“What in the world is supposed to happen?” asked Mrs. Poole.
“I’m not sure,” said Catherine. “But in the coal cellar, it was as though we were invisible. Prendick looked right at us and didn’t see us.”
Alice opened her eyes. “And you think I had something to do with that? How could I have? I don’t have any special powers, or anything. I’m just me.”
“Never mind,” said Catherine. “It was just an idea. Anyway, it was dark in that cellar, and maybe his eyesight isn’t as good as it used to be. Who knows, it could have been affected by whatever happened to him after leaving the island.” Did she believe that? Well, at the moment it was the only logical possibility.
“I understand that you need to go, and I certainly won’t stop you,” said Mrs. Poole. “But I think we should at least send a telegram to Miss Murray, warning her about Dr. Seward’s plans. That’s not a reply to Mrs. Norton, is it? By the time Mary and the others arrive, Miss Murray will be prepared. She was always a resourceful young woman when she was governess here. And there’s another practical consideration. We have less than two pounds left in the bank. You’ll have to borrow from Mr. Holmes, I’m afraid.”
“Atlas gave me another five this morning,” said Catherine. “But we need more than that if we’re going to travel quickly. And I don’t want to ask Holmes unless we absolutely have to. He has a way of interfering with one’s plans. I have another idea. Beatrice, have you ever thought of joining the circus?
Beatrice looked at her curiously. “No, not in particular. Why, Catherine? What do you have in mind?
BEATRICE: Now I understand why you and Justine felt so at home there. I’ve never felt such camaraderie anywhere, except here of course.
CATHERINE: Everyone in the circus is an outcast, an outsider. We’re all running away from something. We’re all, in one way or another, monsters.
MARY: I don’t think that’s the right way to talk about—
CATHERINE: I’m talking about the circus, Mary. You can’t correct me about the circus. I’ve been there. I know.
The next morning, Catherine and Beatrice set out for Clerkenwell. Once again, Catherine examined Park Terrace carefully as they left. She had talked to Charlie, asking him if any of the Baker Street boys had seen anything suspicious in the area. “Not as I know of,” he had replied. “But I’ll check with the other boys. One or another of us is always around, on Mr. Holmes’s orders.”
In Clerkenwell, a woman selling newspapers and cheap paperbacks from a stall was able to direct them to Mrs. Protheroe’s boardinghouse, near Clerkenwell Green as Atlas had described. From the outside, it did not look prepossessing, but when did circus folk lodge anywhere that did?
“Are you ready?” asked Catherine.
They were standing on the sidewalk across the street, which was mostly empty, with only a few carts rumbling past and some boys kicking a bottle as though it were a ball. This was not exactly central London! Catherine could see the spire of St. James’s Clerkenwell over the roofs of the buildings, mostly small shops with lodgings above them.
“Ready,” said Beatrice. “Do I look like a circus performer?”
Catherine glanced at her. For the first time since escaping from the house of Professor Petronius, she had left 11 Park Terrace unveiled. They had not heard of or from him in three months—what could be the harm? Or so Beatrice had said that morning. Now she seemed to be enjoying the sunshine on her face, and even the sooty London air. Well, good. No one should have to sequester themselves all the time with a bunch of plants.
“You’ll do,” said Catherine, but her mind was on other things. First, they had to get to Budapest, to help Mary and the others. Second, or was this actually first, they had to get Lorenzo to let them join his touring troupe. And third . . .
That morning, Mrs. Poole had come up to her room. Catherine was still in bed, stretching under the covers. No use in leaving too early—circus folks weren’t exactly early morning risers. “Well, you were right,” she said. “I didn’t believe you last night—I thought you must have been mistaken, or maybe Mr. Prendick was just near-sighted. But this morning I walked into Alice’s room to bring her a fresh water jug, and she wasn’t there! ‘Alice, Alice where are you?’ I called. And just like that, she appeared in front of my eyes. ‘What in the world did you just do?’ I asked her. ‘Only what I did in the cellar,’ she said. ‘I repeated over and over that I wasn’t here, and you didn’t see me. Did you, Mrs. Poole?’ ‘Well, I never,’ I said. ‘Alice, you can make yourself invisible!’ So you were right, miss, in what you said yesterday.”
