European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

by Theodora Goss

  Five minutes later, just as Catherine was starting to get impatient, he was back. In one hand he clutched a straw hat, a little bent and battered, decorated with silk flowers. In the other he carried a ripe melon.

  “Oh, you brilliant boy,” said Catherine. “Have you got a knife?”

  “Have I got a knife?” he said, incredulous that she had asked such a question. When was he, Charlie Sutton, ever without a knife? In a moment, he had flipped open his pocket knife and carved the melon into slices. “And if you could tell Diana that, about me being brilliant I mean, I would be much obliged. She doesn’t think I’m good for much.”

  “Having a crush on Diana is a really stupid idea, you know,” said Catherine. She took the slice of melon he handed her, sucked the liquid until it ran down her chin, then wiped it away with her hand and licked her fingers clean. She should have stolen a pocket handkerchief. “Where did this come from?” She looked dubiously at the hat, then put it on her head, careful not to disturb the coiffure secured with an inadequate number of hairpins. She tied the ribbons under her chin. They were a little frayed at the ends.

  “Scarecrow. You look like a maid-of-all-work on her day out.”

  “That’s supposed to be the general impression. And you’re my brother, who’s reluctantly accompanied me to visit . . . our aged mother?”

  “Better make it an aunt. A local copper will know we’re not from around these parts.”

  True. And Charlie, at least, had London written all over him. A boy like Charlie, with his hair slicked back under a hat that had in the distant past belonged to a gentleman, and his general air of self-possession, could have come from nowhere else.

  One more slice of melon for each of them, since it wouldn’t do to go thirsty. Several minutes later, Miss Catherine Montgomery and her brother, Master Charlie Montgomery, were walking down the North Road. Reverend Crashaw’s satchel, stuffed with his clothes, had been buried under an oak tree and covered with last year’s leaves. The return tickets and all of Reverend Crashaw’s money had been transferred to Charlie’s pockets.

  As they walked by the asylum gates at a leisurely pace, an attendant leaning up against the wall called out, “Have you passed a man anywhere up the road?” This time it was the one who had been smoking. Presumably, the other was conducting a more active search. This one seemed to be keeping an ineffective lookout.

  “No, sir, we saw no one,” Catherine called back, in what she thought of as her most dulcet tones. “Would this be the way to the train station?”

  MARY: I don’t think you have dulcet tones. Dulcet means sweet. When are you ever sweet?

  CATHERINE: My most dulcet tones. I was using the superlative. Everyone has a most something, even if it’s not very much.

  BEATRICE: I think Catherine can be quite sweet when she wants to.

  CATHERINE: I just don’t want to very often.

  “Aye, turn left onto the High Road and then keep going through town,” said the attendant. “It’s after the Royal Hotel. If you see a man—a peculiar gent, one eye blue, t’other green—you let a constable know. He’s wanted for breaking and entering.”

  “I will. Thankee, sir!”

  They walked to the center of town without seeing any more constables—where had they gone? Presumably they were still searching the development. Here they could blend in with the ordinary traffic of Purfleet. Men rolled carts filled with fruit and vegetables, old clothes, or furniture. Women with marketing baskets looked into shop windows, exclaiming over the prices. A group of school-aged children, just let out of school, ran down the street, laughing and shrieking. As they passed The Black Dog, Catherine noticed a group of men lounging about the door. And there was Joe, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Even through the noise of the street, she could hear fragments of their conversation. “Stole some important papers, they say—dressed hisself as a woman—eyes of two different colors.” So the news had circulated quickly. Joe, who did not join in the conversation, looked anxious.

  As they passed, he glanced at her, noticed Charlie, and then examined her again more closely. He almost jumped when he realized who she was. No, Joe was not good at subterfuge. She looked directly at him, as though to say Yes, I see you’ve recognized me, then looked away, pulling Charlie by the sleeve like an impatient older sister. She had a character to maintain, and a train to catch.

  As they approached the train station, Catherine saw Harry-the-Constable standing by the ticket office, looking official in his blue uniform and helmet with a silver star. The constable barely glanced at them as they passed, and Catherine breathed a silent sigh of relief. But before they had taken many steps, he said, “Hey there, miss, are you headed to London?”

