Charlie reached over and felt it with the ball of his thumb. “Blimey! I bet you could do some damage with that.” He looked at her in alarm. “You’re not going to bite me, are you? Sometimes Diana does, but she can’t do much damage.”
DIANA: Oh, can’t I? Just you wait, Charlie Sutton . . .
“I only bite in self-defense, or when I’m hungry,” said Catherine. “Luckily for you, I’ve had an excellent breakfast.” She was amused to note that Charlie still eyed her warily. Well, that was all right. What was the use of being a Puma Woman if you couldn’t frighten people once in a while? “Do you want to know what it was like on the island of Dr. Moreau, with the Beast Men? And being left alone on a deserted island? And then rescued and taken to Peru?”
Charlie nodded eagerly.
“Well then, I’ll tell you.” And for the rest of the trip, she regaled him with stories of her time on the island and what had happened after. If you want to read Catherine’s story, you have only to purchase The Strange Case of the Alchemist’s Daughter, the first in these adventures of the Athena Club, two shillings as I have mentioned.
MARY: I wouldn’t advertise too often in this book. Our readers want to hear a story, not advertisements! We’re not Lippincott’s Monthly Magazine, after all.
By the time the train drew into Purfleet, Catherine was only slightly lower than Diana in Charlie’s private pantheon—in which the inimitable Miss Hyde reigned supreme as his goddess of thievery and mischief.
DIANA: Inimitable! I like that. It’s going to be another one of my words.
At Purfleet, Charlie left the carriage first and walked along the High Street toward the Royal Hotel, hands in his pockets, whistling as though he were simply strolling through the streets on a fine summer day, with no ulterior motive whatsoever.
Catherine waited a few minutes on the train platform so they would not be seen together in town. Then she followed Charlie up the High Street. She could not see him—he must have gone into the hotel, which was next to a pub called The Black Dog, in the town center. As she passed the pub, she shook her head disapprovingly, already in character. Just beyond the town proper, she turned onto the North Road, passing the gates of the asylum as though they had nothing to do with her. Beyond the asylum was a development of workingmen’s cottages. Out of her leather satchel she drew a stack of leaflets. At each house, Reverend Josiah Crashaw, or so she introduced herself, left a leaflet in the hands of the bemused housewife or random small child who might answer the door. The leaflet was titled Temperance Tract. Below the title, in large, ornate letters, was written Drinking Leads to Neglect of Duty, Moral Degradation, and Crime, and below that was an etching of a man about to strike his fearful, long-suffering wife while his bedraggled children clutched at the hem of his jacket. Anyone who stopped Reverend Crashaw would have gotten a lecture on the Demon Drink and how it had ruined the lives of honest men, and aye, women too! But no one did stop him. At the end of Peaceful Row, the last street in the development, he came to the cottage of Joe Abernathy, where Joe’s mother told Reverend Crashaw that she was quite of his mind, and drink was ruining the young men of England, although she didn’t think beer was the same as strong liquor and even her Joe, the best of sons, had his pint at the end of each day. Until Joe came out and said, “Ma, can’t you see it’s Miss Moreau? Come in, quickly. I’ve been expecting you, miss.”
“Well for goodness’ sake,” said Mrs. Abernathy. “How can I recognize her when she has a different disguise every time? You can sit here, miss, and have yourself a bite of something—it’s almost elevenses. And tell us how Mrs. Poole is doing, and Miss Jekyll, and that nice Mr. Holmes.”
The Abernathys’ kitchen looked just the same as the last time Catherine had visited, with its neat shelves of crockery and Nottingham lace curtains. It had a large table with four mismatched chairs where Joe and his mother took their meals, a sink with a pump handle, and a large black stove that squatted at the end of room like a useful ogre. Its spotlessness was a testament to Mrs. Abernathy’s housekeeping skills.
“Miss Moreau doesn’t want to gossip, Ma,” said Joe while he set out plates with the cathedrals of Great Britain transfer-printed on them. “She’s here for information. And I’ve got something for you, miss. Something has happened at last.”