“It’s not possible to make someone invisible,” said Catherine. She pulled back the covers and sat up.
“Are you telling me to doubt the evidence of my own eyes? I saw her plain as day—or didn’t. One minute she wasn’t there, the next she was sitting on her bed as nice as you please.”
“No, I’m not saying that, Mrs. Poole,” said Catherine. “I’m just saying that when something is physically impossible, there must be another explanation.”
“Hrumph. And are you going to tell Mr. Holmes about all this?”
“I will, I will, but can you give me until this afternoon? I’d like to get some things arranged without his interference—I mean help.”
“Well, all right,” said Mrs. Poole dubiously. “I suppose you know what you’re doing, but I do wish Miss Mary were here. I found a blank telegraph form in the morning room desk, so I filled it out and gave it to Jimmy Bucket to deliver to the office in Camden Town, with the fee and a little for himself. I thought it would be less conspicuous than one of us taking it, just in case we are being watched. I told Miss Murray that you and Beatrice were coming to Budapest—C. M. and B. R. coming, I told her, like a code. And then I said something about beware danger from Dr. S. and Professor Van H. at the S.A. meeting. That should warn her, right enough.”
“Yes, very subtle, thank you, Mrs. Poole,” said Catherine, feeling annoyed. Surely the telegram was an unnecessary risk? She and Beatrice were going to Budapest, after all. They would certainly arrive in time. It would have been nice, she had to admit, to have Mary around. Mary was always so practical in her outlook. She was not as wise as Justine, or as knowledgeable as Beatrice, but she was the best planner. Catherine had the best instincts—of that she was convinced. But pumas were made for jumping and fighting, not planning. Ah well, she would simply have to take care of this situation as best she could—and she thought she knew how.
So she slid off the bed, which was rather high, stood on the bedroom carpet, which was soft under her bare feet, and said, “Mrs. Poole, are there any kippers for breakfast?” Once Mrs. Poole had departed to fry some for her, she went to Mary’s room and looked into her closet. Today, she thought, she would need to wear feminine clothes. The blue dimity afternoon dress—yes, that was the stuff. It would look perfectly respectable. . . .
MARY: That’s my favorite dress!
CATHERINE: Well, then I’m glad I chose so well.
Now she stared at the boardinghouse, with its shutters hanging awry. “Come on,” she said to Beatrice. “It’s the brick one across the street, next to the shoe and boot shop.”
Beatrice nodded, and together they crossed over, between a cart with furniture on it and one carrying sheep, which bleated continually in a way Catherine found particularly annoying. Silly creatures—a Sheep Woman created by Moreau had been her first kill on the island.
JUSTINE: How can you even mention such a thing?
CATHERINE: I’m a carnivore, remember? I can’t eat weeds, the way the rest of you seem to.
They rang the bell and a woman in a patched apron let them in, presumably Mrs. Protheroe herself. She was rather like her boardinghouse—shabby and worn, but neat enough when you looked beneath the patina of time.
JUSTINE: Patina of time! I like that.
CATHERINE: Thank you. It’s always nice when someone notices my finer touches.
Mrs. Protheroe smelled of lavende
r and mothballs. “The circus folks? I’ll let them know you’re here. They have use of the parlor for visitors. It’s to the left down the hall.”
As soon as Catherine walked into the parlor, a man who had been sitting on the sofa, reading the London Times, rose and nodded courteously. Then he looked at her more closely. “Catherine!” he said. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, Clarence,” she said, smiling.
In a moment he had wrapped her in a very thorough hug. Then he stepped back, still holding her by the arms. “How are you, Whiskers? Atlas told me you were doing well. But don’t you look fancy! And who is your friend?”
Catherine looked back at Beatrice, who was standing behind her.
“This is Beatrice Rappaccini. Beatrice, my good friend Clarence Jefferson.”
“Miss Rappaccini.” Clarence bowed. He was a fine figure of a man, almost as tall as Justine, lean and broad-shouldered. His features proclaimed him a son of Africa, and indeed in Lorenzo’s circus he was billed as the Zulu Prince, who performed his bloodthirsty native dances for anyone who bought a ticket to the sideshow.
