend.
BEATRICE: We did not mean to criticize your friend, Justine.
DIANA: Of course you did.
Justine was less susceptible to physical beauty than most women. She could feel the beauty of a sunset or a flower, but in men and women, she had always admired intellect, probity, evidence of inner worth. And yet there was something about Dorian Gray—something delicate that reminded her of a porcelain figurine or a musical instrument. He was short for a man, half a head shorter than she was—quite the opposite of Atlas or Adam Frankenstein! His golden hair shone in the late morning light like a halo around his head. If she painted him, and it occurred to her that she would like to, it would be as a seraph, with wings rising from his shoulders. And yet Beatrice had warned her that he was reputed to be extravagant, profligate, immoral. “The charge of immorality is nonsense,” said Beatrice. “It is leveled by a prudish society against one who chooses not to live by its strictures. However, he is not a good man. Remember that he has abandoned Mr. Wilde, who is languishing in prison. And I have heard that both young men and women have been led into trouble, attempting to imitate his aesthetic lifestyle.” Justine had no idea what to make of all this.
“Come,” said Mr. Gray. “Let me show you my Tanagra figurine—or better yet, since you have told me that you are interested in art, come see this painting. It is by Mr. Whistler, in quite a new style.”
Justine walked over to the painting. Yes, it was indeed new—a visual nocturne, the coming of twilight over the Thames. “I am myself a painter,” she said. “But I have never attempted anything like this. Perhaps I should try. After all, this is a new era, as Catherine keeps pointing out. Perhaps I should try to be more modern.”
“Mr. Frank—Miss Frankenstein,” said Mr. Gray. “Please understand that it makes no difference to me what you call yourself, or what clothes you wear. Whether you are Justin or Justine is immaterial. It is you, yourself, that I wish to know better. Although the name Frankenstein—I have heard it before.”
“Yes,” said Justine, startled that he had recognized it. But of course he must be very well read. “It was a book by Mrs. Shelley—”
“About Victor Frankenstein. Yes, I have read it. Many believe it to be a work of fiction, but alas, I know it to be fact!”
Justine looked at him with alarm. “Why alas, Mr. Gray?”
“Because I learned it through a misadventure that happened to me in my youth—it is what started me down the road I now travel. An association with an older man, a Lord Henry Wotton, a member of the Société des Alchimistes. You will not have heard of it, I’m sure—it is a very select society of men interested in the sciences, biology above all. Lord Henry told me that Victor Frankenstein had belonged to the same society, a century before, and that Mrs. Shelley’s tale was true, at least in most particulars. Are you, then, related to the Frankenstein family? You mentioned that you were Swiss.”
“In a sense,” said Justine, warily. So Mr. Gray knew about the Société des Alchimistes! What sort of association had he formed with this Lord Henry Wotton, and how had it set him on his current path, as he so enigmatically claimed? She would very much like to hear more of his story. But there was no time this morning. She was due back at 11 Park Terrace.
“If you could stay for luncheon—I have some cold tongue, caviar, and champagne,” said Mr. Gray.
She would have liked to, although she would have had to explain to him that she did not eat flesh food. But she did not want to be late for the meeting with Ayesha.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Gray,” she said, “but my friends are waiting for me.”
“Of course,” he said. “I envy you—friendship is the one luxury that money cannot buy. Au revoir, Mademoiselle Frankenstein.”
When she held out her hand, he leaned over it, turned it over, and kissed the palm. As she walked home from Mayfair to Marylebone, she could feel the imprint of that kiss inside her glove.
BEATRICE: Are you quite sure you want to go to Antibes with Mr. Gray for two weeks? Would you rather not stay with me and Catherine in Paris? There will be museums, and restaurants, and a painting from the Louvre to recover from whoever has stolen it.…
JUSTINE: Yes, I’m sure. I’m going to paint in the south of France. He has expressly invited me.
BEATRICE: I think it is a mistake.…
CATHERINE: But we all get to make our own mistakes. After all, Bea, you and I have made plenty of our own.
BEATRICE: Alas.
Lucinda was sitting on the window seat in the parlor. It had been lovely to spend a quiet morning all by herself, while everyone else was out on their respective errands. For the first time, she had been able to talk to Mrs. Poole, who reminded her of the Van Helsing housekeeper, Frau Müller. While she was growing up, Frau Müller had always been there, to bandage a scraped knee or provide a ginger biscuit. What would the world be like without women such as Frau Müller in it?
