European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

by Theodora Goss

  Suddenly alert, Mary put the stack of cards to one side, went to the window, and stood next to Justine.

  The third floor of the Krankenhaus was on fire. Well, one corner of the third floor, but the flames were reaching out of a barred window and up into the night. Oh Lord! The building was burning, and Diana was in there. . . .

  “Greta!” she said. She leaned over and shook Greta by the shoulder, sorry to wake her up—the girl had kept watch all day, and deserved to sleep. But this was an emergency.

  Greta opened her eyes and said, sleepily, “Ist etwas geschehen?”

  Suddenly, an alarm rang out. Mary turned back to the window. She could hear screams and shouts from the direction of the Krankenhaus. The fire was climbing out, in defiance of the bars. Now it had climbed to the roof! It danced there like yellow hair blowing in the wind, spreading and spreading.

  “Jesus, Mary, and the angels!” said Greta, who had come up behind her. “They will have to evacuate the building.”

  “You don’t think Diana . . . ,” said Justine to Mary, with an appalled expression on her face.

  Mary looked grim. “I would not put it past her.”

  DIANA: You said to send a signal if I needed help. Well, I sent a signal. And created a diversion to get Lucinda out.

  MARY: I said to wave a handkerchief out the window! Or maybe your stockings!

  DIANA: What good would that have done? How were you even going to see a handkerchief in the darkness? Anyway, I didn’t have a handkerchief—I’d left it in my room. And my stockings were on my legs, thank you very much.

  MARY: So you set the building on fire? And why are you dressed like that? You look like one of those newsboys who are always shouting about the latest crimes—or a chimney sweep!

  DIANA: I told you, I’m going out with Charlie. I don’t wear your sort of la-di-dah clothes when I’m out with the gang. Ta, sister!

  MARY: I swear, some day I’m going to strangle her.

  JUSTINE: I do not think you are capable of that, Mary.

  MARY: Well, if not, it’s a grave defect in my character.

  “Come on,” said Mary. “It looks like they’re getting everyone out of the building. I don’t know what’s going on, but I think we should be down there.”

  Justine nodded. Greta grabbed her pistol from the side table, where she had put it before lying down, and lifted the lamp by its handle. Mary, the only one of them not dressed in masculine clothes, buckled on her waist bag and made sure her revolver was tucked inside. It was already loaded. Justine was not armed, but she did not need to be—her strength was as deadly as any firearm.

  Quickly, and as quietly as they could on the creaking stairs, they descended the three flights, Mary and Justine following Greta’s lamp. When they reached the entrance hall, Greta blew it out and put it on the hall table. She opened the front door of the inn, and they emerged into the street.

  From here, they could see the long avenue in front of the Krankenhaus. It was rapidly filling with people, attracted by the alarm that kept ringing and ringing. Mary ran up the street and turned onto the avenue. She could hear Justine’s and Greta’s boots on the pavement—good, they were close behind.

  To her right were the front gates of the Krankenhaus. There was already a crowd around them—people from the local shops and apartment buildings. She ran and stood at the edge of the crowd, trying to understand what was going on. She could see the proprietor of the inn where they had been staying, talking to a guard in rapid German.

  “He says the fire brigade has been notified,” said Greta, sounding out of breath behind her. “The others—they are wondering if the fire can spread, if they should get the women and children out of the nearby buildings. Is it possible that this is a coincidence, and has nothing to do with Diana at all?”

  Was it possible? Perhaps Mary had simply jumped to conclusions. The fact that Diana routinely created chaos wherever she went did not mean she was responsible for this particular bit of chaos.

  “Hey!” Something hit her on the arm.

  She spun around. There stood Diana, dressed in a gray uniform, with a white cap covering her hair so not a single red curl showed. It was she who had hit Mary to get her attention.

  “What the . . .” she said.

  “Hell. The word you’re looking for is hell. Come help me get Mrs. Van Helsing out. Actually, I think Justine would be more useful.”

  “Diana!” said Justine. “How is it you are out here?”

  “Come on!” said Diana, pulling Justine by one wrist. Mary followed, checking to make sure Greta was behind her. When she looked back, Greta shrugged as though to say, It’s Diana. What did you expect?