  “Aye, sir. My brother and I are in service there.”

  “Well, you just watch out,” he said, leaning back against the wall of the station. “There’s a thief on the loose. We have reason to believe he came from London this morning, and will try to get back there. Stands to reason—in a small place like Purfleet he’d stick out like a sore thumb, while in that den of iniquity, as they calls it, he’d be right at home!”

  “Oh, that’s terrible!” said Catherine Montgomery. “I wouldn’t want anything of mine stolen. Mum always tells me to keep my money wrapped in a pocket handkerchief, in case my pocketbook is took.”

  “Smart woman, your mum. Well, if you see him on the train, you just tell the stationmaster or a policeman. You can’t miss him: He’s got one eye green and one blue! You’d think someone so easy to identify would know better than to turn thief. Though I don’t think he’ll escape us. We’re watching the train station and all the roads out of town. If he wants to spend the night in Carfax Woods, I don’t mind—let the ghouls suck the blood out of him! But we’ll get him in the end.”

  “Oh, this is going to give me nightmares, sure!” She did her best to look frightened.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe, sis,” said Charlie, with a reassuring squeeze of her arm. She tried to look grateful. Had he forgotten that she had hurt that arm falling out of Seward’s window? Even a light squeeze hurt.

  But Harry-the-Constable nodded his approval.

  They walked to the bench on the platform, then sat under the watchful eye of the constable, not talking except for desultory complaints about the heat. Catherine was too tired to talk. What a day it had been!

  Twenty minutes later, the train to London arrived.

  “So the thief with mismatched eyes slipped through Harry’s fingers after all,” said Catherine, sitting on the sofa in the parlor of the Athena Club, next to Sherlock Holmes. “And then we had to take an omnibus, because no cabbie would stop for me wearing this lavender horror. No, it’s cabs for gentlemen like Mr. ’olmes here, and omnibuses for maids-of-all-work in patched dresses! Honestly, I was this close to turning Anarchist . . .”

  “For goodness’ sake, don’t let Mrs. Poole hear you,” said Mary. “You know how she feels about loyalty to the Queen.”

  MRS. POOLE: You’re right about that, miss. God save the Queen! Not that I take Miss Moreau’s statement at all seriously. She’s got a streak of Diana in her, sometimes.

  CATHERINE: There’s no need to insult me, Mrs. Poole. And I have no intention of blowing up Houses of Parliament. At least, not at the moment.

  “Clearly, I messed up,” she continued. “Seward saw me, although I don’t know if he could identify me again. I’ve lost a man’s suit costing at least two guineas, second hand. And for what? I know Seward is meeting Prendick in Soho next Monday, but I don’t know what about. What is the Alchemical Society up to now? That’s why I need to stay here—I’m the only one who can find out. I think we all agree that Beatrice can’t go spying on people—she might poison them accidentally. And Diana—well, just no. And there’s something important happening in Budapest toward the end of September, something connected with the society. There was a week marked off on Seward’s calendar, the twentieth to the twenty-fourth, with just ‘S.A. Budapest’
written on it. But again I don’t know what. Also, I’m starving. Have you all had tea yet?”

  Mary, who had been listening intently, jumped a little. “Mrs. Poole was bringing it. I’ll ring for her.”

  While she rang the bell, which chimed distantly in the kitchen, Dr. Watson looked at the scratches on Catherine’s arm. “These just need washing and a bit of alcohol,” he said. “You’ll be as right as rain in no time, Miss Moreau. And here’s hoping we get some rain, soon.”

  “Catherine, I think we know what will be happening during that week,” said Justine. “Mary received a telegram.”

  “Yes,” said Mary, returning to her armchair. “Look, here it is—” She handed the telegram to Catherine and started explaining the events of that morning. Just as she had gotten to the part where Alice had burst into Mr. Holmes’s parlor, Mrs. Poole came in with tea, followed by Beatrice, who sat on her customary window seat. Then there was tea for them all, with potted meat sandwiches and Victoria sponge and jam tarts, and green sludge for Beatrice. Only Diana and Charlie were absent. Mary was glad her sister had not joined them—Diana would have complained incessantly about being left out.