Just before lunch, Alice and Beatrice had brought back a group of mesmerists, who had eaten in the dining room with its large mahogany table. What an entertaining meal it had been! They had made water glasses and napkins disappear, turned apples into golden balls and slices of toast into butterflies that flew about the room. Magpies had flown out of a meat pie. Of course Lucinda knew it was an illusion, that with the passes of their hands and their patter they were merely manipulating her perception of reality. Still, she had not laughed so much since her mother had taken her to the fair, years ago, and she had seen the jugglers with their sharp swords, the little dogs with ruffs around their necks jumping through hoops, the Harlequin and Columbine of the Commedia.
And no one had commented on the fact that her lunch had consisted of a bowl of blood. Sheep’s blood, specifically, which was not her favorite, but Mrs. Poole had gone to get it from the butcher, Mr. Byles, especially for her. Of course, Beatrice had been drinking a bowl of something green that smelled foul to her sensitive nose, so she had not been the only one with unusual culinary needs. How comfortable she felt in this house, where no one bothered her and everyone accepted what she was! When she had agreed to become a member of the Athena Club, she had not truly understood what she was agreeing to. But now she knew. It meant becoming part of a new family in which she would always be welcome.
“Lucinda!” She turned from looking out at the street without seeing it, lost in thought, toward the door. There stood Laura in a walking suit. “Oh, my dear, I wish you’d come with me,” she said. She had already taken off her hat and gloves, and was holding a letter in her left hand. “Piccadilly Circus, lunch at Harrod’s Department Store, and then a walk through Hyde Park… It was all so perfectly English, even more so than I’d imagined. It’s heavenly here! I mean, I do miss Styria, and Carmilla, and Magda, and everyone at home, and the dear old schloss itself. In Styria I used to think I was very English, and now I realize how Styrian I am, even in my nostalgia. Still, it’s glorious to see all the places my father used to talk about with such longing. How I wish he could be with me now! Although I do think the cakes are better back in Austria, but don’t tell Mrs. Poole I said that.”
“Miss Jennings,” said Mrs. Poole, appearing suddenly behind her at the doorway. Lucinda wondered if she’d heard that remark about the cakes. “I see you found the letter that came for you today. There was also a telegram. I didn’t want to leave it on the hall table with the regular mail, in case it might be something private.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Poole,” said Laura. She glanced quickly at the telegram. The housekeeper had already disappeared again down the hall. “Now isn’t that just like Carmilla! ‘Vampire nest destroyed coming to England how would you like to tour the Lake District darling all my love C.’ I think she feels a little guilty for abandoning us. What do you think, Lucinda? Would you like to tour the Lake District?”
Lucinda shook her head. Really all she wanted was to sit here and feel the life of this house flow through her, to feel herself surrounded by friends.
“And this is a letter from my cousin, the Reverend Mr. Jennings. I wrote to him almost as soon as we arrived. He is my last living relative in England.” Neatly, she tore open the letter and glanced down the page. “He regrets to say that he is ill and under the care of a mental specialist named—I can’t read it, his writing is so spidery. Dr. Hesselius, I think. Therefore, he cannot come to London, but would be happy to receive me at his home in Warwickshire. I’m not entirely sure where that is, but he says there’s a day train from London. I suppose there is just enough time to see him before Carmilla arrives. Goodness, what a busy visit this is proving to be! We saved the Queen, and I had lunch at Harrods, and now I’m going to see where Wordsworth wrote his ‘Tintern Abbey’ and that daffodil poem.”
“It is not time for our meeting?” asked Beatrice, coming in with a mug of tea in her hand. Why must Beatrice always be drinking things that smelled so foul? But they probably did not smell foul to her. Lucinda reminded herself that not all the world shared her vampire senses. “Lucinda, if you don’t mind, I will share the window seat with you.” Beatrice sat on the window seat, as elegantly as always. Well, Lucinda would simply have to learn to bear certain smells. As her mother had once told her, a lady may feel disgust, but she must never show it.
“Of course. Please.” She slid over and made more room.
“The Athena Club’s meeting with Ayesha? Then I shall be off,” said Laura.
“You are most welcome to attend,” said Beatrice. “I do not think Mary would mind.”
“Attending a meeting with the Princess of Meroë, Queen of Kôr, and President of the Alchemical Society, as Count Dracula calls her, is not my idea of fun,” said Laura. “Whereas shopping is. I barely brought any clothes with me, and I’ll need more if I’m going to tour the lakes! Ta now.”