  Diana was leading them to a corner of the gate, where it met the high stone wall around the Krankenhaus. Here, surprisingly, there was no crowd—all the local inhabitants were clustered at the other end of the gate, close to the guardhouse. Some were offering help, some warning the guards not to open the gates and let dangerous criminals loose in this part of the city.

  When Mary looked at the gate where it met the wall, she gasped. Two of the bars had been pried apart, just wide enough for someone of Diana’s size to slip through. Behind the gate were two women, one dressed in a gray uniform like Diana, the other in a white nightgown. That one was leaning on the one in uniform. Was the woman in the uniform a nurse?

  “Mrs. Van Helsing is losing her strength,” said Diana. “That’s as far as she could bend the bars. I figured Justine could finish the job.”

  “Stand back,” said Justine. She gripped the iron bars and pulled them farther apart, as easily as though she were parting a curtain.

  “Kommen Sie, Frau,” said Justine, holding one hand through the bars she had just bent.

  The woman in the nightgown took it. Staggering, she stepped forward and through the bars. “Danke,” she said to Justine in a faint voice. And then she sank to the ground, like a puppet whose strings have been cut by the puppeteer.

  BEATRICE: That’s a lovely image, Catherine.

  CATHERINE: Thank you! I worked hard on it, you know. I’m not just a “mistress of the shilling shocker,” as a reviewer recently called me. I can write as well as some of those literary johnnies. Anyway, the Astarte books sell for two shillings.

  Justine lifted up the woman in the nightgown.

  “He, was machen Sie da!” Who had shouted that? Inside the Krankenhaus grounds, one of the guards was running toward them. The fire was bright enough now that Mary could see him clearly. He had a thick mustache and the sort of expression guards tend to have when they realize you’re trying to escape.

  “Come on, hurry up,” said Diana to the woman in the uniform, who lifted her skirt and stepped through the bars. “This is Lucinda Van Helsing. See, I got her out, all by myself.”

  At the sight of Lucinda escaping, the guard shouted something that Mary did not catch, but it was clearly intended to summon more of his kind. When he reached the bent bars, he stopped. He was far too large to fit through the gap, but he raised his rifle, aiming it right at them.

  Mary pulled the revolver out of her waist bag and pointed it at the guard.

  “Everybody, run!” she said. Oh, how she hated to do it, but she aimed at the guard’s foot and shot—once, right into the toe of his boot.

  The guard screamed, cursed, and doubled over. His rifle fell to the ground, but mercifully did not go off—instead, it just lay there while he grabbed his foot and made horrifying sounds.

  Oh, this was dreadful! Mary had never imagined shooting someone would be so dreadful. The last time she had shot another living being, it had been a Beast Man, in self-defense. This was self-defense too, but somehow the fact that she had shot a human being, a fully human being created by God rather than vivisection, made it so much worse. However, it was a toe, not even the big toe—if he lost it, he could still live a normal life. And she had shot him in the precincts of a hospital. A hospital for the mad—nevertheless, it would have trained nurses and medical supp
lies.

  She heard a clanging sound—yes, there was the fire truck, behind its team of horses. The gates of the Krankenhaus opened to let it through. Thank goodness—at least the building would not burn down.

  Feeling guilty and ashamed about the guard she had shot, because she was Mary and she would feel that way even when she had simply done what was necessary, she turned and ran after Greta—the others had already disappeared into the darkness.

  MARY: Later, I asked Irene to check on that guard. He retired and got a very good pension.

  CATHERINE: Next, you’re going to tell me that you knit him socks for Christmas!

  MARY: Do you think he would appreciate that?

  CATHERINE: No, I don’t.

  Greta turned left, into the street with the inn where they had been keeping watch. Ah, there were Diana and Lucinda Van Helsing. Justine was still carrying the woman in her arms. Diana had called her Mrs. Van Helsing. But how was that possible? Irene had told them that Mrs. Van Helsing was dead, and Mary trusted Irene to know these things. Had Diana rescued the wrong woman?

