European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

by Theodora Goss

  Mary could only point to the book, as though it explained everything. On its cover was written Frankenstein: A Biography of the Modern Prometheus. How had she ever considered herself sensible, responsible? How had she ever thought she could become a detective, like Mr. Holmes?

  “Well, you see, the truth is that I’ve never read it,” said Justine apologetically. “I thought it would be too painful to read about my father, and Adam, and my own supposed destruction. But it was sitting on the table, as though Irene had been consulting it, and I woke up early this morning, long before the breakfast hour. So I began to read. It was good, at first, to read about Switzerland and the Frankenstein family. But once I came to the description of Justine Moritz, I could not continue. . . .”

  Mary sat down abruptly on the sofa. “You don’t understand. Waldman. The name Waldman. I should have recognized it.” She flipped hastily through the book. Justine might not have read it, but she certainly had, after they had solved the Whitechapel Murders and Adam had died in the warehouse fire. She had wanted to know as much about the Société des Alchimistes as possible. As Catherine had warned her, the book contained nothing—it had not mentioned the society at all. But she remembered a mention . . . yes, there.

  “Waldman!” she said with a sort of triumphant anguish, then pointed to the page. “He was Victor Frankenstein’s chemistry professor at the University of Ingolstadt. And that’s where Heinrich Waldman was going to medical school. Oh, how could I have missed it?”

  Justine sat down beside her on the sofa. “Truly? Where?”

  She handed the book to Justine and pointed at the relevant paragraph. Then she put her head in her hands so they hid her face. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. It came out muffled, through her fingers. “Ever since we left England, I feel as though I haven’t been myself. I forget things, I get confused. . . .” She had always known what to do, always been so sure of herself. She had been Miss Mary Jekyll of 11 Park Terrace. Who was she now, in this house that was not hers, in a foreign country? What was happening to her?

  Justine put an arm around her. Mary was startled by the gesture. Justine so seldom touched anyone—she was always afraid that she might hurt them inadvertently. Now, her touch was deliberately gentle.

  “You mustn’t blame yourself. You see, the rest of us lost our homes long ago. Diana was taken to the Magdalen Society. Catherine was transported to Moreau’s island, and Beatrice left her father’s garden in Padua. I, of course, was taken from my native Switzerland when my father decided to reanimate me. But you have a home, one you have never left before. It’s no wonder that you should feel out of sorts, as though you can’t think clearly, away from it.”

  “Justine’s right.” Irene Norton was standing in the doorway. How long had she been there? “I felt the same way when I left New Jersey for the first time, to attend a conservatory in New York. I felt the same way again when I left the United States for Europe. I don’t know you that well, Mary—not yet. But I think you’re the sort of person who’s used to being in control, and now you’re not. Things are happening around you—things that are bigger than you suspected. That’s why I asked if anyone else you met could be a spy for the Société des Alchimistes. Waldman—I knew I’d heard that name before, but I couldn’t remember where. I assume he’s a descendent of the Waldman who was Frankenstein’s professor. A great-grandson, maybe? What I can’t figure out is, why he didn’t give you a false name, which would have been easy enough. Maybe it was some sort of test, to find out how much you knew.”

  “Could it be a coincidence?” asked Justine, as though not quite believing in the possibility herself.

  “There’s no such thing as a coincidence when you’re dealing with an organization like the Société des Alchimistes.” Irene looked grim. It sounded as though she knew a good deal about such organizations herself. Anarchists? Socialists? Surely those were the sorts of groups Irene would know about. . . .

  “I’m so sorry,” said Mary. She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself. She was quite certain that Irene would not have made such a mistake. Would this get back to Mr. Holmes—to Sherlock? Justine’s arm was a reassuring weight around her shoulders.

  Irene looked surprised. “My dear, it’s scarcely your fault. We all make stupid mistakes sometimes. I made one with Sherlock, initially. That’s what human beings do. The only thing to do with a mistake is learn from it. Come on, I want to tell you the result of my conversation with Sigmund, but I want Diana there too, and Hannah and Greta to consult. So stop moping, Mary, and come into the parlor.”

