European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

by Theodora Goss

  They all sat silent for a moment.

  “I have no ideas,” said Justine, shaking her head. “I wish Catherine had come with us. She is so resourceful—surely she would have thought of something.”

  DIANA: Oh, you just had to put that in, didn’t you?

  JUSTINE: But I really did say it, at the time. At least, I think I said it. Once it’s written down, one assumes the manuscript is accurate, rather than one’s memories.

  “Well, we don’t have Catherine,” said Mary. She felt anxious and cross at the same time. She was supposed to be the resourceful one, wasn’t she? At least, that had been her role in solving the Whitechapel Murders. But ever since coming abroad, she had felt discombobulated, as though she were still on that ferry, bobbing up and down on the ocean waves. Still, she should be able to come up with some sort of plan. She leaned forward and put her chin in her hands, looking more closely at the map. Even a place like the Krankenhaus must have its weaknesses. What were they?

  “Oh, come on,” said Diana. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean, it’s obvious to me.”

  “I think some sort of disguise might be our best option,” said Mary. “You said Mrs. Van Helsing died there. Was there a priest for the funeral? Justine would make a good priest, I think. She might be able to get in that way, and then get up to the third floor. She’s strong enough to break most locks. The guards might not suspect a priest. And as for getting Lucinda out, what about a coffin? You could conceal someone in a coffin. . . . A coffin wouldn’t be searched, would it?”

  “But we would have to wait for another a patient to die,” said Justine. “That could take months. Or years! And how would I get up to the third floor dressed as a priest? I would be spotted immediately in such conspicuous garb. Even if I did manage it, how would I get Lucinda into a coffin, and what would I do with the corpse? There are many uncertainties in your plan, Mary.”

  DIANA: That was the stupidest plan ever.

  MARY: It wasn’t a plan. It wasn’t supposed to be a plan. I was just proposing ideas.

  DIANA: And ignoring mine, as usual.

  “You’re not listening to me!” said Diana, kicking the table.

  “I doubt my friend Otto would appreciate your exuberance,” said Irene. “He made that table especially for me. What is it, Diana?” She put a hand on Diana’s shoulder, as though to both soothe and restrain her.

  Now what did Diana want? Once again, Mary felt very sorry indeed that she had allowed her sister to accompany them. Maybe it would have been better if Diana had run off to Canada or Australia! At least Mary wouldn’t have to deal with her tantrums.

  “It’s a prison, right? Or it might as well be. How did my dad get in and out of prison?”

  Irene shook her head. “That’s a part of your story Sherlock didn’t tell me.”

  “He didn’t get into prison,” said Mary. For goodness’ sake, what did this have to do with Lucinda Van Helsing? “He was arrested and sent to Newgate for the murder of Sir Danvers Carew.”

  “Yeah, but then he got out again! See”—Diana turned to Irene—“my dad, Mr. Hyde that is, was taken to Newgate Prison because he murdered someone, and who’s to say that someone didn’t deserve it? Being murdered, I mean. Anyway, he got out, easy peasy. Once he was in, he could see where the guards were, when they were coming or going. And he could pick the locks. At least, that’s what I think happened—I don’t know of course, because he left without saying goodbye. He’s not the best dad, but he’s the only one we’ve got, so shut up, Mary—I can see you’re about to interrupt. Well, I can pick any lock that’s ever been made.”

  “I wasn’t about to interrupt,” said Mary. “So what you’re saying is, once you’re in, you can get out—or at least up to the third floor to talk to Lucinda, assuming it’s not guarded as well as locked, which we don’t know. Well, how are you going to get into the Krankenhaus in the first place?”

  “The same way Dad did.”

  “By murdering someone?” asked Justine, looking puzzled.

  “I swear, none of you are thinking except me! You get into a prison by murdering someone, right? Well, you get into an asylum by going hysterical and neuras—whatever Irene said. Irene said her friend could admit patients, right? And once you’re in, you can see where the guards are, how to get around them. They can’t keep watch all the time—guards have to walk around, or go take a piss. Easy peasy.”