  “So Mary and Justine will go to Vienna,” said Beatrice. She took a sip of her noxious liquid.

  BEATRICE: You don’t need to describe it like that. If you don’t like it, don’t drink it—I believe that is the English expression? But there is no need to criticize my dietary requirements. At least I’m not a carnivore.

  Catherine scraped the meat in her sandwiches off the bread and ate it with her fingers. She preferred Mrs. Abernathy’s way of serving to this fussy procedure.

  MRS. POOLE: Well! If you don’t like the service, you have only to say, I’m sure. You’re welcome to eat in the kitchen from a bowl on the floor, like Alpha and Omega! Or catch mice in the coal cellar . . . Mrs. Abernathy is a good woman, but this is a lady’s residence. In this house, the food is served proper.

  “I think we can agree that Dr. Seward is planning to attend the meeting Miss Murray described—the meeting of the Société des Alchimistes in Budapest. That is his week marked ‘S.A.’ ” Beatrice leaned forward, elbows on knees, forehead wrinkled. “The threads of this mystery are beginning to weave together—is that correct in English? Meanwhile Catherine will investigate Dr. Seward’s activities in Soho. And I—will I simply hold down the house?”

  “Fort. Hold down the fort.” Mary took another slice of the sponge cake. She was hungrier than she had realized.

  “It feels as though I am the only one not contributing.” Beatrice looked down disconsolately into her cup.

  “But you are,” said Justine. “Someone has to look after Mrs. Poole and Alice, and Diana of course.”

  “And get telegrams,” said Mary. “And make sure we’re all communicating with one another. We really do need you here, Bea.”

  Beatrice nodded, looking unconvinced.

  “And I think we’ll accept your offer to pay for train tickets, Mr. Holmes,” said Mary. “That is, unless anyone has objections?” She did not like the idea herself, but the situation had changed and all their carefully made plans must be set aside.

  None of the members present objected, although Catherine raised her eyebrows and then wrinkled her nose, which was her way of looking displeased.

  “Then we’ll prepare to leave as quickly as possible. In two days’ time, or three at most, Justine and I will leave for Charing Cross Station. And then it’s Dover to Calais, to Paris, to Vienna on the Orient Express.”

  “And you’ll be keeping me apprised along the way?” said Holmes. It was not quite a request.

  “Of course,” Mary replied, more acerbically than she had meant to. He might be paying for this trip, but she wasn’t one of his Baker Street Irregulars, to check in regular with Mister ’olmes. Then she reminded herself that he was footing the bill and they would owe him—gratitude, if nothing else. So she might as well practice being grateful.

  He merely nodded. Once again, he was his usual distant self. Would she ever find out more about the mysterious Irene Norton? Well, she would meet the woman herself in Vienna. She was not particularly looking forward to it.

  In a few days, she would be traveling farther than she had ever traveled before. The thought filled her with equal parts apprehension and elation. But rescuing Lucinda Van Helsing—that was the purpose of this journey. It would be no pleasure trip. Rescuing Miss Van Helsing, and then stopping the Société des Alchimistes from experimenting on any more girls. Tomorrow she would go to the bank and withdraw twenty pounds for travel expenses, then purchase a pair of washable gloves and rubber-soled shoes. Justine would need a man’s mackintosh. What else? Tomorrow morning she would make a list—there was no reason to worry, as long as she stayed organized.

  She did not know, she could not know, that halfway across Europe, Lucinda Van Helsing was locked in a padded cell. And she was screaming.

  CHAPTER IV

  Crossing the British Channel

  Mary stared down at the blue-gray water of the channel, which appeared to be rushing past the ferry although of course it was the ferry that was moving over the water, farther and farther away from England. There were small whitecaps on the waves left in the ferry’s wake. Finally, she felt as though she had time to breathe. The last few days had been a mad rush of preparation. She had gone to the bank so they would have money in Vienna and Budapest. She had studied currency conversion tables to make sure they would not be cheated. Francs and centimes for France, the new krone and hellers for Austria and Hungary although evidently the old florins and kreuzers were still in circulation. It all seemed unnecessarily complicated to her, but then so much about traveling seemed unnecessarily complicated.