  “Should we go back up to the room?” she asked Greta. She had run so hard that she was almost out of breath. “We could probably hide out there for a while. Our supplies are still up there.” Including, she realized, her pouch with the extra bullets. She had left it on the table after loading her revolver, placed neatly beside her sponge bag. How could she have been so stupid?

  “I do not think so,” said Greta. “They know there has been an escape, so once they put out the fire, they will begin searching all the neighboring buildings—probably with the help of the police. I think we must get as far away from here as possible. Behind the hospital there are stables—what you call the mews. Justine and I were there once before. It is so late, I do not know if we can hire a carriage, but we will have to try.”

  “Why don’t you use mine?”

  Mary turned. There stood the beggar who had been sitting on the pavement most of the day, but his voice—rich, operatic, feminine . . . “Irene!” she said.

  “Come on,” said the beggar, who was somehow also Irene Norton, although so cleverly made up that if Mary had not heard her speak, she would not have believed it possible. “My driver, Hermann, is waiting at the stables. It’s only a few blocks from here.”

  Mary nodded. She did not want to admit how relieved she was to see Irene. Of course she would have led them all in Irene’s absence, and made whatever decisions needed to be made. But sometimes it was a relief simply to follow, particularly someone as knowledgeable as Irene Norton, who would get them to safety.

  Irene led the way into a dark alley behind the Krankenhaus. After her walked Justine, carrying the woman Diana had called Mrs. Van Helsing. Then Lucinda and Diana—Lucinda, Mary noticed, was stumbling and holding her side, so she ran forward to offer the girl a hand, and a shoulder should she need it. But Lucinda shook her head and walked on resolutely alone, her arms wrapped around her torso, as though to protect herself from something. Behind them all came Greta, with her pistol drawn.

  “Almost there!” Irene called back.

  They were in a small square of some sort, with tenement houses on four sides, above shops that were closed for the night. In the middle of the square was a fountain, but no water ran from it. Although a pale moon still hung in the sky, Mary noticed that it was starting to lighten—dawn was coming. She was tired and shivering with cold, and she had shot someone. Why were adventures always so much less glamorous than they sounded? Lucinda Van Helsing had been rescued, yet all she felt was sick to her stomach.

  Suddenly, she noticed that ahead of them, at the entrance to the alley they were heading toward, stood a man in a dark coat. Didn’t she recognize him? Yes—that coat, that slouching attitude. He was one of the men who had lounged on the street near the Krankenhaus, keeping watch. But why was he here? Barring their way. . . .

  “Gehen Sie aus dem Weg!” said Irene, waving her arm—clearly, telling him to stand aside.

  The man just grinned. Mary could see now that he was tall, unshaven. A workingman of some sort, by his clothes and attitude. If she were Mr. Holmes, she would probably be able to tell what trade—

  “Ich habe gesagt, Sie sollen aus dem Weg gehen!” said Irene. Out of the pocket of her ragged coat, she drew a pistol and pointed it at him.

  “Madame, look behind us!” said Greta.

  Mary turned to see what Greta was shouting about. There, behind them, was another of the loungers—and another to the side, standing by the fountain. Three men . . . no, there were more emerging from alleys, from doorways. How many? She counted seven altogether. There were no gas lamps in the square, but the sky was light enough now that she could see them clearly enough, although from this distance she could not make out their features. Seven of them—And four of us, she thought, at least if you did not count Justine, who was carrying the supposed Mrs. Van Helsing. She, Greta, and Irene were armed. Diana—well, Diana was resourceful and fearless. Could Lucinda Van Helsing fight? She had no idea.

  A shot rang out. She turned back quickly, to see the man who had blocked their path crumple to the ground. Irene was standing like a woman who had just shot someone—which, of course, she had.

  “Circle the wagons!” said Irene. “Lucinda and her mother in the middle.”

  Yes, all of them back to back—that made sense, although Mary wondered what wagons had to do with it. She glanced around quickly. Irene, Greta, and Diana were backing toward one another to form a circle, facing outward. Justine had just laid Mrs. Van Helsing on the ground in the middle. Lucinda was kneeling by her mother.

