“Yes, but she’s in danger,” said Catherine. “Not in Vienna, but I found out that Seward and Van Helsing are planning to do more than present papers when the Alchemical Society meets in Budapest. They’re planning to take power, by force if necessary. Do you know of anyone named Dr. Raymond? I remember that name from somewhere. . . .”
Beatrice sat down in one of the armchairs, elegant as usual. Catherine could tell that she was tired too, but did Beatrice show it? No, she did not.
DIANA: How could you tell she was tired, if she didn’t show it?
CATHERINE: Well, I assumed she was, after all that walking.
DIANA: That doesn’t mean you could tell.
CATHERINE: How about you go somewhere else and do something dangerous, like lighting yourself on fire? That should be fun.
DIANA: Doesn’t work, unless you have some sort of flammable liquid to douse yourself with.
MARY: I’m not even going to ask how you know that.
“Dr. Raymond . . . ,” said Watson, then pulled on his pipe. “No, I’m afraid not. Is he a member of the medical profession, or is his doctorate in something else?”
“You may be thinking of Mrs. Raymond,” said Beatrice. “Remember, from the Society of St. Mary Magdalen, where Diana was being kept. Could she be involved with this somehow?”
“No, I remember now!” said Catherine. “Dr. Raymond is one of the trustees of the Purfleet Asylum. He’s the one who summoned Seward, that day I went to the asylum and made a mess of things. Evidently, he was also the head of the English chapter of the Alchemical Society before it was disbanded—by decree of the president, whoever that might be. I assume he’s a medical doctor, like Dr. Jekyll, but who knows. The important thing is that he’s in league with Seward and Van Helsing—and Prendick. If he is a doctor—like you—could you find out anything about him?”
“I could look in the Medical Directory and ask around,” said Watson. “But you mentioned Mr. Prendick. Did he then survive the fire in the warehouse? We suspected that he might have escaped out the back.”
“However he did it, he’s still alive—unfortunately.” Catherine sighed and leaned back, letting her head rest against the upholstery. The thought of Prendick made her even more tired—she hated the idea of confronting him again, and yet, if she went to Budapest to help Mary and Justine, that was exactly what it would be—another confrontation.
“Can you tell me the source of this information?” asked Watson. “It sounds as though you have been investigating yourselves—commendable, although I hope you’re not exposing yourselves to unnecessary danger.”
“Not unnecessary, of course,” said Beatrice, with a reassuring smile. He did not look particularly reassured.
“Tea, in the dining room,” said Mrs. Poole, who had come in unnoticed. “It’s long past time you ate, and Dr. Watson, I hope you will take some tea with us as well. It must be quite gloomy in 221B, with Mr. Holmes gone. It’s a meat tea, you know—substantial enough for a busy gentleman such as yourself.”
“It is rather gloomy with Holmes gone,” said Watson. He looked as though he had not given much thought to meals lately. “Thank you very much—I accept the invitation!”
Over tea, which was certainly more substantial than usual—evidently, Mrs. Poole thought gentlemen needed a good deal of food—Catherine explained the events of the last few days, with Alice, who had joined them, adding details. Watson was startled when Archibald brought in the sandwiches—excellent roast beef, the way only Mrs. Poole can make it—while Mrs. Poole carried in the large teapot on a tray. Catherine was amused by how suspiciously he regarded the Orangutan Man.
“Are you quite sure that creature is safe to keep here, with you?” he asked. “Remember that he used to work for your adversaries! He was there when Adam kidnapped Miss Frankenstein.”
“We are all creatures here, Dr. Watson,” said Beatrice. “God’s creatures, I should hope. We can scarcely blame Archibald for having been turned into what he is.”
“They had him chained up!” added Alice. “He’s grateful to be here, really he is. And I’m teaching him to play checkers.”
“Well, you know best,” said Watson, shaking his head. “But I wish this journey you intend to make wasn’t necessary, or that Holmes or I could go with you. I would offer to come myself, but I believe I had better wait here, in case Holmes needs me. He may be in danger.”