“Wait for me!” Just as Laura was leaving it, Diana burst into the room. “Don’t start without me! Oh. No one’s here yet.”
“Apparently, we do not count as someone,” said Beatrice to Lucinda with a smile.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” said Diana, glaring at her. “Where are the others? I thought Catherine was right behind me.”
“Look what came in the mail!” said Catherine, striding into the room like a puma that has caught its prey and is dragging its bloody carcass across the forest floor. In her hands she held a book.
“Is that it?” asked Beatrice, rising and going over to see. “Has it come? Is that—”
“Yes,” said Catherine triumphantly. “The Mysteries of Astarte by Miss Catherine Moreau. It’s going on sale today all over England. Now I just hope people buy it!”
“They will,” said Justine, standing in the doorway. She had apparently just come in, because she still had her cap and gloves on. “It’s an excellent book, Catherine. Congratulations.”
“Oh, you know, it’s just my first one,” said the author, with false modesty. “I’m sure the next one will be better. And easier, now that I’ve written one book and know how!”
CATHERINE: Which, for any of my readers who may be wondering, is not the way it works. Every book is as hard to write as every other book. They are never easy.
MARY: But I would think the process gets easier, over time?
CATHERINE: You would think. But no, it doesn’t. I’ve had just as hard a time writing this book as I had with the first one. Which is available for sale—
MARY: Please. Just stop.
“Aren’t we supposed to be meeting with Ayesha?” said Catherine, looking around the room. “We’re all here—well, except Mary, and I don’t know if she’s going to make it. She’s still waiting for Holmes to wake up.
“My poor Miss Mary,” said Mrs. Poole, coming in again, this time with the tea tray. “I should send some sandwiches over there. Who knows what sort of food the Baker Street boys have.”
“Speaking of which, I didn’t get any lunch,” said Diana. “How about some sandwiches for me? And jam pockets. I saw some in the kitchen.”
“Patience, impossible child,” said Mrs. Poole. “I’m bringing up a proper tea for Madam Ayesha. This is her last meal before she leaves for Budapest, and I want to make sure she sees the best of our English traditions.”
“I’ll help you bring it up,” said Laura. “No, I insist, Mrs. Poole. You have too much to do already. Think of it as the Styrian way.”
Lucinda watched these exchanges with amusement. They were all affectionate in tone, even when the words themselves were not. This was what families should be—their members might not always agree, but they always loved one another. Alas that her own family had not been like that! Throughout her childhood, her father had been a cold, repressive presence. She and her mother had both been frightened of him, and had found solace in each other’s company. Her mother… she would remember the good days, when they were together, rather than the sight of her mother lying dead on the ground like Mrs. Raymond. She had not spoken to Alice about her mother’s death. Perhaps she ought to?
The front doorbell rang.
“Who’s going to get that?” asked Diana. But Catherine was still showing her book to Beatrice and paying no attention to such trivial matters as who was at the door.
“Would you like me to—” said Lucinda, half rising from the window seat.
“No, I’ll go,” said Diana, in a tone of disgust for a world in which she would need to answer the front door. “Do I have to do everything around here?”
But someone had preceded her, because a moment later, in came Alice, followed by Ayesha. “If you’ll give me your coat, ma’am,” said Alice. She was no longer the Alice who had fought Margaret Trelawny or held her dying mother in her arms. She was once more the perfect maid.
Ayesha looked at her with surprise, then gave her the dramatic black coat she had been wearing. Today, the President of the Alchemical Society was attired in a dress the color of paprika, with black embroidery on the sleeves and hem. Her braids were twisted up into a high chignon.
“Hello, Beatrice,” she said, “and greetings to the Athena Club. Where is your president? Is she not here with you?”
“She’s still with Mr. Holmes,” said Beatrice. “I don’t think she is going to make our meeting.”
“Well, then we shall have to carry on without her.” Ayesha sat in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. As though in response to a command, the others also took their places—Catherine and Diana on the sofa, and Beatrice once more on the window seat next to Lucinda. Alice looked undecided, as though not sure whether to stay or go back to the kitchen, but just at that moment Mrs. Poole came in with a tray of sandwiches, followed by Laura and Archibald, also bearing trays.
