DIANA: More than when Lucinda drinks blood? Or when Kate Bright-Eyes and Doris come over for tea? Is that proper?
MRS. POOLE: Kate and Doris are good women, and don’t you forget it! It’s not their fault they’ve fallen off the path of virtue. And Lucinda can’t help what she eats.
LUCINDA: I do not wish to give trouble, Mrs. Poole. If my diet discomfits anyone—
MRS. POOLE: It’s no trouble at all, not any more than making Beatrice’s teas. Most of the time you provide for yourself anyway, and if we have a dinner party or some such, I just go to Mr. Byles. I tell him one of the young ladies is anemic, and he gives me nice fresh blood. So don’t you fret—and don’t listen to Diana!
At the kitchen table sat Isaac Mandelbaum.
“Ah, Miss Jekyll.” He rose when she entered. “I have only a little time—I must get my family out of the city. Mr. Hoskins does not understand how Moriarty and other gentlemen disappeared from the museum. He is leading a search through Bloomsbury, but soon his attention will turn back to the house in Soho. My mother and father, my sister—they are brave. They survived in Poland, and when it became too dangerous to stay, they left their lives behind to make the arduous journey here to England, where I hoped and prayed they would be safe. But there are hazards here as well, almost as great as those in my own country. I will take them to the countryside, where I hope they can stay until Moriarty’s confederates have been rounded up and they can once again return to London.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mary. “How did you come to be working for Moriarty in the first place?”
He looked at her earnestly. She could not help noticing that he had beautiful eyes, with long, dark lashes. “You do not know—the English do not know—the history of pogroms in my country. Many of us have attempted to flee to the West. There are men, some of them good, some unscrupulous, who help families like mine—they provide transportation, food, shelter along the way. They charge a great deal. Those who have money, pay. Those like my family who have no money go into debt. Colonel Moran was one of those men. He suggested that to repay our debt, we work for Moriarty. We were happy to do so—until we realized what sort of criminal enterprise he was running.”
“Wait,” said Mary. “Moriarty was making money off transporting refugees to England?”
“Among other activities—gambling, prostitution, narcotics, all preying upon the weak to enrich himself. I could see what an evil man he was, the men and women whose lives he ruined. Many of my compatriots had to work off their debt indentured to sweatshops or butchering yards. He was, among other things, a hypocrite—a nationalist and racial supremacist making money off people he regarded as vermin. I will be glad to get my family out of his clutches.”
“Do you need any help?” asked Mary. “I don’t have much money, but if you need—”
Just then, the teakettle began to whistle. Isaac started, turned around, saw that it was only the kettle, and breathed with visible relief. “Thank you, but I have enough, and can get more if necessary. My employer has been quite generous.”
“Your employer—your real employer. Do you mean Mycroft Holmes?”
Mrs. Poole put two teacups on the table, then the sugar bowl and a small plate of lemon slices.
Isaac smiled. He had a very attractive smile, kind but also mischievous. Mary scolded herself—how could she be thinking about such things when Mr. Holmes had once again been kidnapped, and was probably imprisoned somewhere—she knew not where? “Then you know that peculiar gentleman as well. When he—I think the word is recruited—when he recruited me, he told me that above all we must work in secret. That we must protect this country, but that no one must know who we were or what we did. Perhaps I have told you too much already. Despite the danger—not to me, which I disregard, but to my family—I was willing to help him. I asked my parents, should I do this thing? My father is a school teacher, Miss Jekyll. He has never done an immoral thing in his life. He told me that I must fight evil wherever I see it. My mother and sister agreed with him. So I told Mr. Holmes that I would join his network of—should I call them spies? Or, rather, informants. I was not to expose myself, or become involved in any way, only to watch and report. But last night, I knew I had to do something, so I sent a message to Scotland Yard that a robbery was taking place at the British Museum and that Moriarty was involved. I hoped the presence of the police would at least frighten Moriarty and his men from doing whatever they planned. And if he was arrested, we finally had the evidence to convict him, assembled over many months. As for what happened—”
“What did happen?” asked Mary. “They were going to summon the energic powers of the Earth, and instead—Queen Tera rose from the dead. How? Why?”