“Tell me,” said Catherine, sitting at the kitchen table. The Abernathys’ cottage had no dining room, and the parlor was reserved for only the most formal occasions. Everything important happened in the kitchen.
“Well,” said Joe, “you know there’s been nothing for a long time, not to report anyway. Just letters coming in with those red seals marked S.A. Dr. Seward has been his usual self, and poor Renfield too—eating his flies as nice as you please, and as kindly as ever.
“But on Friday Dr. Seward had a visitor. It was a gentleman from London. I know because I was the one as let him in, and while we were crossing the courtyard I remarked that it was a nice day, and he remarked back that it was cooler here than in London, with all that pavement. He was a gentleman by his voice and manner, although his collar wasn’t as white as it oughter be if it was laundered regular, and his suit jacket was fraying at the cuffs. He had a queer, frightened air about him. At first I thought he might be coming for a consultation himself—he didn’t seem quite right, if you know what I mean. He had that look the patients get, sometimes. But when I asked who I should say was calling, he said his name was Edward Prendick and he had an appointment with Dr. Seward. I remembered that was one of the names Miss Jekyll told me to watch out for. I would have sent you a letter, miss, but I knew you were coming today.”
Catherine sat in stunned silence. So Prendick—Edward Prendick, the man who had watched her being transformed from a puma into a woman, who had taught her to speak and read, who had told her that he loved her and finally deserted her on Moreau’s island—was still alive. He had not died in the fire with Adam Frankenstein, nor escaped to the continent as they thought he might have. He was still in London. Catherine did not know what to say.
Mrs. Abernathy brought a plate of brown bread with butter and slices of cold ham, as well as a dish of mixed pickles. “I’ll have the tea ready in a minute,” she said.
“That’s important, right, miss?” asked Joe, looking at her anxiously.
“Yes. Yes, it is.” Absentmindedly, Catherine buttered a slice of bread and put it on her plate. She took a slice of ham, then started tearing it with her teeth. “Do you have any idea what the meeting was about?” Knife, she reminded herself. Cut the meat with a knife, eat it with a fork. An incredibly inefficient way to nourish oneself. How did human beings survive?
“It went on for about an hour,” said Joe, making a bread, butter, and ham sandwich for himself. He piled pickled onions and gherkins on his plate. “I tried to listen at the door, but I had my duties and anyway there were other attendants passing. So I heard only the beginning of their conversation. Dr. Seward said something about a meeting in London, and Prendick was against it, which made Seward angry. He was talking loudly, which is why I heard as much as I did. He said something about questioning Prendick’s loyalties, and that was when I had to go. So I don’t know much more than that.”
Across the kitchen, the teakettle started to whistle. Mrs. Abernathy took it off the stove.
“Joe, you forgot teacups!” Mrs. Abernathy set two teacups on the table, then brought the matching teapot, steaming out of its spout. “Do you take milk, Miss Moreau? Joe never does, so sometimes I forget to put it out.”
“Yes,” said Catherine. She ate the rest of her ham properly, with fork and knife. She did not want to shock Mrs. Abernathy.
“I’m sorry, miss. I wish I could tell you more. But it sounds as though something is afoot, as Mr. Holmes always says. We buy The Strand just for Dr. Watson’s stories.” Joe poured his tea and added a great deal of sugar. It looked dark and strong—much stronger than Mrs. Poole’s.
“It’s all right. What you’ve found out is certainly important. If o
nly I knew when and where they were planning to meet!”
“That I can’t help you with. But I’ll keep a lookout—maybe Mr. Prendick will visit again and I’ll be able to learn more?”
Catherine poured her tea, only filling her cup halfway, and added a great deal of milk from the jug Mrs. Abernathy had brought.
“Thank you, Joe. We’re all grateful for your help.” But the meeting had to be soon, or Seward would have written rather than summoned Prendick. How could she find out when and where it was going to take place? Where would that information be kept? Surely a man as important as the director of Purfleet Asylum had an appointment calendar. Would he write down a meeting with another member of the Société des Alchimistes? Or would that be too secret to record?
“Oh, it’s nothing really,” he said, his neck and face flushing red. “Anything to help Miss Jekyll—and Mr. Holmes of course.”