“Madam Ayesha,” said Mrs. Poole, “Would you care for refreshments? There are sandwiches, and Victoria sponge, and two kinds of tart, apple and lemon, and a German chocolate cake, or at least that’s what it’s called in Mrs. Beeton’s book, for those who prefer something more continental. I’ve never baked such a cake before, so I hope it tastes all right!”
Finally, Bast herself came in like a black shadow. She rubbed against Ayesha’s skirt until Madam President picked her up. Then, she curled into a circle on Ayesha’s lap.
“If you will all sit,” said Ayesha. “Yes, all of you, including you, Mrs. Poole. I know how necessary you are to the Athena Club, and have no intention of excluding you from these proceedings. And Archibald as well.”
“And me?” came a voice from the doorway. It was Mary, bareheaded but still taking off her gloves. “I see you were about to start without me. No, that’s perfectly all right—I know I’m late. I’m happy to tell you, though, that Mr. Holmes is awake. I sent Jimmy to tell Dr. Watson, who insisted on coming over in a cab even though Dr. Radko had told him to stay in bed and rest. So he’s with Mr. Holmes now. I’ll go back after our meeting. Don’t mind me, I’m just going to get myself a cup of tea. I don’t remember the last time I slept, not really. Madam President, if you would continue?” She pulled off her gloves, poured herself a cup of tea, and settled into the other armchair.
“Welcome to the meeting, Madam President,” said Ayesha, smiling in a way that was no doubt meant to be welcoming but did not make her any less formidable. “Let us get directly to business. Yesterday, I visited the headquarters of the English branch of the Société des Alchimistes. That building has been put to inappropriate uses more than once—Seward used it for his meetings with Van Helsing, Moriarty used it for his Order of the Golden Dawn, and I imagine Tera would have made it her London headquarters. Walking through its empty rooms, I was faced with a decision. I could sell the building, in which case it would be put to other uses—or I could reopen the English branch.”
“Reopen it!” said Mary, leaning forward. She seemed astonished. “That’s a terrible idea, after all the trouble it’s caused.”
“You did not allow me to finish,” said Ayesha mildly. “I could reopen the English branch, with Beatrice as chairwoman.”
“Oh. Well, that’s different.” Mary leaned back. “If Beatrice were in charge—still, I don’t know. Do we want alchemists in London?”
“There are already alchemists in London, or at least in England,” said Beatrice. “This way we would know who they are. They could be monitored and regulated. I would make certain they adhered to ethical standards. But, Madam President, I wish you had discussed this matter with me beforehand.” Her voice was calm, but Lucinda could tell that she was upset at not having been consulted.
Ayesha waved her hand, as though Beatrice’s statement was of no concern. “You would have accepted the responsibility in any case. I did not have time to spare, and telling you together with your fellow members of the Athena Club is more efficient. This morning I made financial arrangements for Jenny Bucket to be treated at a sanatorium in Switzerland. Lady Crowe has helped her a great deal, but even I cannot cure tuberculosis. There she will receive the best treatment available. Then, I stopped in Scotland Yard to discuss the case of Margaret Trelawny with your friend Inspector Lestrade.”
“He’s not my friend,” Diana muttered so quietly that only Lucinda could have heard it.
“She is still in prison in Penzance. Based on your testimony and the evidence of the pistol shot, she will be charged with the murder of Helen Raymond. Some of you will likely be called to testify in court. However, I do not know if she will be convicted—according to Lestrade, passersby saw a fog around the keep that morning, and she claims that she shot at a shadow in the fog, thinking it was an intruder and not her friend Helen. She is well known in those parts as a respectable woman, and the jury will likely be on her side. I do not think we have seen the last of her.”
“And I don’t think she’s going to stop trying to conquer the world,” said Mary. “From what I overheard while I was her prisoner, she struck me as a ruthless, ambitious woman.”
“Those are not necessarily bad qualities,” said Catherine.
Alice shook her head. “You didn’t know her the way I did. She’s a bad’un, as Mrs. Poole would say. I hope she’s going to stay behind bars, even if she doesn’t hang for my mother’s murder.”
“Lydia,” continued Ayesha, “the gravestone I ordered for your mother’s grave in the churchyard in Perranuthnoe should be arriving this week.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” said Alice.
“Our final order of business concerns Archibald.” The Orangutan Man turned to look at Ayesha. “He cannot stay in London.”
“But this is where he lives,” said Catherine. “You can’t just take him away from us.”
“Nevertheless, he cannot stay—you know this to be true. You have already exposed him to Lestrade, who made some pointed remarks about the ‘queer creature,’ as he said, that you kept as a footman. If he should start questioning what Archibald is or where he comes from, it could expose the Société des Alchimistes once more.”
