European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman (The Extraordinary Adventures of the Athena Club Book 2)

by Theodora Goss

  What about the desk? Yes! The leather-bound book was stamped WEEKLY DIARY. She opened it to where the ribbon had been placed. This week, Sunday to Saturday, with this afternoon’s appointments crossed out—hastily, by the look of it. And written in the margin, also in haste because the ink had blotted, was written: Summoned—Dr. R. Seward did not seem like the sort of man who would have blotted his ink, except in a moment of distraction or distress. She flipped back to the previous week. And there it was, on Friday afternoon, in a neat hand this time, from 1:00 p.m. to 2:00 p.m.: Meeting with E.P. So he did keep personal information in this diary—it was not simply business. Now to flip forward. It was all asylum business as far as she could see, including an appointment with Lord Hollingston. Wait—there, a week from today, at 5:00 p.m. Meet E.P. Soho 7 Potter’s Lane. That must be it, the meeting he and Edward Prendick had been arguing about. She had nowhere to write down the address—she did not want to take anything from the office—so she would simply have to remember it. She flipped forward again . . . more asylum business. Until the last full week of September, which was left blank. On that week was written simply: S.A. Budapest. After that, the journal was empty—the rest of September, October, November, and December were not yet filled in.

  S.A. Budapest had to be a meeting of the Société des Alchimistes in Budapest. But for what purpose? A scientific conference to present data? That’s what scientists did, right? Van Helsing had mentioned presenting papers at a conference, and that might take about a week. Although really she was just guessing, and it could be something else altogether. . . . Perhaps she would find more information, or better yet, correspondence with Van Helsing, inside the desk. It had a central drawer and three drawers on each side. The central drawer was locked. She tried the right side: paper for correspondence, with and without the name of the asylum on top; another pen and two bottles of ink; folders of what looked like notes for individual patients that had not yet been filed. The left side contained a bottle of bourbon with two glasses, three starched collars, and a pair of rubber shoe covers, presumably in case of rain.

  What about the file cabinet? Catherine went over and pulled open the drawers. They contained only patient files. She searched through several to make sure they were indeed what they appeared to be, but none of them revealed any secrets. Wait, she had almost forgotten . . . surely one of them must contain more than clinical notes. Quickly, she looked under R. There was the folder, marked RENFIELD, RICHARD MATTHEW. It was completely empty. Someone, presumably Seward himself, had removed the contents. Where could they be? Catherine returned to the desk and flipped quickly through the folders of patient notes—none of them pertained to Renfield. There was nowhere left but the locked drawer—any secrets would be in there. She sat down in Seward’s chair, which was the sort that rolled on four casters, and stared at the lock. For the first time, she wished that she had brought Diana.

  DIANA: See? You never want to take me, and then you wish I were there. I could have picked that lock in a minute. Less than a minute.

  It resembled the lock on the door, except for being smaller, but . . . it bolted upward, into the desktop. So it wouldn’t be a matter of lifting the lever, but of what? Shifting it in one direction or the other? If it was a lever . . .

  She simply did not know. But Seward’s diary indicated that he would be gone all afternoon, and no one had discovered her so far, so she might as well try.

  She took the bent hairpin out of her pocket and inserted it into the lock, trying to feel the moving parts. Yes, there was a lever in there. If she could just . . .

  She heard a lock click open. It was not the lock on the desk drawer.

  “What the devil are you doing in my office?” There, at the office door, was a man in a gray sack suit, with a bowler hat in his hand and an expression of fury on his face.

  With what she prefers to think of as catlike grace but was probably pure panic, Catherine rose and pushed the chair back so that it rolled and struck the bookshelf behind her, then turned and leaped out the window.

  CATHERINE: It was really pure panic, and I would have been more graceful if I hadn’t been wearing that stupid dress. I almost tripped over the hem.

  MARY: You’re interrupting your own narrative?