“Anyway, I scarcely think you would fit into the circus, except as the Ordinary Gentleman,” said Catherine. “Demonstrating the attributes of the perfectly normal, non-monstrous Englishman of the nineteenth century. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, to see this paragon of normalcy!”
Alice could not help laughing, which was unfortunate because she was drinking tea at the time, and it came out as more of a sputter—with tea spilled on the table. “Oh, sorry, miss,” she said, to no one in particular, and scurried out to fetch a damp cloth.
“Catherine, stop teasing and finish your tea,” said Beatrice. “Dr. Watson, it’s very kind of you to offer your protection, but I assure you that we can take care of ourselves.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, but not with conviction.
MARY: Men never seem to believe that women can take care of themselves! And Dr. Watson is particularly annoying in that regard.
BEATRICE: Mary, he was only trying to be chivalrous.
MARY: I know. In a way, that makes it worse.
“And what about your plants, Miss Rappaccini?” he asked.
Beatrice put down her delicious mug of pond scum.
BEATRICE: How many different ways can you think of to mock my eating habits?
CATHERINE: I don’t know yet. I haven’t finished writing the book.
“I’m afraid they will die in my absence,” she said. “I am the only one who can take care of them in that toxic atmosphere—except Justine, who is immune to poisons. But of course she is in Vienna. Anyone who went into that room to water them would soon collapse from their fumes.”
“Can you not create some sort of automatic watering system?” asked Watson. “I saw something of the sort when I served in Afghanistan, where there is little rainfall and all water must be preserved. It was an ingenious system of wooden pipes, but I believe the same effect could be achieved, at little expense, with rubber tubes. Once the system is in place, the water can be turned on from a central spigot, set very low so that the water flows to the plants drop by drop. They are never overwatered, nor do they dry out.”
“I don’t know,” said Beatrice, doubtfully. “There is a spigot in the operating theater, but who could build such a system?”
“Why, I believe you and I could do it. I could install it wearing a patented Lung Protector Holmes purchased some time ago, for a case that required going down into a collapsed mine. It is a sort of mask that fits over the face and filters the air. It should protect me for the relatively short period of time it would take to set up the tubing.”
Beatrice did not respond, but looked at him with concern. She seemed to have little faith that a Lung Protector, no matter how patented, could protect him from the poisonous effects of her medicinal garden.
JUSTINE: But it worked, in the end. Did you know that the first such device was invented in Baghdad by three brothers? They describe it in The Book of Ingenious Devices, where they also propose a variety of automata . . .
CATHERINE: Is this a novel or a scientific lecture?
The next two days were unusually busy ones. Alice accompanied Catherine to the boardinghouse in Clerkenwell with reluctance, and looked as though about to run away when Marvelous Martin sat up in bed and said, “Lord have mercy, I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s like a hurricane, that’s what it is. How can you stand it, girl, with all those waves crashing around you? I’ll come twice a week and teach you how to control them.” He turned to Catherine. “Lorenzo doesn’t need me on this continental jaunt of yours—he says I should stay here and wait until the circus returns to London. So I hav
e some time to devote to little Alice, here. All I ask in payment is more of this—whatever this concoction calls itself.” He held up the bottle of milky liquid that Beatrice had given Catherine for him. “I can’t tell you how wonderful it is, to feel pain receding like the tide. Why, I might be wanting a bit of breakfast!”
“I don’t think it calls itself anything,” said Catherine. “But Beatrice said if it worked, she would make up more, to be dispensed in regular doses by Mrs. Poole. She says you must never exceed the dose, because what is medicine in small quantities is toxic in large ones. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, although his attention seemed to have drifted away with the pain. “Now Alice, when you made yourself disappear, how did you do it? Can you show me?”
Catherine sighed. Sometimes she thought she was the only person in the world with an ounce of practicality.
MARY: There are plenty of other people who are practical, you know!