  “No!” said Mary. “Absolutely not. We are not going to send you into an institution for insane criminals. You’re my sister, and I won’t allow it. I don’t care how great you think you are at picking locks. What if you can’t get out again?”

  “She could, if Sigmund admitted her,” said Irene. “He would be the one deciding how long she stayed in the Krankenhaus. He could order her release, or transfer her someplace else. Unless she was caught, of course. Then I doubt he would be able to do anything to help you, Diana, and I hesitate to involve him any further. He’s doing important work—I don’t want to jeopardize his career. But . . . can you really pick any lock? Any lock at all?”

  “Of course,” said Diana scornfully.

  “I want you to show me. Come on.” Irene rose and motioned for Diana to follow her. What in the world was she doing? Was she going to make Diana demonstrate her lock-picking abilities? If so, how? Mary looked at Justine, who shrugged to indicate that she didn’t know what was going on either.

  Diana followed Irene, nose in the air like a duchess, still in her nightgown.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake . . . ,” said Mary, rising from the armchair. “Come on, Justine. I want to see what this is all about.”

  Irene led them down the hall toward the back of the apartment, then down a set of narrow stairs. This must be the first floor, where the servants lived? Yes, there was the door to the kitchen. Mary could see the large black range, a long central table at which Hannah and Greta were both sitting, and the usual accoutrements of a kitchen arranged around the walls. Strings of dried peppers and garlic hung from the ceiling. An older woman, presumably Frau Schmidt because she was wearing a cook’s white cap and apron, was standing by the stove.

  “Hannah, do you have a minute?” Irene called from the kitchen doorway.

  “Of course, madame,” said Hannah, coming to the door. “What do you require?”

  “Not a maid, at the moment. I want to see who’s a better lockpick, you or Diana here.”

  Hannah looked at Diana appraisingly. “I am very fast,” she said.

  “Are you now,” said Diana. “We’ll see about that!”

  “Then follow me,” said Irene. “We’re going to the office.”

  She led them to the end of the hall, which was . . . the end of the hall. It was a dead end, leading to nothing, paneled and with a painting hanging on it. The painting was of a blue jar filled with red poppies, which must be Irene’s favorite flower.

  Irene lifted the painting and turned a knob on the wall behind it. Mary was startled to see the wall swing inward. It was a door, after all.

  “Just a moment,” said Irene. “I need to turn on the light in here.” Mary heard a click, and then the room was filled with light.

  “It’s . . . it’s electrified!” said Justine.

  “Yes, I had electricity installed in this room. For what we do here, we need light brighter than a gas lamp can provide. Come in, all of you.” Irene held the door until they all followed her in, then shut the door behind them.

  The room was about the size of Dr. Jekyll’s study back at 11 Park Terrace, smaller than a parlor but larger than a morning room. There were no windows. Three walls were covered with shelves, which held books and file boxes. On the fourth wall hung a variety of weapons: swords, knives, pistols of various sorts, even a rifle. At the far end of the room was a large desk, which made it look like an office. But in the middle of the room was a table of dark wood surrounded by chairs that made it look more like a room for conferences, rather like the dining room at 11 Park Terrace where the Athena Clu
b held its meetings—but with weapons.

  “What is this room?” asked Mary, looking around with astonishment.

  Irene did not answer. Instead, she lifted a box down from one of the shelves and put it on the table. She opened it and took out—what were they? Mary had to step closer to the table to see. They were metal . . . ah, locks. A variety of locks, both ancient and modern.

  “Ten for Diana, ten for Hannah,” said Irene, sorting the locks into two piles. She reached into the box again, rummaged around a bit, and took out a stopwatch, which she set on the table. Then she reached up and pulled two hairpins out of her hair, which was done up in style that managed to be simple and elaborate at the same time. How did Irene and Beatrice manage that sort of thing? Mary had no idea. “Here.” Irene handed Hannah and Diana each a hairpin. “First to open all the locks wins. I’ll time you. Ready?”