“Is that your primary concern?” asked Beatrice. “The welfare of the Société des Alchimistes?”
“What about Archibald and what he wants?” asked Catherine heatedly. “He is not a beast anymore. He can’t simply be sent away somewhere, or put back in a cage.”
“Then we shall ask him,” said Ayesha. “Archibald, would you like to come with me? I will take you back to Borneo, where I shall find a tribe that will accept you, perhaps not in the forest where you were captured, but close by. Or would you prefer to remain here?”
Archibald looked at her with large, dark eyes. “I want to go home,” he said. Lucinda could hear the longing in his voice.
“Well then,” said Ayesha. “I think the matter is settled. If someone could pack his bags?”
“I’ll do it,” said Alice. “He doesn’t have much. I wish he were staying—but if he wants to go home, then he should. We’ll miss you, Archibald.” She stroked his hand for a moment before standing up.
“Thank you, Lydia. And do you feel that you will receive adequate training here in using your energic powers?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Alice. “Martin is teaching me. He’s a very good teacher. And I don’t want to throw lightning bolts or anything like that. I don’t want to be like Queen Tera.”
“Or like me?” said Ayesha, with another of her cold smiles. “You will quickly surpass any mere mesmerist. When you feel ready to learn more than he can teach—and you will, in time—come to me and I will undertake your education myself.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Alice, in a voice that clearly conveyed I never shall. “May I go now?”
Just then, the doorbell rang. “That must be Mr. Vincey,” said Mrs. Poole. “You mentioned that you were expecting him, ma’am. You go pack for Archibald, Alice dear. I’ll get the door.”
Ayesha rose, picking the black cat up in her arms. “As for Bast—”
“Oh no, you don’t!” said Catherine. “You may take Archibald, since he wants to go, but you’re not taking Bast away from us!”
Ayesha looked at the Puma Woman with amusement. “You wish to keep a two-thousand-year-old resurrected mummy cat here at the Athena Club?”
“She’s a cat,” said Diana. “Just like any other cat. She ate half a slice of ham that Catherine gave her this morning, and tried to steal Omega’s ham too!”
“Ham!” said Mrs. Poole from the doorway. Behind her stood Leo Vincey, looking as handsome and discontented as ever. The scars that Lucinda had left on his cheek were almost completely gone. She still felt ashamed of herself for having inflicted them.
“When did those rascals get ham, and who gave it to them? No wonder they never eat the mice they catch, but leave them underfoot for me to step on!” She strode into the room as though to scold one of them—whichever one of them was responsible for such an outrage.
“Well, to be honest, most of us did,” said Catherine. “It was at breakfast. I gave them a bit, and so did Diana, and even Justine—yes, you did, I saw you,” she said, although Justine was shaking her head. “Lucinda and Beatrice just sat there quietly drinking their noxious liquids, but they certainly didn’t stop us. Only Mary is completely absolved of responsibility.”
“And I brought the ham,” said Alice. “I mean, it was part of breakfast, but I did bring up a bit more than usual, knowing the cats might want some.” She ducked out through the doorway, no doubt to pack the few possessions Archibald had acquired during his stay at the Athena Club.
Mrs. Poole shook her head. “You are all quite impossible.”
“Are you ready, my love?” asked Leo, maneuvering his way around Mrs. Poole. “The train to Dover leaves in an hour.”
Ayesha looked around at the assorted members of the Athena Club. “I am. Try, if you can, all of you, to stay out of mischief for a while. And if you need me—well, try not to. I do, after all, have a scientific society to run. The Société des Alchimistes does not manage itself, you know. Among other things, we have the next issue of the journal to get out!”
“We don’t get into mischief,” said Mary indignantly. “It sort of happens to us, or around us, or in our general vicinity.”
Ayesha looked at her with an expression of amusement before turning and walking out the door. A moment later, she was standing in the hallway with Leo Vincey’s arm around her waist, holding Archibald’s hand and waiting for Alice to bring his possessions. Then they had climbed into a cab, and they were gone. Lucinda saw their cab driving away down Park Terrace toward Marylebone Road.
When Alice was once again seated on the carpet next to the fireplace, drinking a cup of tea, Mary said, “Well. It’s always an adventure having her around, isn’t it?”
No one had a response to that, although Catherine rolled her eyes.