  CATHERINE: I want to be honest. It wasn’t exactly my proudest moment. I didn’t even hear him coming, a great clomping man like that. I’m supposed to be a cat, remember?

  Cats are supposed to land on their feet. Unfortunately, Catherine landed on her back in a clump of azaleas growing by the asylum wall. It took her only a moment to recover. As quickly as she could, she pulled the dress over her head and discarded it under the bushes. They would be looking for blue. Her drawers and undershirt would not be inconspicuous against the grass, but at least they were not blue.

  She could hear Seward shouting above, and then more shouting in the corridors of the asylum. But there was no one on this side of the building to see her, at least not yet. As quickly as she could, she sprinted across the grass toward the back of the building, which was also deserted, the laundry still flapping on its lines. Any moment now they would realize where she had gone. There, finally—she was back among the shrubbery by the stone wall. She crouched in the bushes, panting, and then looked back. The two attendants she had spoken to earlier had just rounded the corner of the building, and another man, in shirtsleeves rather than a white coat and incongruously holding a broom, was running out the back door. He must be a servant of some sort? That meant the asylum had been alerted.

  As quietly as she could, Catherine made her way through the bushes to the place where the wall had tumbled down.

  Just before stepping over the fallen stones, she looked back one more time. It was difficult to see because a large rhododendron was in her way, so she could not tell what was happening on the asylum lawn. But so far none of the shouting was headed in her direction—it was a back-and-forth confusion of voices.

  “You seem to have lost something, miss,” said Charlie. He grinned as though he could not help it and handed her the satchel with Reverend Crashaw’s clothes.

  “Yes, well. I was an idiot, Charlie.” Quickly, she once again dressed herself as the advocate of teetotalism. “Dr. Seward came back early and saw me. I should have heard him walking down the hall. I should have smelled him outside the door. What’s the point of having superhuman senses if you don’t pay attention to them? Instead, I trusted to his schedule, and he caught me unawares. Never trust a man to do what he says he’s going to.”

  “I never do, miss.”

  There, she was once again outfitted as Reverend Crashaw. She pinned her hair back up with the remaining hairpins and put his hat on over the resulting bun. It was not as tight as it had been, but it would have to do.

  “There’s nothing more we can do in Purfleet. I think we should catch the next train back to London. What a mess this has been—although I did learn something valuable.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I’ll tell you on the train. Come on, if we go the way Joe told us, we’ll find the front gate of Carfax. Then we can get back to the North Road and head into town. They’ll be on the lookout, but for a woman alone, not two men together.” Once they were back in London, she would tell Mary and the others—about the meeting in Soho and the mysterious S.A. at the end of September. What could it mean? What was going to happen in Budapest?

  Once again they walked through the woods, Charlie first, brushing branches out of the way. Every once in a while, Catherine heard calls and cries from the direction of the asylum, but she could not make out what was being said. She was tired and hungry and ashamed of herself. Anyone, even Diana, would have done better than she had!

  DIANA: What do you mean “even Diana”? You made a bloody mess of the whole thing. Of course I would have done better.

  CATHERINE: I only meant that you’re impulsive and easily distracted. And yes, I made a blooming, bloody mess of it, as Charlie might say. Thank you very much for remin
ding me.

  Seward might not have seen her clearly enough to identify her, but surely the two attendants had, as had Lady Hollingston. Florence didn’t count, since she wouldn’t be able to provide a description—unless they asked her to write one? Hopefully as Reverend Crashaw she would be able to walk back along the High Road to the town center and train station without attracting attention.

  There were the front gates of Carfax, taller and more imposing than the rusted, broken ones at the back of the estate. And they were standing open. Just as she and Charlie were about to pass through the gates, he stopped so abruptly that Catherine nearly fell over him.

  “Copper,” he whispered.

  Where? Cautiously, she stepped forward and looked where he was pointing. Yes, to their left, by the gravel pit, she could see the lean blue form of a village constable. He was turned away from them, looking in the direction of the asylum. Could they somehow get around him while he wasn’t looking?