  “Wins what?” asked Diana.

  “My admiration and esteem. You should know that Hannah is very, very good. Probably better than you!”

  “As if,” said Diana, but she picked up the hairpin. Hannah gave her the sort of scornful look that is the particular property of a superior parlormaid.

  Mary looked at the two girls, one still in her nightgown, the other in a prim black uniform with white cap and apron. Which of them would win? She pushed aside one of the chairs so she could stand closer to the table.

  “Ready?” said Irene, picking up the stopwatch. “Go!”

  It was rather beautiful to watch, like a ballet. First, both girls twisted the hairpins into their preferred shapes. Then with precise movements they picked up each of the locks in front of them, turning their hairpins in the keyhole, quickly and carefully. The lock would click, unusually loud in the quiet room, and then they would go on to the next one. Pick up, insert hairpin, turn, click. Pick up the next lock.

  Who in the world was Irene Norton, that she had a parlormaid who could pick locks? Or a secret chamber in her house? Or a wall of weapons? Of course she was a friend of Mr. Holmes, but she was surely more than that! A thief, the leader of a gang of thieves, perhaps? Mary could not quite see Irene as a thief. Was she a detective, like Holmes?

  There—while she had been distracted, Hannah had just put down her final lock. But Diana’s locks were already on the table in front of her. Had she unlocked them all? Or were there still more to unlock? No, she was stretching and yawning with her mouth open as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Hannah, six minutes, fifteen seconds. Diana, five minutes, forty-seven seconds. If you ever want to join our merry little band, you have a job waiting for you.” Irene put the locks back in their box. “All right, I have one more thing I want to do here. Diana, why don’t you get dressed? Hannah, thank you, you’ve beaten your own best time. Can we reconvene in the parlor in about fifteen minutes? Mary and Justine, if you’ll stay for a moment, I’d like to have a word.”

  “You have beaten me square,” said Hannah, holding out her right hand. “If you wish to, come to the kitchen later to see me and my sister. You will like her, I think. We will tell you some good stories, and Frau Schmidt always leaves a sweet in the cabinet for us, torte or strudel.”

  “Fair and square,” said Diana, taking her hand and giving it a good, firm shake. “I’ll come down when I get bored of this lot, which might be pretty soon. Also, can I borrow your sister’s clothes so I don’t have to go around looking so idiotic? Come on.” As they left together, Mary heard Diana say, “You did good, you know. I’ve never met anyone nearly as quick as I am.”

  When Diana and Hannah had gone off, one to get dressed, the other presumably back to the kitchen, Irene turned to Mary. “I think Diana could do it. I think she could get through those locks. Ideally, she would establish contact with Lucinda Van Helsing. I don’t want her to do more than that—just let Lucinda know we’re coming for her. But even if she can’t get to Lucinda, she could gather information on the asylum routine, most importantly whether there are guards on the third floor. If so, how many of them are there? Where are they stationed and when do they patrol? We’ll need to know all that when we get in—however we get in! She’s quick and clever—even quicker than Hannah, which I didn’t think was possible. And she’s the one who came up with this plan. The question is, are you willing to let her do it? I’m asking you in particular because you’re her sister. I know the two of you don’t always get along, but I also know you’re protective of her, as you should be. This would put her in danger—there’s no doubt about that. However, she’s our best chance of establishing contact with Lucinda and getting the lay of the land, as it were. Once she reports back to us, we can figure out how to effect a rescue. What do you say?”

  Justine responded before Mary could. “Irene, if you will forgive me—what is all this? The secret chamber, the weapons on the wall. I think we would like”—she caught Mary’s eye—“yes, Mary and I would like some sort of explanation.”