“I have an order of business myself,” said Mary. “Mrs. Poole, please sit. You can move Bast out of Ayesha’s chair—I mean, it’s not her chair, obviously. Unless you want to put Bast on your lap?”
“Not likely,” said Mrs. Poole, brushing Bast off the chair and sitting where the President of the Alchemical Society had sat. Bast protested with a loud meow, then went over and jumped up on the sofa between Diana and Catherine.
“We all discussed it last night—I mean, the members of the Athena Club discussed it. Alice, we would like you to become a member.”
Alice, who had just taken a sip of her tea, spit it up, mostly into her cup but partly on the carpet. “Oh no!” she cried, looking at the drops of tea soaking into the carpet in front of her. Frantically, she soaked them up with her napkin. “I’ll get this clean, Mrs. Poole, I promise.”
“Never mind that,” said the housekeeper. “I’ll do it later. Just answer Miss Mary’s question. It would be a great honor for our Alice, miss,” she said to Mary.
“I think Alice has to be the judge of that,” said Justine. She had not spoken for so long—the Giantess was often quiet for long periods of time—that Lucinda was startled to hear her voice. “Alice may not consider it such an honor. After all, we are members of this club because we are, as Catherine calls us, monsters.”
Alice stood up. “It’s not that. It’s just—I don’t think I’m very good at adventures. Mary is so clever, and Catherine is so brave, and Justine is so strong. I don’t feel as though I’m any of those things. I don’t want to be kidnapped and put in dungeons again, or see my friends in danger. I was glad that I could help Miss Beatrice free Martin and the other mesmerists, but I just want to be a kitchen maid. At least for now.”
“For now,” said Mary. “So that means someday—”
“Don’t be daft,” said Diana. “You were as clever as any of us! And you can break locks with a lightning bolt. I wish I could do that, although my way is quicker and more reliable.”
“And as brave,” said Catherine. “You stayed to help Holmes when you could have gotten away.”
“And you are one of us,” said Beatrice. “You may not have been experimented on directly, but your powers are the result of experiments in biological transmutation by Dr. Raymond, passed on to you from your grandmother, through your mother. You are as much a monster, if Catherine wishes to use that word, as any of us.”
“Please excuse me,” said Alice. Tears were welling up in her eyes. She put her tea-spattered napkin up to them and ran out of the room.”
“Oh goodness,” said Mary. “What did we say?”
Lucinda rose from the window seat. “You see, her mother died not a week ago. When my mother died—” She did not know how to explain it to the other members of the Athena Club. After all, none of the others had experienced what she and Alice had—their mothers dying in their arms. For a moment, a memory came back to her of her mother reaching up and touching her cheek one last time with love and tenderness before the light went out of her eyes. “I will go to Alice. I think eventually she will decide to join us, as I decided to join the Athena Club. But you must give her time.”
She found Alice sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, sobbing. She sat beside the kitchen maid and put one arm around her.
“It’s just that I’m not ready,” said Alice through her sobs, in a voice muffled by her hands. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.”
“You will,” said Lucinda. “Transformation is difficult, is it not? It is the most difficult thing of all. You have been clever and brave and strong, but now you must rest for a while. It is out of adversity that one grows and becomes what one is meant to be—but there must be periods of peace and happiness as well. Plants must have sunshine as well as storms.”
Alice leaned her head on Lucinda’s shoulder. “Are all vampires so philosophical?”
Lucinda laughed. “Alice, I think you and I will become good friends. Come, dry your tears. I cannot eat cake, but you can, and I believe you need a slice of gateau au chocolat. Let us go upstairs and rejoin our friends, who are concerned for us. Friendship and chocolate cake—they do not heal all ills, but they certainly help.”
MARY: Alice, I’m glad that you decided to join us after all.
ALICE: It just took me a little while, miss. I mean Mary. I needed time to realize that I wasn’t just a kitchen maid any longer—that I had changed and grown.
JUSTINE: It is not so bad to have been a kitchen maid. I learned many valuable lessons working in the kitchen of the Frankenstein family as Justine Moritz.
ALICE: Oh, I’m grateful for all that, I assure you. If Nurse Adams, I mean Frau Gottleib, hadn’t arranged for me to be sent here from the orphanage and Mrs. Poole hadn’t decided to hire me, I don’t know where I would be right now. Still in that orphanage, like as not. Or out on the streets, as Kate and Doris were.
MARY: Instead, you’re where you belong—home.