  She had met again with Mr. Holmes, who had made the same journey as far as Vienna and could tell her what to expect, at least that far— “Although Hungary is its own entity, Miss Jekyll,” he said. “A strange little country, very proud, with a language that is almost impossible to learn. There, some would tell you, is the edge of civilized Europe! At least you will have one contact in addition to Miss Murray—Irene Norton has responded that she will do her best to help you. When you arrive in Vienna, proceed directly to her apartment.” Mary had mumbled her thanks, not quite knowing what to think or feel about Mrs. Norton’s offer of assistance.

  Finally, she had gone shopping, trying to make sure Mr. Justin Frank and his sister Mary would have whatever they needed on their trip—at a reasonable cost. At the moment, she was wearing a waist bag, and very convenient it was indeed—so much better than carrying a purse. Justine had a carrier bag, which she could sling across her body. They also had a trunk—covered with leather, as suggested in The Complete Lady Traveler by Mrs. Miles-Mowbray, who, according to the advertisement, had traveled to every country in Europe and even crossed the Sahara by camel-caravan. At least there were no camel-caravans on this trip!

  She should check on Justine, who was below being seasick. How large the channel was! They were completely out of sight of land. She had never seen a body of water larger than the Thames, and leaving England like this made Mary feel both excited and melancholy. Just now the melancholy was uppermost, probably because she had not slept well the night before, and so far the day had been a continual whirl of activities. First there had been saying goodbye to Mrs. Poole, Beatrice, Catherine, and Alice, with their baggage around them in the parlor of 11 Park Terrace. Diana had refused to see them off—she had stayed in her room, saying that as no one cared about her or took her anywhere, she did not want to see any of them ever again.

  Mary did not care—well, she cared a little. She had been hurt that her sister had not said goodbye to her, when she would be gone for more than a month. And what would happen in that month? None of them knew. She and Justine were going to the edge of civilized Europe, according to Mr. Holmes. What would they find there? She had no idea.

  Beatrice had held their hands in her gloved ones, and Catherine had surprised Mary by embrac
ing both her and Justine briefly. Usually, Catherine was not one to show affection. Mrs. Poole had cried a little, and Alice had sniffled and then hidden her face in her apron. “Dust in my eyes,” she said in a muffled voice. Mary had taken one last look around the parlor, pausing especially on the portrait of her mother over the fireplace. This would be her last glimpse of what had been her home all her life, until—when? She did not know when, exactly, she would be returning. Mentally she bade the portrait goodbye and promised it that she would come back . . . once their adventures were over.

  MRS. POOLE: I would have done just the same as Alice, if I hadn’t remembered my training. A good servant never gives way to emotion, my father used to tell me when he was alive, bless his soul. You girls going so far away, and not knowing when you’d be back!

  MARY: But we did get back safely in the end, Mrs. Poole.

  MRS. POOLE: Eventually! But the worry I had along the way . . .

  CATHERINE: Can you please do your best to not give away the plot? Like the fact that Mary eventually made it safely home . . . I won’t say whether or not the others did!

  MARY: Oh please. If we hadn’t made it back, we wouldn’t be writing this book. The important thing is, what happened to us on the way?

  CATHERINE: It’s unbelievable, what authors have to put up with from their own characters. Remind me why I agreed to do this?

  MARY: Excuse me. We are not your characters, but fellow members of the Athena Club. And as to why you agreed . . . we need money, remember?

  CATHERINE: Oh, right.

  Watson and Holmes had been waiting outside with a hackney carriage. Watson had shaken their hands heartily, and Holmes had driven with them to Charing Cross Station. He would have helped with the trunk, but Mr. Justin Frank was able to do all the lifting and carrying necessary.

  At Charing Cross, as they were about to board the train to Dover, Mr. Holmes had shaken their hands and held Mary’s, she thought, a little longer than necessary.