  MRS. POOLE: Irene Norton is one of the most sensible women I’ve met. It’s no use moaning over spilt milk. Best mop it up and move on, as my mother used to say.

  DIANA: Unless the cat has lapped it up first.

  MRS. POOLE: Those dratted cats! I don’t know why I ever let you girls keep them.

  When they were once again in the parlor, Irene rang the bell. A minute later, in trooped two impeccably outfitted maids in black dresses, with white caps and aprons. Dressed in their uniforms, Hannah and Greta looked surprisingly alike, although Greta was slightly shorter. Diana followed them in, looking considerably less impeccable. She seemed to have put on Greta’s clothes from earlier.

  “Here’s the situation,” said Irene, sitting on the sofa while they all stood around, waiting to hear what she would say. “My friend Sigmund has agreed to help, on one condition: he would like to meet Diana first, to assure himself that she will make a convincing mental patient. I told him that would be no problem—”

  “Oy!” said Diana, angrily.

  “But he would like to meet her himself. His reputation and admitting privileges are on the line. Nevertheless, he agreed it was important to help Lucinda, and evidently he has some sort of professional quarrel with Van Helsing, something about psychosexual development. . . . I stop listening when academics start mixing their Greek and Latin roots. That never leads anywhere productive.”

  Justine nodded, as though in agreement. Once again Mary wished she could have continued her studies under Miss Murray, so she would know what they were talking about.

  “Mary, could you take Diana to his consulting rooms? I’m afraid you’ll have to take a cab, since I need the carriage this morning. Also, he lives on the other side of the Ring, and I don’t want you to be seen driving through the middle of Vienna in my equipage. As we’ve learned, the Société des Alchimistes is watching you, and I am watched as well, by parties that are as dangerous, if not more so. I’ll send Hannah with you—she knows the address.”

  “All right,” said Mary. “When do you want us to leave?”

  “As soon as Diana changes back into women’s clothes,” said Irene.

  “Why?” asked Diana, outraged. “I don’t want to.”

  “Because you’re supposed to be neurasthenic and hysterical. No one will question that diagnosis in a girl going through puberty.”

  “Puberty yourself!” said Diana, then whispered to Hannah, “That’s a dirty word, isn’t it? I’m pretty sure that’s a dirty word.”

  “Justine and Greta, I need you to go to the Krankenhaus. Don’t make contact with anyone or let yourselves be seen. Just get a sense for the neighborhood and find a place for us to keep watch while Diana is inside. Perhaps you can rent rooms in one of the nearby buildings? Make sure it has a good sightline. While Diana attempts to contact Lucinda, we will be watching from the outside in case she needs help. And we need to start thinking about possible scenarios for a rescue attempt. Everyone got it?”

  Hannah and Greta said “Yes, madame,” almost in unison. Justine nodded. Diana was still too angry at the prospect of wearing women’s clothes to nod. She stood, arms crossed, with a frown on her face.

  Mary put a hand on Diana’s shoulder. “All right,” she said. “Yes, if this is the plan, let’s do it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she, Diana, and Hannah were in a cab, rattling over the cobblestones of the Ringstrasse, the long, tree-line
d boulevard that circles central Vienna. In her purse were enough krone for cab fare and whatever other expenses she might incur in Vienna, which Irene had given her just as they were leaving. It was far too much, she had told Irene—but then, she was not entirely sure of the exchange rate without consulting her Baedeker. Diana was staring out the window, complaining about something or other.

  Mary was not paying attention to whatever Diana was saying. Waldman had been such a stupid mistake. She must be more vigilant, particularly now they knew someone from the Société des Alchimistes was aware of them and their trip to Vienna. Someone was watching, perhaps having them followed. She looked down at the card Irene had given her, which she had shown to the driver:

  Dr. Sigmund Freud

  Berggasse 19, Alsergrund

  She hoped Dr. Freud could help them.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Address in Soho

  Drat those cats!” said Mrs. Poole.

  “What have they done this time?” Catherine looked up from the dining room table, where she had been poring over a map of London.

  “They chewed this telegram. I put it down for one minute so I could lock the door, and now look at it!” Mrs. Poole held up a piece of paper that did, indeed, look tattered and rather damp.