Mrs. Poole put the teapot between them. “It’s good and hot,” she said. “Would either of you care for milk?”
“Yes, please, Mrs. Poole,” said Isaac. “You remind me a great deal of my mother. I believe you would like each other, although she speaks only a few words of English.”
“She would still be more understandable than half the people who were born and bred here!” said Mrs. Poole acerbically. “Sometimes the costers and cabbies mumble so, and speak so fast, one can’t hear a thing they’re saying.”
She put the milk jug on the table, then poured some milk into a bowl and put it by the door. In a moment, two cats, one gray, one orange, were lapping loudly and contentedly at the milk.
Isaac laughed. “They have a good appetite.”
“The orange one is Alpha, the gray one is Omega,” said Mary. “And yes, they’re growing fast. They were scrawny little things when we found them abandoned in the park. But about Queen Tera—”
“I don’t know any more about it than you do,” said Isaac. “Moriarty’s plan, what I overheard of it, was to abduct the Queen herself during her visit to Cornwall. How exactly, I do not know. But he was going to stay in a town named Marazion on the coast—Moran asked me to write for reservations at an inn there.”
“Marazion!” said Mrs. Poole. “Her Majesty will be in Marazion on Thursday. She is scheduled to tour St. Michael’s Mount.”
Mary looked up at her, startled. “How do you know that, Mrs. Poole?”
“Why, it’s right in the newspaper. Now, where did I put… I was going to use it for the fire.” Mrs. Poole leaned down and rooted through a box of kindling by the large iron stove. “Ah yes, here it is. But it’s got dirt all over it and I just washed the table! Ah well, I can certainly wash it again.” She put a copy of that morning’s Daily Telegraph on the table, by the teapot. “There, you see?” On the first page was an article titled “Her Majesty to Visit Cornwall,” next to one about Bertha Benz, the lady motorist, and her spectacular attempt to drive from Budapest to London in the new Benz motorcar.
“It says she’ll be touring the coast in the royal yacht,” said Mary. “Stopping at St. Ives, Penzance, then a special tour of St. Michael’s Mount, Falmouth, St. Austell… Mrs. Poole, I’ve never been to Cornwall. I have no idea where these places are. But it looks as though St. Michael’s Mount is the only place she’ll actually be disembarking. Otherwise, she’ll stay on her yacht and greet distinguished visitors. Well, she’s quite old after all. It sounded as though Mrs. Raymond and Margaret Trelawny were going to carry out Moriarty’s plan to kidnap the Queen, for their own purposes. If they make that attempt, the obvious place would be during the tour of St. Michael’s Mount.”
“What a Godless, heathenish thing to do!” said Mrs. Poole. “I hope to goodness you’re going to stop them, miss.”
“Of course we are,” said Mary. “I don’t know how, not at the moment, but no Englishman or woman would hesitate in such a circumstance. Mr. Mandelbaum, should we attempt to join forces?”
“I don’t believe that will be possible,” he said, shaking his head regretfully. “Much as I would like to, Miss Jekyll, I do not think Mr. Holmes would permit it. He works only in secret, and while I work for him, I must as well. But I will let him know of your
plans, and perhaps he will be able to help you in some way? Now, I must go—I must get my family to the train. It has been a pleasure meeting you.”
“Mr. Mandelbaum, won’t you take something with you? Biscuits, perhaps?” said Mrs. Poole.
“Thank you, but I would not take your breakfast—”
However, Mrs. Poole was already holding a bag out to him. “For your family, to eat on the train. Food purchased on a train is seldom satisfactory. One never knows about its quality, or how long it has sat in the heat. And these are not breakfast—I make a proper breakfast, I assure you!”
“You are one of the good angels who walks this Earth, Mrs. Poole,” said Isaac. “And, Miss Jekyll, I hope we will meet again in the not-too-distant future.”
Mary held out her hand to shake his, but he leaned down and kissed hers. “Do zobaczenia, piękna,” he said.
Well, he was European, after all! Mary had gotten more or less used to this hand-kissing business in Europe. She was startled by it here in England, but he was only being polite. “I hope so too, Mr. Mandelbaum,” she said.
And then he was gone, out the back door. Alpha slipped out at the same time.