His embarrassment was almost comical. But Joe had the dignity of large, quiet men, which a red face could not affect. Catherine wondered why he kept working at the asylum, when he could have earned more in one of the trades. Perhaps it was this desire to be of use, to help those who needed his services.
Suddenly, there was a knock on the kitchen door. Joe was so startled that he almost knocked over his chair. “Were you expecting anyone?” asked Mrs. Abernathy. Reverend Josiah Crashaw prepared to lecture the Abernathys, in a loud and obnoxious voice, on the necessity for abstention from all alcoholic stimulants.
But when Mrs. Abernathy opened the door, there was Charlie, glancing furtively behind him at the street, then dodging around her and darting into the kitchen—to her intense surprise. “I weren’t followed, I promise you, miss,” he said to Reverend Crashaw.
“It’s Charlie, one of Mr. Holmes’s boys,” Catherine explained. Mrs. Abernathy was looking with alarm at Charlie’s London finery, a ragged approximation of what a gentleman would wear, too large for him and tacked up so the trouser legs would not drag on the ground. “I brought him with me from London, so he could talk to some of the local boys in case they had noticed anything Joe might have missed. Mr. Holmes employs a small army of such boys, as his eyes and ears about London.”
“Oh, well, if he knows Mr. Holmes,” said Joe, although he looked at Charlie dubiously.
“Mrs. Abernathy, could Charlie have a cup of tea as well? He was never supposed to come here—we were supposed to meet again at the train station. But if he is here, it’s because he has news for me. So.” Catherine turned to Charlie. “What is it?”
“There’s been developments,” said Charlie. “Look what I brought you. Is that bread and butter?” He pulled a bundle of blue cloth out from under his shirt and held it out to Catherine.
She shook it out. It was . . . a dress.
“That’s from the asylum,” said Joe. “The female patients wear that. Where did you get it?”
Charlie sat down at the table and took a slice of bread, just as Mrs. Abernathy slid a plate in front of him. As he spoke, he spread a great deal of butter on it with the butter knife, without waiting for cutlery of his own. “I went to the Royal Hotel, as you told me, miss, and got friendly with the boots there. Soon we were drinking beer and I was telling him that I wanted to find a job in the country, because a man was after me in London, on account of I refused to turn pickpocket for him. I told him about life in London, making out that it was just like a novel by Mr. Dickens, though it ain’t anymore, but country boys are credulous, you know. I could of told him I was Oliver Twist and he would have believed me.” Mrs. Abernathy put a knife and fork by his plate, which he proceeded to ignore, and a teacup that he filled almost to overflowing. “Thanks kindly, ma’am.” He flashed her a smile, the crooked smile of the London boy, made up of equal parts innocence and impish charm.
“Well!” she said, trying not to smile back, and took a jar down from a shelf. In a moment, Charlie had a pot of plum jam by his elbow, which he spread liberally on another slice of bread and butter. He added a great deal of sugar to his tea and as much milk as the cup would allow, then took a loud slurp.
“So he says the only jobs around are at the asylum, on account of the economic depression. His sister works there as a maid and might know of something. Could I talk to her, I ask him. Surely, he says, and asks the head clerk if he can take an hour, and the head clerk says all right if he stays late to sweep, so we go up to the asylum together and he takes me in the back door and introduces me to his sister, who’s doing the laundry.” By this time, Charlie was on his third slice of bread and had poured his second cup of tea. “Well, she says they’re looking for a boy, and the pay’s good on account of having to be around mad people. I tell her I wouldn’t mind, mad people don’t scare me, so she shows me around and takes me to the housekeeper. I convince the housekeeper that I’m an honest boy, despite my appearance, doing my Mr. Dickens bit, and she says I’ll do. But she can’t hire me until the director gets back, because himself has to approve everyone, down to the scullery maid. So I ask her where he is and when he’ll get back, since I’m eager to start. And she says he’s been called to meet with one of the trustees, so he won’t be back until teatime!” By now, the bread was gone. Charlie looked forlornly at the serving plate, and then at the final slice of buttered bread in front of Catherine. “Are you going to eat that?”