  “Is it from Mary?” Catherine pushed aside the map. She had been trying to figure out the best way to get to Potter’s Lane through the tangle of Soho.

  “No, from that friend of Mr. Holmes, a Mrs. Norton. Here, take a look yourself.”

  Catherine took the telegram, put it on the table, and read the message on it.

  MARY JUSTINE DIANA ARRIVED SAFELY WILL TAKE CARE OF THEM AS THOUGH MY OWN DAUGHTERS DONT WORRY MRS POOLE BUT ADVISE CAUTION THEY ENCOUNTERED SA AGENT ON TRAIN DO NOT REPLY UNLESS ABSOLUTELY NECESSARY WITH BEST REGARDS IRENE NORTON

  “What do you think that means, ‘S.A. agent on train’?” Mrs. Poole sounded worried.

  “It means that on the train, they met someone from the S.A., presumably,” said Catherine. “Which means that the Société des Alchimistes has been watching us. Damn! We thought they didn’t even know we existed. I think we’re going to have to be a lot more cautious than we’ve been.” She took the telegram from Mrs. Poole. “ ‘S.A. agent on train.’ Couldn’t she have been more specific? Who brought this telegram?”

  “A boy from the telegraph office,” said Mrs. Poole. “He seemed like an ordinary telegraph boy, although he wasn’t wearing his cap, and he had a strange accent. Not Irish. More like Australian, but not exactly. Why do you ask?”

  “I don’t know. I’m becoming suspicious of everyone, I suppose. Although I scarcely think a telegraph boy would be spying for the S.A., even if he were Australian!” Had she seen anyone around Park Terrace recently? She didn’t remember anything suspicious. She would just have to be careful, particularly today, since she was going to find out what Seward and Prendick were up to. It would be better to wear masculine clothes for Soho. She had lost Reverend Josiah Crashaw’s suit, but she still had the clothes she had stolen from the Flying Kaminski Brothers. They would have to do. She wondered what 7 Potter’s Lane was, exactly. Probably a lodging house of some sort, or perhaps a pub? Why did Seward want to meet Prendick there, rather than in his office in Purfleet? She had no idea. Of course it would have been better if she could have gone there ahead of time, to scout out the territory. But there had been the rush of getting Mary and Justine ready to go, and then an article to finish for The Woman’s World that would pay a very badly needed two pounds. She had told Mary to take as much money as she and Justine would need on their trip—and now they would have to pay for Diana as well, drat that girl! But it did leave the Park Terrace household in straitened circumstances.

  Mrs. Poole frowned and put her hands on her hips. “I’m worried about Miss Mary and the rest of them, that’s all. I wish they would write us a proper letter—telegrams are like those Egyptian hieroglyphs they have now at the British Museum. You never quite know what they mean. As for Alpha and Omega, and I don’t know why you couldn’t have called them sensible, decent cat names, like Tom and Puss—just keep them out of my kitchen. Two dead mice they left on the floor yesterday! I stepped on one of them this morning and had to clean the bottoms of my slippers with carbolic!”

  “Well,” said Catherine, reasonably, “I think that comes under the category of doing their jobs, don’t you think? After all, you said they could stay as long as they caught mice. They must have overheard you. And two dead mice are better in the kitchen than two live ones, aren’t they?”

  “Hrumph!” said Mrs. Poole.

  MRS. POOLE: I would never make such an undignified sound!

  MARY: That’s right, Mrs. Poole would never make a sound like that.

  JUSTINE: Never an undignified hrumph. Not our Mrs. Poole.

  BEATRICE: Indeed, Mrs. Poole would never make an undignified sound of any sort.

  DIANA: You’re all kidding, right? Why are you all laughing?

  Just then, the front door bell rang.

  MRS. POOLE: It was actually half an hour later, but if you want to put lies into your book, don’t let me stop you!

  CATHERINE: It’s more suspenseful this way.

  Mrs. Poole went to answer it, but Alice must have gotten there before her, because a moment later she walked into the dining room, followed by a giant of a man in a suit that did not quite fit over his bulging muscles. He looked like a sack of potatoes that had been stuffed into a sock.

  JUSTINE: That’s not fair, Catherine! Atlas is the sweetest, gentlest man I know. He looks nothing like a sack of potatoes.