  Mary stepped back as well. Five of them, like the points of a star—it was the best, most secure formation. They were close to the fountain. It would not protect them, of course. Still, if the men came from that direction, they would have to climb over or go around it, and that would delay them a minute or two. Sometimes, minutes counted. How many bullets did she have left? Five. She hoped it would be enough.

  And then, the men were upon them.

  There was one right in front of Mary—bearded, with a knit cap and a scowl on his face. This time she did not hesitate to shoot, in the shoulder so the shot would not kill. She wanted only to wound. At first she thought that she must have missed, because the shot seemed to have no effect. He swatted at where the bullet had hit him—yes, it had hit, she could see the blood on his pullover—as though swatting at an insect.

  He kept coming toward her. She aimed, shot again—this time in the chest, aiming for his heart. She did not want to kill, but she had to stop him. She waited for him to stumble, fall—but he kept coming, although blood was soaking through the pullover, still from the shoulder, and now also from where his heart should be. In the early morning light, the bloodstains looked black on the dingy gray wool.

  “You must shoot between the eyes!” cried Lucinda, behind her. “It will at least slow him down.” Slow him down? It would blow his brains out the back of his head. But the man kept coming, so once again Mary took aim and fired, right at his forehead. He staggered back, dropped to his knees, and fell over onto the pavement. This time she felt, not guilt, but a flood of relief. What else had been happening while she was focused on this one assailant?

  She glanced quickly around. Greta had shot one of the men, who was still crawling on the pavement toward her. Diana was fighting another—she had jumped on his back, holding a knife. It looked as though she was about to plunge it into the man’s throat. Irene was facing two more. Justine stepped up behind one, placed her hands on either side of his head, and twisted—Mary could hear his neck snap. Another was menacing Lucinda, who was crouched over her mother, hissing at him like a kettle about to boil. Mary turned and pointed her revolver at him—two bullets left.

  She heard a shot behind her, and then a string of curses. “What the hell is going on?” Irene shouted. “Why don’t they die?” Two more shots rang out and echoed around the square.

  Mary aimed, but the man was circ
ling around Lucinda, like a wolf circling its prey. She could not shoot him without endangering Lucinda as well.

  Suddenly, she heard someone yelling from above. It was a man in one of the tenements, who had opened a window and was now shouting at them, a long tirade in German. She understood only one word: Polizei.

  Damn! They had to get out of there!

  DIANA: Mary said “damn”!

  MARY: I didn’t say it. I thought it.

  DIANA: How is that any different?

  CATHERINE: Don’t interrupt my fight scene.

  In the seconds it had taken her to look up, the man by Lucinda had moved closer to her. He looked as though he were about to attack. Lucinda remained crouched over her mother, still hissing, fingers extended like claws.

  “Get away from her!” Mary shouted. Would he see her revolver and move back?

  The man turned toward her and snarled, like an animal. Inadvertently, she stepped back, startled by what she had seen: he had fangs!

  Like a Beast Man. Could he possibly be one of Dr. Moreau’s mad creations? No, that was impossible. All the Beast Men were dead; Catherine had told her that. But this was no time to think about what he might be. She had to kill him, that was all.

  Lucinda leaped at him. And then they were a swirl of shabby coat and gray uniform. If only Mary could get in a shot! But she was as likely to hit Lucinda as her attacker.

  Then Lucinda was on the ground—he had thrown her onto the pavement, not far from her mother. Mary could see a dark stain on her shoulder. The man crouched over her, fangs bared, mouth bloody. Had he bitten her?

  He was still close to Lucinda, too close—she would have to be a very good shot indeed. But I am a very good shot, thought Mary. Two bullets. She would shoot once, then move in closer and shoot him between the eyes when Lucinda was out of the way.

  Steady, aim . . .

  The man was knocked back by a whirling mass of white. It was Mrs. Van Helsing, hissing and spitting like a cat. There was no way to shoot him now.

  Mary ran to Lucinda. “Come on!” she said, and pulled Lucinda back toward the fountain. The man had his hands around Mrs. Van Helsing’s throat, but she raked his face with her nails. He screamed, a high, thin shriek. Could Mary do anything? No, not while they were so close together. Well, at least she could get Lucinda to safety!