“So Seward has gone out for several hours! His office will be empty. . . .”
“I wonder which trustee, and what he wanted,” said Joe. “There’s Dr. Raymond, Lord Godalming, and—no, I’ve forgotten the name of the other. That’s the first time Dr. Seward’s been away from the asylum for weeks. If we can get into his office without being noticed, we can see if there are important papers—”
“Not you, Joe.” Catherine put the slice of bread on Charlie’s plate. “For one thing, it’s your day off, so anyone who sees you will wonder why you’re there, and remark on it. For another, you’re not exactly inconspicuous. No, it’s got to be me, which is why you brought this, isn’t it, Charlie?” She held up the blue dress, made of a practical cotton poplin that would wash and wear well.
“That’s right. You can’t get in through the back entrance. There are too many servants about, and they would notice you’re not one of them. But maybe you can get in the front way.” Charlie finished his third cup of tea and checked to see if there was any more, but the teapot was empty.
Joe had a look on his face—it was the same look Watson had so often. He was about to say, But it’s too dangerous for a lady like you. . . . That’s how the objections always started.
“Joe, I do need your help,” she said before he could speak. “I need you to tell me how to get to Seward’s office.”
He sighed and shook his head. “All right. You’ll have to get into the grounds first, but the wall’s tumbled down in back, which is how Renfield escaped. It still hasn’t been repaired, on account of it belongs to Carfax House, behind the asylum, and the owner of the house is abroad. Most of the women patients are harmless, there for hysteria or harming themselves, so they’re allowed to walk on the lawn after lunch. The attendants don’t keep careful watch over them, not like with the men patients. So you might be able to sneak in the front door of the asylum. From there it’s up the stairs, second door to your left. Dr. Seward’s name is written on the door. But miss, once you’re inside, one of the attendants might realize you’re not a patient. And then what? Anyway, the office door will be locked.”
“I don’t know,” said Catherine. “I’ll have to figure it out as I go along, including the lock. Will you show me where the wall has fallen down?”
“All right, if you’re determined. But I worry that it’s too dangerous for a lady like you—”
“I’m a puma, remember? Are you ready, Charlie?” She stood up, the dress bundled in her arms. She was certainly not going to argue the point with Joe.
“Ready,” he said. Where in the world had all that food gone? How could a boy made mostly of skin, bones, and cunning eat so much?
Catherine looked around for Mrs. Abernathy, to thank her, but Joe’s mother had gone into another room, probably to give them some privacy while they discussed what they were going to do. She stuffed the blue dress into her satchel, leaving the temperance leaflets on the table to make room. Perhaps Mrs. Abernathy could make spills out of them, to start the stove. She had no idea what she would find at the asylum, what information might be in Seward’s office. Mary would scold her for this adventure, for going into a dangerous situation alone. But if Prendick was up to something, she had to find out what. Why was he meeting Seward in London? Were they going to perform more experiments? Was Hyde still in London as well? If so, she might be able to deliver him to Holmes and Scotland Yard. She could already imagine them all congratulating her on her cleverness and courage. . . .
She slung the satchel over her shoulder, put on Reverend Crashaw’s hat, and prepared to follow Joe to the tumbled-down place in the wall of Carfax House. It was certainly going to be an interesting day.
CHAPTER III
Dr. Seward’s Diary
Joe checked to make sure there was no one passing in the street. Then they all left by the kitchen door and headed through the back garden, where vegetables marrows and melons were hanging ripe, ready for picking. Joe led them through a gate in the white picket fence that protected the garden from rabbits and deer. Behind the house was a path, with back garden fences on one side and a forest of tall trees, oaks and ashes, on the other. Catherine and Charlie followed Joe down the path, behind the workmen’s cottages.
The afternoon sun shone hot upon them. For once, incredibly, England was warm enough for Catherine.
“What do you think of the country, Charlie?” she asked, swatting at a cloud of midges that had risen from the tangle of yarrow and wild carrot at the edge of the forest.
“It’s as noisy as London, in its own way,” he said, dispassionately. “I couldn’t sleep in this racket.”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 5