Omega, who was more shy than his sister, looked up at her inquiringly. She picked up the cat and scratched him under the chin. He purred loudly and nuzzled against her shoulder.
“Mrs. Poole, could you—”
“Look up the trains to Marazion? I’ll do that as soon as I’ve washed the table. Just look at this dirt, and these little splinters of wood! One of those will go in Archibald’s finger if I don’t wash up now. He’s not as careful as Alice. I’ll have breakfast for you girls in half an hour.”
“Thank you. I’ll check on Justine, and then I’ll need to go to the headquarters of the Baker Street boys, wherever that is. I need to figure out what happened to Dr. Watson. He was wounded in an attack on the house in Soho, but I don’t know how badly. I assume he’s in a hospital somewhere? And I have to thank Wiggins for his rescue attempt—well, both rescue attempts. You know, I don’t think I appreciated those boys enough before. They may be foolhardy, but they’re certainly brave. Then I think another trip to the British Museum is indicated. We need as much information as possible on Queen Tera and Margaret Trelawny. I hope the exhibit itself will tell me more about—well, who Queen Tera is, and how in the world they resurrected her. There’s so much I don’t understand!”
“I’m with you, miss,” said Mrs. Poole. “Resurrecting ancient Egyptian mummies who want to become Queen of England? It’s beyond me.”
“Empress of the world, it sounds more like, from the way she was speaking,” said Mary.
“Either way, it’s the strangest adventure you girls have had yet. I can’t quite wrap my head around it.”
“Neither can I. Nevertheless, we have to do something—the Queen herself is in danger. Do you think we could be packed and ready to go to Cornwall tonight, or first thing early tomorrow morning? If we’re right in our conjectures, this kidnapping attempt won’t happen until Thursday, but I think we should get to Marazion as soon as possible. Perhaps we can stop Queen Tera before the attempt is made.”
“Don’t forget that Catherine and Beatrice will be arriving sometime this week. Catherine sent me a telegram—now, where have I put it?” Mrs. Poole sorted through a neat stack of what looked like receipts on the counter. “Yes, here it is. I received it on Friday, while you were being captured in Soho. Goodness, I sound like a penny dreadful, don’t I?” She put a telegram on the table. Mary leaned over and read what was written on the thin, cream-colored paper:
LEAVING ON ORIENT EXPRESS BE HOME SOON SAVE SOME ADVENTURES FOR US CAT
“You see, she doesn’t say when she’s departing or when she expects to arrive.” Mrs. Poole shook her head. “That girl has no sense of time.…”
CATHERINE: I’m a puma, remember? Pumas don’t wear wristwatches or consult train timetables!
“It will be such a relief to have them home,” said Mary. “All right, I’m going to get dressed. Then I’ll go wake up Diana. Always let sleeping Dianas lie as long as possible, isn’t that what Catherine says? But I’ll have to get her up eventually. Down you go.” She put Omega on the floor. “You’re a good kitty, you know that?”
“Humph,” said Mrs. Poole. “He’s no better than he should be. All cats are scoundrels.”
But before she left the kitchen, Mary saw her slip Omega a bit of ham.
MRS. POOLE: I did no such thing. Those cats are here to catch mice. I would no more give them ham than the time of day.
CATHERINE: Mrs. Poole, you do it all the time. Give them ham, I mean. I don’t know what cats would do with the time of day.
MARY: Schedule their naps? They seem to sleep half the time.
“Dr. Watson is in the infirmary,” said Wiggins. “He was shot in the leg. He’s fine—he’ll live, if he just stays put instead of trying to get up and go home, as he’s been threatening!”
The infirmary? What sort of infirmary could there be in this run-down, rather dusty old house? Mary looked around, confused. Surely Dr. Watson should be in a hospital, particularly if he had a gunshot wound. Mary did not take such an injury as lightly as Wiggins seemed to.
“This way,” said Diana. “I’ll show you. And you don’t need to come with us,” she said to Wiggins, rudely. “I know where I’m going.”
“I’m coming to make sure you don’t annoy him,” said Wiggins. “The way you annoy everyone else!”
Mary stared at him in astonishment and admiration. She had not thought there was anyone in London as rude as Diana, but here he was, her equal in lack of manners! She thought that she was going to like Mr. Wiggins.