  “Harry, it’s not a woman!” Who had said that? It had been shouted down the road, from the direction of the asylum.

  “What’s that you say?” the constable, still turned away from them, shouted back.

  “What are they saying?” whispered Charlie. He could hear their voices, but not their conversation—it took her puma ears to do that.

  DIANA: Oh, please. What are you going to call this book? Adventures of the Puma Woman, by Catherine Moreau?

  JUSTINE: I would read that. I think it would make a wonderful book.

  Although they were some distance down the unnamed road, Catherine could hear them clearly, then the sound of running footsteps. She saw the white coat join the blue uniform. It was one of the asylum attendants, the one who had spoken to her when she was disguised as a madwoman. He leaned over, hands on his knees, panting. Evidently, he was not used to such exertions. “It’s not a woman, I tell you. Albert found the dress he’d been wearing hidden in the bushes, and the prints in the dirt are of a man’s square-toed boots. Lady Hollingston says she spoke to him. Of course she thought he was a woman at the time, but an uncommon masculine one, with a slight mustache. He should be easy to identify—Her Ladyship says his eyes are different colors, one blue, one green.”

  One blue, one green? Catherine’s eyes were neither of those colors—nor did she have a mustache, not even a slight one, thank you very much. It sounded as though Lady Hollingston had deliberately lied—but why? Or was she simply mad and rambling when they questioned her? At the moment, Catherine did not care. Bless Lady Hollingston.

  MRS. POOLE: I made some inquiries afterward, about the Hollingston murder case. Turns out that one morning, after not speaking to his wife at breakfast for twenty years because he claimed it distracted him from the Financial Times, the late Lord Hollingston looked up from his paper and told her that his soft-boiled egg had been left in the water a minute too long, and she really ought to do a better job of managing the staff. She killed him with the carving knife—drove it right through his throat. Imagine that! Of course murder is wrong, but I can’t say as I blame her. The first thing he said to her at breakfast, after twenty years of silence . . .

  “There was a Reverend going up and down the lanes of the development earlier,” said the constable. “Some of the womenfolk have been complaining that he scared the children with his descriptions of hellfire. You think that might have been him?”

  “I doubt it. A thief isn’t likely to go preaching up and down before breaking in, is he? But if you see this preacher fellow, I would keep him for questioning. Who knows, he might have seen something. Check to see if he has one blue eye, and one green!”

  “All right. I’ll tell Sam to check in the development first—the thief’s more likely to have gone that way than into town. And let me know if you hear anything else. Just my luck this happened when I was about to go home for dinner. The missus is going to be upset. . . .”

  Catherine pulled Charlie back into the shadow of the trees. It was evident that the North Road was being watched. If the constable saw her, or rather Reverend Crashaw, she would be stopped and questioned.

  “Now what, miss?” he asked, looking her up and down. If the constable examined Catherine at all closely, he would know she wasn’t a man. He wasn’t a distracted housewife, to be fooled by a suit and pinned-up hair. And while he might not think she was the thief who had broken into Seward’s office, he would certainly suspect her of something underhanded, disguised as she was. He would probably lock her up until her identity could be established. She would have to explain what she was doing pretending to be a minister. . . .

  Catherine leaned back against the stone wall and slid down until she was sitting among the bracken. What now, indeed? She and Charlie were safe here for a while, but to return home they needed to get to the train station, and the only way was through town—or over the marshes that lay between the train station and the development. She immediately dismissed the marshes as worse than the police. Marshes meant water. She hated water, even if it was shallow—and what if they became stuck in the mud? Calling for help would alert the police to their presence. Should she and Charlie go back to Joe Abernathy’s house? But if they were seen around that neighborhood, they might cast suspicion on Joe and his mother. They needed a way to quickly, quietly, invisibly, walk down the High Road. . . .

  “It’s Monday,” she said suddenly, tugging at the hem of Charlie’s jacket.