  CATHERINE: I thought you liked potatoes. Anyway, it’s a good description, whether you appreciate it or not.

  “This gentleman wishes to see you, miss,” said Alice. “He says he knows you from the circus?”

  “Atlas!” Catherine jumped up and almost ran around the table to give him a hug. How long had it been since she had seen him, and all her friends at the Circus of Marvels and Delights? Several months—she had not gone back since moving into 11 Park Terrace, although she had written to Lorenzo, letting him know what had happened to her and Justine. The circus Strongman hugged her back carefully.

  “Hullo, Cat!” he said, with a wide grin on his face. It was a broad face, freckled, with blondish-brown hair spilling over the forehead in an unkempt fashion, which made him look rather like a lion. Its symmetry was marred by a nose that had once been broken and was now permanently crooked, but what might have been disfiguring on a different man was rather charming on his countenance.

  CATHERINE: There, have I redeemed myself? Do you like that better?

  JUSTINE: Yes. A lion is better than potatoes, and more accurate.

  “For goodness’ sake, sit down and tell me all about the circus,” said Catherine. “I miss you all, you know!”

  He sat in one of the dining room chairs, which creaked under his weight. “I came to give you the rest of the money from Lorenzo—he’s very sorry he couldn’t send it sooner! And to make sure you’re all right, you and Justine. Is Justine here?” He looked around as though she might be hiding somewhere in the room, although it offered no places of concealment, particularly for a giantess.

  “Well, now I know why you really came,” said Catherine, sitting in the chair next to his. “No, she’s away at the moment.” No use telling him that Justine was in Vienna. He would only worry about her—he had worried about her enough when they were all in the circus together. On cold winter nights, he would come to their tent to make sure their stove was working, and he always inquired about her health, as though afraid she would catch a cold. “But I’ll tell her you came by, Matthew.” That was his real name, the one he had been baptized with: Matthew Taylor. When she had joined Lorenzo’s Circus of Marvels and Delights, he had already been part of the sideshow, performing feats of strength and showing off his admirable, if somewhat overdeveloped, physique. He had originally come from Manchester, where his father and father’s father had in fac
t been tailors until the factories had put them out of business. Catherine had seen him mend a handkerchief as neatly as a seamstress, although she had been amused by how small the needle looked, almost invisible in his large fingers. He had been a boxer until the broken nose and a concussion that had left him unconscious for several days. After that, he had decided on a less dangerous profession. Catherine knew for a fact that in his spare time, he wrote poetry, because he had written some for Justine.

  JUSTINE: It’s rather good poetry. There’s one that begins, “Where are you going, pale maid, so melancholy. . . .”

  BEATRICE: That’s quite pretty, and describes you very well.

  DIANA: Poetry is such rot. Except Kipling. Kipling is prime, especially the one where they all die at the end.

  JUSTINE: You’re thinking of Tennyson. “Into the valley of death rode the six hundred,” is that not what you meant?

  DIANA: Yeah, that’s the one! How did you know?

  JUSTINE: You left the book open on the floor in my studio. There is a streak of red paint down the center of the page.

  DIANA: Like blood!

  “Well, here’s your money,” said Atlas, looking so disappointed that Catherine wished she could tell him something, anything—that Justine had spoken well of him, at least. But she hadn’t mentioned him since they had left the circus. “Five pounds even, with his apologies for not sending the entire amount at once. The circus business ain’t been too good lately. We ought to have been in Devonshire this month, but three towns said they wanted Bartoli’s circus instead—it has an elephant. So here we are in London, staying at a boardinghouse in Clerkenwell. You should come by and visit—it’s right on Clerkenwell Green, close to St. James’s. Although we might not be there long—Lorenzo’s got a new idea.”

  “Yes, what is it?” asked Catherine absentmindedly. The money would help, since their funds were so low at the moment. But she was already thinking ahead to the adventure of that afternoon. What would she find in Soho? Why was Seward meeting Prendick there? She would go to 7 Potter’s Lane an hour before they were scheduled to arrive and see if she could conceal herself—perhaps there would be a closet, or a storage room of some sort? Somehow, she must find out what was going on.