DIANA: And where do you get off calling yourself practical? You’re a writer.
There was no time for passports, but then they would not be trying to pass themselves off as ordinary travelers. They would travel as La Belle Toxique and La Femme Panthère, circus performers. Mrs. Poole helped them with their theatrical costumes. Catherine’s Cat Woman costume, which Clarence had kept for her, was in reasonably good shape, but she had some ideas about how to make it even more effective on stage.
CATHERINE: I gave him a good talking-to about the fact that Beatrice was poisonous, and he should leave her alone. He didn’t seem very happy with me. But it was nice of him to have kept my costume.
JUSTINE: I’m afraid your warning did not have at all the intended effect.
CATHERINE: I should have known that telling Clarence to do anything would be completely useless. In fact, I think he took it as a sort of challenge!
Beatrice needed a costume appropriate for La Belle Toxique. A tea gown of Mrs. Jekyll’s was remade in a more modern style. A more artistic style, Beatrice insisted.
“Although what is wrong with the fashions I grew up with, I don’t know,” said Mrs. Poole. “All this drapery—heathenish, I think it is. Give me a good stiff corset and petticoats starched so they stand up by themselves! That’s what proper young ladies wore in my day.”
“And you are more than welcome to them,” said Beatrice.
Wearing his patented Lung Protector, Watson set up the system of rubber tubing that would water Beatrice’s plants. It made him look rather like a frog, which sent both Catherine and Alice into fits of laughter, but scared Archibald so much that he would not come out from under his bed until Watson had gone.
On the night before their departure, Watson dined with them at 11 Park Terrace. “Have you heard anything more from Vienna?” he asked.
“Not yet,” said Catherine. “I just wish I knew what was going on! And Holmes? No word from him?” She took more of the roast beef. Mrs. Poole made excellent roast beef, and it was even better the second or third day. Watson and Alice could eat the potatoes.
“None,” said Watson, looking particularly dejected. “Miss Moreau, if you need any money . . .”
“We don’t, actually. But thank you, Dr. Watson. You really have been kind and thoughtful these last few days. I’m not very good at thanking people, but I’m grateful for your help. More potatoes? And there’s this green thing—haricots verts, Mrs. Poole called them, although I’m pretty sure that’s not how it’s pronounced in French.”
“As am I, most grateful,” said Beatrice, giving him one of her serious smiles. She seemed to be eating haricot verts soup. What in the world would she eat while traveling with the circus? Well, maybe they could pick her some weeds from the side of the road!
BEATRICE: You know I can go quite a long time with just sunlight.
CATHERINE: I know. That’s so weird. You’re just so weird sometimes.
BEATRICE: However you meant that, I will take it as a compliment.
“Well, it’s only my duty of course,” said Watson. Oh good, he was taking more of the pig food. It was difficult to tell by gaslight, but Catherine would have sworn he was blushing.
BEATRICE: Dr. Watson really is the staunchest, most loyal of friends.
JUSTINE: Just friends? You mean like Clarence?
BEATRICE: Well no, Clarence is a different kind of friend entirely.
MARY: Poor Dr. Watson. I really do feel sorry for him.
BEATRICE: You are all misunderstanding me.
CATHERINE: No, we’re not.
Friday morning dawned bright and clear. By 8:30 a.m., Catherine and Beatrice were on the platform at Charing Cross Station, having said their goodbyes to Mrs. Poole and Alice, who had shown them how she could disappear at breakfast. “You see, Mr. Martin showed me how to do it! It’s just a matter of controlling the waves. I don’t actually disappear, of course, but you think I do. It’s really quite scientific, once you understand that we are all surrounded by an energic field. . . .” It was probably a good thing they were leaving for the continent, thought Catherine. If Alice was going to go on and on about the principles of mesmerism, she would quickly become insufferable. The two pounds for Catherine’s article had arrived just in time for her to make the cheque over to Mrs. Poole. She hoped that, together with whatever was still in the bank and the money Atlas had given her, would be enough to support the Park Terrace household until she and Beatrice returned—whenever that would be! Meanwhile, their travel expenses would be taken care of by the circus, and soon, she hoped, they would have plenty of money—she was sure the show would do well.