  “What?” Charlie looked down at her upturned face as though she had gone mad.

  “It’s a Monday afternoon, and this is England, and the sun is shining.”

  He still looked at her uncomprehendingly.

  “Don’t you see, all over this isle of Albion, as Milton or some other poet called it, Monday is laundry day. What do all the good women of Purfleet have hanging in their back gardens, today of all days? Clothes! Clothes on the lines! Let’s just hope some of them are dry. Come on, Charlie! We’re going to murder Reverend Crashaw.”

  She stood up, stretching her arms, which still ached from the fall out of Seward’s window, and started back through the trees the way they had come. They needed to get back to the path through Carfax Woods, and then to the workmen’s cottages Reverend Crashaw had leafleted that morning. All the cottages were in the same style as Joe Abernathy’s, built by the same builder: compact, designed to be modern and hygienic, with front and back gardens. And in those back gardens she would find what she was looking for.

  As they once again trudged through the undergrowth, back along the way they had come earlier, she agreed with Charlie’s conclusion about the English countryside—it was very pretty in its way, but best observed at a distance. If she could not have the slopes of the Andes, then give her a London street with an omnibus! She thought again about what she had seen in Seward’s diary. That week marked S.A. Budapest—was he planning on going with Van Helsing? She was supposed to leave for Vienna with Mary and Justine—but then who would stay and find out what was going on here? Who would follow Seward and Prendick to Potter’s Lane in Soho? Not that she wanted to see Prendick again—far from it. But someone would have to figure out what he was up to. And Seward as well, of course.

  Once again they passed Carfax House—this time she thought it looked less ominous, almost comical in its juxtaposition of genuine and imitation gothic. And there beyond it was the back gate with its broken lock. Then the path through the trees, and then, yes, the back gardens of the workingmen’s cottages. By this time she was hot and tired, no longer speaking to Charlie, simply pointing the way they should go.

  The first of the laundry lines contained only linens. What time was it? She was not wearing a wristwatch, but the position of the sun indicated midafternoon. She was so thirsty. Charlie must be too—his face was pale and damp with sweat. But he followed closely behind without complaining. They crept along the back gardens, between Carfax Woods and whitewashed fences, still among the trees but close enough to see vegetables growing, chickens scratching in the dirt, sometimes children chasing
one another and laughing, or playing quietly by themselves. There, in the back garden of a cottage that was a more dilapidated than its neighbors, was hanging exactly what she wanted—a faded lilac dress, several years out of fashion. It was probably worn as a housedress or on cleaning days, but it was perfect for getting past constables. There was no one about here, no children or housewives checking on the clothes, and thank goodness no dogs, so in a moment the dress was hers.

  It took only three more houses to find everything she needed: in addition to the dress, a corset, corset cover, and petticoat. Underneath she would still be wearing a man’s drawers and undershirt, but on the surface she would look indisputably female. After the disaster of the asylum, it felt good to lead three successful raids, even if they were only on clotheslines.

  As soon as she had what she needed, she crept back among the trees, slipped out of Reverend Crashaw’s suit, and put on female attire. Although Charlie tightened the corset laces as much as he could, it was still too large for her—its previous owner had been considerably more buxom. The corset cover, which had come from a different line, was a little tight, and the dress was too loose over it all, but that could not be helped. A young woman of Miss Catherine Montgomery’s social station was unlikely to have a new dress of her own anyway. Catherine Montgomery—she had used that name before, and it would come in handy again. This was scarcely an ideal place to make one’s toilette—there was no mirror, and branches kept catching on her clothes. Once she was dressed, she had to pick burdock off the hem, which dragged a little on the ground, with Charlie getting any burrs she had missed. But the forest, with its dappled light, was as elegant as any lady’s boudoir.

  She redid her hair in a loose chignon so it would fall in tendrils around her face, emphasizing the fact that she was female, totally unambiguously female, and had not been walking around in a man’s suit an hour before, then looked down at herself. “I feel like a giant crocus.”