“Mr. Jefferson.” Beatrice nodded in response. Catherine could see that she was struck by his air of self-possession and the nobility of his mien.
DIANA: What the hell is a mien?
BEATRICE: I don’t think Clarence would appreciate your romanticizing him, Catherine. And he is from Boston, not Africa, which anyway happens to be a continent that contains a multitude of peoples and countries. It is not simply one place.
CATHERINE: I know that perfectly well. I’ve known Clarence longer than you have. But he does actually look like that, including the noble mien. Which, for those who don’t know how to use a dictionary, means his countenance, his demeanor—the way he looks. You could have looked up the word up yourself, Diana—you’re not a complete ignoramus.
DIANA: Fine, I’ll add that to my vocabulary list. Also ignoramus.
Clarence held out his hand toward Beatrice, as though to shake hers.
“Don’t touch her!” said Catherine sharply. “She’s poisonous. All right, as long as she has gloves on, but I still wouldn’t get too close.”
Clarence looked as though he were about to ask her what in the world she meant when in walked Lorenzo, with Atlas close behind him.
“Caterina!” He threw his arms wide, then put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her loudly on both cheeks. “Mio bellissimo gattino! It is so good to see you.” He was a short, round man with the mobile face of a clown, which in fact he had once been. It could look sad or happy at a moment’s notice, but now it looked particularly happy. “How have you been? You got the money I sent? I am so sorry—I could not send the entire sum earlier. It is the bills; they are terrible. Even here in this house, it is expensive to maintain so many. But we are a family, are we not, I tell my performers. We will not part until we have to. How are you? And how is la bella Justina? Sit, sit. Tell me all about yourself.”
Catherine sat on the sofa where Clarence had been sitting and moved his newspaper to the side. “I will, happily. But Lorenzo, I have a proposition for you.”
“A business proposition?” Suddenly, his expression was completely serious. “Tell me.” He sat on the sofa beside her. Clarence motioned for Beatrice to take the only other comfortable chair, and he sat on a rickety wooden one that looked as though it might collapse under him. Atlas, who was always afraid that his weight would break whatever he sat on, leaned against the wall.
“This is my friend, Beatrice Rappaccini,” said Catherine, gesturing toward Beatrice as though she were a shop girl displaying her wares.
“Ah yes, the beautiful lady,” said Lorenzo. “I had indeed noticed her. How could I not have?” He turned toward Beatrice. “But Rappaccini . . . sei italiana?”
“Sì, signore,” she replied. “Sono nata e cresciuta a Padova.”
“Ah, bella Padova! Spesso ho nostalgia del bel paese. But forgive me, I am being rude. You can speak in English?”
“Imperfectly,” said Beatrice, with her usual perfect command of the language. “I have learned much of the native tongue in this great city.”
“We must talk more about Italy!” said Lorenzo. “I myself am a Florentine. Alas, it has been so long since I have seen my native land. . . . But Caterina, what is this business of which you spoke?”
Catherine leaned forward. Would he agree to what she wanted? She was about to find out. “Do you remember the Poisonous Girl, who was appearing at the Royal College of Surgeons several months ago? You said that you would give a great deal to have such an attraction in the sideshow.”
“Sì,” said Lorenzo. Well, he was looking interested—puzzled and interested. That was something.
“Beatrice is the Poisonous Girl. I know you’re taking the show to Paris. I want you to take us with you, to Paris and then if you’re going farther—well, it depends on where you go. We need to get to Budapest, quite urgently, for reasons I would rather not discuss.” She did not think he would ask. Circus folks did not ask personal questions. They all had things they would rather keep hidden.
Lorenzo looked at Beatrice with astonishment. “È vero? Is this true, that you are the Poisonous Girl?”
“Alas, it is,” she replied. “I wish it were not so.”
“Show me,” said Lorenzo. “A kiss here.” He tapped his cheek with one finger. “That used to be part of your show, did it not?”