She followed him and Diana up another flight of stairs. There, at the top of the house, Wiggins opened the door to a long, sunlit room with six narrow iron beds in it, all with white sheets and pillows. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was immaculately clean. Three of the beds were occupied: in one was Charlie, in another was a Baker Street boy she did not recognize, and in the farthest from her, she saw Dr. Watson talking to a man with a stethoscope around his neck.
“Charlie!” said Diana. “What happened? And that looks like Buster. Why isn’t he moving? What did they do to you?”
“Nothing,” said Charlie disgustedly. “When we got close to the house, all these men came out with pistols—it looked like maybe twenty of them! We started running, and then someone shouted that they weren’t real, just an illusion. The bullets flew right through you. So we turned around again, but then Buster went down—he was close to the front, and he’s the biggest target. So we knew that at least some of the bullets were real. Anyway, we started running away again, but I twisted my ankle on a stone and fell. And now Dr. Radko says I have a sprained ankle. Bloody ridiculous!”
“And you, Dr. Watson?” said Mary. “I heard you were hit by one of those real bullets.”
“Grazed, Miss Jekyll. It’s just a flesh wound,” said Watson. “Dr. Radko has been taking excellent care of me. We’ve been discussing the difference between English and Romanian medicine. Dr. Radko received his training in Bucharest, but he works here in London at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.
“And sometimes I take care of these boys,” said Dr. Radko, smiling. He was a small man, balding, with a halo of dark hair and a goatee. “They get into all sorts of scrapes, don’t they, Mr. Wiggins? I patch them up and try to make sure they get their cod liver oil. Nutritional deficiency is a problem in this great city, for all its wealth—particularly for children who do not get enough fresh air or sunlight. Forgive me if I do not shake your hands. We doctors have to be careful not to spread germs, you know—as Louis Pasteur taught us.”
He picked up a black bag from a chair by Watson’s bedside. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have to return to St. Bart’s. Buster is asleep—I gave him laudanum for the pain. Mr. Wiggins, I have written out when he is to receive his next dose. Please do not give him any more, no matter how pitifully he asks. I do not
wish him to become a lifelong addict to the narcotic. Charlie, you will be in bed for at least a week.”
“Bloody hell!” said Charlie. “A week? I’ll die of boredom in a week.”
“I prescribe some instructive literature,” said Dr. Radko. “I recently saw an advertisement for a book you might like—The Mysteries of Astarte. I’ll see if I can find you a copy. And, Dr. Watson, although you described it as a flesh wound, that bullet went through muscle. You must not risk infection. You too are hereby confined to the sickroom for a week. I know you will not take too much laudanum—the problem in your case will be taking less than you need, because you think you can bear the pain. But this is no time to be a hero. You must rest and heal.”
“Are the patients allowed—” Mary looked into the bag Mrs. Poole had given her. “Various kinds of biscuits, scones, tarts—I don’t know what else is in here, it’s packed too tightly.”
“Absolutely, an unlimited dose!” said the doctor, smiling. “Now, if Dennys will get my hat and coat…”
When he had gone, Mary sat by Watson’s bedside, recounting their adventures of the day before. She tried to ignore the peals of laughter from Charlie’s bed, where he and Diana were telling jokes of some sort—she supposed they must be funny, to evoke so much merriment. She did not particularly think this was a time to joke, herself.
“I wish I could go with you to Cornwall,” said Watson. “But alas, this leg—”
“You must not think of that,” said Mary. “Here, I found a jam tart. Or would you rather have a cheese biscuit?”
Watson smiled. “I do not mind being condescended to, Miss Jekyll, when the nurse is so charming. However—”
“Yes, yes, I know, you would like to come with us. But you can’t, Dr. Watson. Here, cheese first, then jam. Savory then sweet.”
“And as for Miss Frankenstein, if her condition has not improved by this afternoon—”
“I shall call a doctor, I assure you. I might call Dr. Radko! He looks as though he would be understanding and sympathetic. I would, of course, have to explain to him Justine’s peculiar condition—after all, he would be treating a woman who is almost a century old. Now, we have to go. We have business at the British Museum.”
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 24