On the platform, next to a small mountain of bags and trunks, were Lorenzo, the Zulu Prince, Madam Zora, Atlas, Sasha the Dog Boy, the Twisting Jellicoe Twins, Colonel Sharp the Knife-Thrower, and various other acts that Lorenzo thought might be popular on the continent.
Catherine found a cabin for herself and Beatrice, pushed the top window all the way down, and forbade anyone else from entering. “Seriously, do you want to have fainted by the time we get to Dover?” she said to Clarence when he proposed joining them. “At least I’m used to Beatrice—if I need to, I can walk up and down the corridor. But you might not even notice what’s happening before you lose consciousness!”
“You don’t think I’m afraid of a little poison, do you?” asked Clarence, leaning up against the doorframe. He was smiling and had his arms crossed, which meant that whatever victory she won would be temporary.
“Well, at least let her get some rest!” said Catherine. “We’ve had to get ready for this trip in two days, and we were up past midnight finishing her costume. Even I helped sew, and I never sew. She’s planning to sleep. Do you really want to watch her sleep?”
“All right,” he said, still in good humor. “I’ll check in with you at Dover. Don’t you get poisoned either, Whiskers.”
As Catherine watched the station platform slip by the train window, she wondered when she would see London again, and what in the world was happening to Mary and Justine. Had they found Lucinda Van Helsing yet? Why hadn’t they sent another telegram? And was the Alchemical Society aware that she and Beatrice were leaving England? Were they being watched? She thought ahead with dread to the channel crossing. She really, really hated boats.
CHAPTER X
Consulting Dr. Freud
How much longer do you think they’ll be?” asked Mary. According to her watch, Diana had been in Dr. Freud’s office for an hour. At one point she had heard shrieks of laughter—Diana’s.
“I’m sorry there is nothing for you to read,” said Hannah, looking up from the book of German poetry she had found on the bookshelves. The waiting room was comfortable enough, with its patterned wallpaper, its sofa upholstered in dark red chenille, its low table on which were arranged magazines—all in German. There was a large selection of books on the shelves in various languages: German, French, Spanish, Italian. But unfortunately the only ones in English were the collected works of Shakespeare and Sir Edward Tylor
’s Anthropology: An Introduction to the Study of Man and Civilization. Mary was not in the mood for either, so instead she had flipped through the magazines, looking at photographs of Austrian women in court dress, advertisements for soap and corsets and bottles of what she assumed were medicine. What in the world could the psychoanalyst and Diana be talking about for so long?
She walked to the window and looked out at the courtyard, which contained the stables. The window was open; she could smell the faint odor of horses and hay. It reminded her of London, but there was an undefinable quality to the sunlight, a particular brightness that indicated they were in a different climate altogether.
Suddenly, she heard the doorknob turn and the door of the office open.
“Ah, Fräulein Jekyll,” said Freud. “My apologies for taking so long.”
How was it that everyone on the continent could speak excellent English, while she could speak nothing else? It was embarrassing, that’s what it was. She would have to ask Justine to help with her German pronunciation.
Sigmund Freud was an imposing man, with a thick head of brown hair and a beard that was just beginning to turn gray. He was smoking a cigar—Mr. Holmes would have been able to identify the type—and ash had fallen on the lapel of his wool suit.
“If you would please come in, I would like to speak with you for a moment.”
“Of course,” said Mary, confused. Why did he want to talk to her?
She followed him into his consulting room, then looked around, startled. It was much larger than she had anticipated. Here there were more bookshelves, filled with books and curios—pots, vases, figurines of various sorts, most of which looked ancient. On the tops of the selves perched classical busts. At the center of the room was a chaise lounge, and on it sat Diana, bouncing up and down so that the springs creaked.
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