Reluctantly, Beatrice rose and walked over to where he was sitting. She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek he had indicated, next to his sideburn.
“Ah!” he said, darting back from her on the sofa. “That is—it sting like a wasp!” On his cheek was a fierce red mark, as though her lips had burned him.
“Alas that I do not have any ointment to soothe that burn!” she said. “You must put a cold cream on it, or it will blister.”
“Non importa!” said Lorenzo, waving his hand. “You shall be our star! We will make much money. I will telegraph to Paris to add more shows. And then perhaps Frankfurt? Berlin and Prague have shown some interest, but I have not booked any other shows as yet. Now they will want us! Now they will give us the best and largest theaters! And of course Caterina will come along as our Cat Woman?”
“Yes, but we can’t go to Berlin or Prague,” said Catherine. “We could go to Vienna—that’s on the way. If you book shows in Vienna and Budapest, we could go with you. But not as the Cat Woman and Poisonous Girl. You need to find new names for us.” Would the Société des Alchimistes know them by their circus appellations? She had no idea, but she did not want to take that risk. If they could stop in Vienna, even briefly, so much the better—perhaps Mary and Justine might still be there, and if not, she could find out from Irene Norton where they had gone. “And we would like the same salaries Justine and I had, plus fifty percent of the profits from Beatrice’s show.”
“I can guarantee that it will be profitable, signore,” said Beatrice. “The only proviso is that I will not kill a living thing. But I was the Poisonous Girl for many months. I know how to put on a show.”
“I have no doubt, signorina,” said Lorenzo. “Vienna may be a possibility. Let me see what I can do. And I will give you twenty percent. I will have to spend much on advertising, remember. What would you like to be called? Of course for Paris, it will have to be in French.”
Well! That was higher than Catherine had expected him to start with. “Forty percent. Imagine how a photograph of Beatrice will bring them in, especially the gentlemen!”
“I could be perhaps La Femme Toxique,” said Beatrice.
“Ah, but photographs are expensive! Thirty percent. And la bella Beatrice”—he pronounced it “Beatriche”—“will be La Belle Toxique. As for you, Caterina—what name would you choose? It must still be one that will attract the audience, you know—we need to make money, after all.”
“La Femme Chatte?” said Beatrice. “No, that is too much like the Cat Woman. What about La Femme Panthère? A puma is a type of p
anther, is it not?”
“Done!” said Catherine. “Puma, panther, whatever. I’ll be the panther woman if you want me to.” Thirty percent was more than she had hoped for. If Beatrice drew a large audience in Vienna, and there was no reason she should not, they would have plenty of money to make it to Budapest, whether or not Lorenzo could take them all the way. How much did the Société des Alchimistes know about them, anyway? She was not sure. But if they were traveling as circus performers, rather than as themselves, they would have a better chance of evading scrutiny. And what was more important, they would be among friends. Most importantly, they would not have to rely on Holmes.
MARY: Why were you so determined not to take money from Mr. Holmes?
CATHERINE: Because you did, and look what happened. You had everything planned out, and then you dropped it all in a minute because he wanted you to, because he thought it would be for the best. And you didn’t even protest. You may not mind being controlled in that way, but I do. I had enough of that on Moreau’s island.
MARY: You are such a puma sometimes!
CATHERINE: Thank you.
“We leave on Friday,” said Lorenzo. “Early, mind! You must be at Charing Cross Station at 8:30 a.m., no sleeping late! And if Signorina Rappaccini could supply herself with some costumes appropriate to her performance, I would be most appreciative. Or she could borrow Madam Zora’s, but I do not think they would quite fit!”
“We’ll be there.” That would give them two days to prepare and pack. Well, if it had been enough for Mary, it would be enough for them. “There’s one thing more. Is Marvelous Martin still with you?”
“Of course,” said Lorenzo. “He’s up in his room, lying down. You know he has his emicrania, his migraines.”
“Yes, I know. Could I talk to him for a moment?”
“As long as our landlady does not object. She is depressingly proper.”
“I’ll take you up,” said Atlas.
Catherine smiled at him. “I could not have a better chaperone.” He blushed. It was amusing to make such a large man blush.
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 19