  Irene laughed. “Am I a criminal mastermind? Or the leader of a radical political faction, perhaps an Anarchist? No, nothing so glamorous. When I was a young soprano traveling all over Europe, my country asked me to keep an eye on things. America is a young country, not yet a power in the world, but it wants to be. And it wants to know what’s happening in Europe. It has a network of—well, observers. That’s what I do—observe. Gather information. Whom are the generals supporting? Which financiers are having coffee together? Does the Emperor have indigestion? It’s more important when an Emperor has indigestion than when ordinary people do—it can lead to all sorts of consequences. That sort of thing. Once, that work led me to a connection with the King of Bohemia, which is how I met Sherlock. I gave it up when I married, but after my husband died, I had no other work to do, no other reason to go on—it was too late to go back to singing. And so I took it up again.”

  “You’re a spy!” said Justine.

  Irene laughed again. She had a deep, rich, musical laugh. “A spy would never tell you she was a spy, my dear. Can we get back to the question of Diana? I’m going to contact my friend and ask him for help. I’m not sure I should, considering the danger to his professional standing if anyone finds out he was involved. However, I would rather explain the situation to him and allow him to make his own decision. Even if he’s not willing to help, he can give us valuable advice. But first I need to know—will you allow her to do this?”

  Mary realized they were both waiting for her to speak. “Diana’s only fourteen,” she said, stalling for time. “And Justine knows how difficult she can be. She rarely does what she’s told.”

  “But remember how useful she was when you had to come into the warehouse to rescue me and Beatrice,” said Justine. “I would not be here today if it weren’t for her.”

  DIANA: Exactly, and don’t you forget it!

  “Yes, well, remember that afterward she helped Hyde escape!” said Mary. “She’s only going to go in and make contact, right? And observe the guards? Nothing more? How long would she be in there?”

  “I think we should give her three days,” said Irene. “If she can’t make contact in three days, we’ll bring her out again and try something else.”

  Mary turned and stared very hard at the wall of weapons without seeing them. “All right,” she said after a moment. “Talk to your friend, and let’s see what he says. Anyway, maybe he’ll say no.”

  Irene nodded. She walked over to the desk and sat down, then pulled an instrument that had been sitting on a corner of the desk toward her. Was it a microscope of some sort? It looked rather like a candlestick on a base. She picked up what looked like the candle snuffer—what in the world was she doing?

  “You have a telephone!” said Justine.

  “We are quite modern in Vienna,” said Irene, smiling. “Can you give me some time alone? I think this conversation is going to take a while.”

  “Of course,” said Mary. As she headed out of the room, she whispered to Justine, “So that’s what a telephone looks like!”

&n
bsp; “You’ve never seen a telephone before?” asked Justine.

  “Only in advertisements. Not even Mr. Holmes has a telephone. Don’t tell me you’ve seen one!”

  “No, I have not seen one either. Not a real one.”

  They did not talk as they went back upstairs to the parlor, perhaps because there was too much to talk about. As they passed the door of the study where Justine had spent the night, she patted her waistcoat and said, “I think I’ve forgotten my pocket watch. I must have left it on the table by the sofa, or perhaps on the desk. Men’s clothes require such constant thought! All the rules for when you must raise your hat . . .”

  “I think women’s clothes are equally difficult,” said Mary. “It’s just that we’re used to them. Well, go find it, then. I’m sure we have a few minutes before Irene finishes her conversation on the telephone. So this friend of hers must have a telephone as well? I assume that’s how it works, sort of like a telegraph but with speech.”

  She followed Justine into the study, which was darker than the rest of the second floor, with wooden shelves that reached to the ceiling and thick velvet curtains. The sofa Justine had been sleeping on was long and deep, perfect for curling up with a good book. Mary looked at the side table, but there was a book on it, rather than the pocket watch Justine was searching for. When she saw the title, she gasped.

  “Oh. Oh no. I’ve been such an idiot!” Mary put her hands up to her face and covered her cheeks. If they weren’t red with shame, they should be.

  Justine held up the pocket watch. “There, you see, I left it on the desk where I would see it first thing, but forgot to put it into my watch pocket this morning. A man would not have forgotten. Mary, whatever is wrong?”