Mary changed into her nightgown, then went to find what turned out to be a surprisingly modern bathroom, with heated running water and a large porcelain tub on clawed feet. Gratefully, she washed her face in the basin. She could feel all the grime of travel washing away, then swirling down the drain. She dried her face and hands on a luxurious towel, thicker than any English towel she had used. The bathroom had an intricate pattern of tiles, with designs of fish and other aquatic creatures, octopuses and sea anemones, that she thought Beatrice would like. It seemed—modern? Artistic.
On the way back to her room, she ran into Irene.
“I hope your bed is comfortable,” said Irene. “I’m sorry I had to put Justine in the study, but I only have one guest bedroom, and the bed isn’t long enough for her. These old European beds aren’t exactly made for giantesses! If you need anything, just ring for Hannah. Sherlock speaks very highly of you, Mary. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.” She looked at Mary as though trying to decide what she thought of her.
“Thank you,” said Mary, not quite sure what else to say. What in the world had Mr. Holmes written about her in that letter? Irene Norton, herself, was not quite what Mary had expected. She was beautiful, yes, and had not changed much from the woman in the photograph, although it must have been taken twenty years ago. But she could not imagine this woman as the mistress of a Bohemian king. She seemed—well, friendly, direct, and practical. Yes, there was something theatrical about her—her movements were graceful, and she gestured a great deal with her hands, more than an Englishwoman would have. She enunciated as well as an elocution teacher, and there was that accent, which Mary still could not place. But she seemed—effective, like someone you could rely on. Mary hoped she wasn’t mistaken in that impression.
“Then we’ll talk in the morning?” said Irene. She smiled, which made Mary feel as though she had somehow suddenly been approved of.
“Yes, of course,” said Mary. “Well, good night, then.”
“Sweet dreams,” said Irene. “You know, I quite like your sister Diana. Although I have a feeling she’s going to a handful. And I think Hannah brought up the milk. Just leave the glasses on the hall table when you’re done.”
Hannah had, but Diana had already drunk both glasses. Still, it did not take Mary long to fall asleep.
JUSTINE: I fell asleep almost immediately as well, although Irene had the most fascinating books! So many writers I had not read—she told me later that they were modern, writing in experimental styles. Sort of like you, Catherine.
CATHERINE: Well, not in the Astarte books. I don’t know if this is going to sell as well as the Astarte books. I mean, people don’t necessarily like to be experimented on. Not even by fiction.
In the morning light streaming through the dining room windows, clearer and stronger than the gray light of London, Irene Norton was not quite the woman of the photograph after all. Mary could see fine lines across her forehead and under her eyes. There were strands of silver in her hair, which had looked dark brown the night before but turned out to be a rich auburn. She was wearing a green dress with crimson embroidery on the collar and cuffs, sort of like a tea gown but probably one of those Reform dresses that Beatrice was always going on about. Mary had to admit that she preferred this Irene Norton. Her face had more character, as though she had lived a great deal in the intervening years. There was a sadness in her eyes that had not been there in the theatrical photograph. What would Mr. Holmes, who kept that photograph in his desk, think of her now? Watson had said she was the love of his life. Perhaps he would prefer this Irene Norton as well. Mary rather thought he might. Yours as ever, Sherlock. Irene called him Sherlock, when Mary had never called him anything but Mr. Holmes. But then, Irene called all of them by their first names.
“It’s because I’m American,” she had explained. “The accent? Oh, that comes from years of singing opera. I was quite a famous soprano in my day. Not as famous as Patti or the Swedish Nightingale. No, not like that. When you learn the Italian repertoire, and the German, and the French, you get a sort of mixed-up accent. You can’t quite speak proper English—or American—any more. Hard to believe I was born in New Jersey, isn’t it? But I fell in love and left the life of an opera singer. I wanted a woman’s life—with children, you know. Well, I never got the children. Eventually the doctors told me I would probably never carry a child to term—that’s what they call it, I think.” She looked through the window as though remembering. Her eyes were bright with what Mary thought might be tears. “Then my husband died, and I could have gone back to the States. My father and brother are still there, and I think they expected me to come—if not to New Jersey, then maybe New York. But this has been my home for so long, and I’ve been happy here—very happy, once. My husband is buried here. It would be hard to leave.”
“Is there any more?” asked Diana, shoving the very last bite of the very last crêpe, filled with jam and drizzled with chocolate, into her mouth.
“No, and Sherlock warned me about you,” said Irene, smiling. When she smiled, Mary could see where those fine lines had come from. “Although I think you and I will get along very well. By the way, I sent him a telegram this morning, letting him know you had arrived. And I also sent one to your Mrs. Poole. I thought she would like to know that you’re all here safely. I also thought she should be warned to watch out for the S.A. I’ve told her not to reply unless absolutely necessary.”
“Thank you,” said Mary. Well, that was one thing taken care of! She had been intending to send a telegram that day letting both Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Poole know they had arrived. After all, she had promised Mr. Holmes, and she knew Mrs. Poole would worry. But Irene was right—now they had discovered that the Alchemical Society was on their trail, they would have to be particularly careful.
“And what about Lucinda Van Helsing?” asked Justine. This morning, she was once again dressed in men’s clothes, since those were all she had brought. Mary was also dressed, but Diana was still in her nightgown.
“Come into the parlor,” said Irene. “It’s almost nine o’clock, and I’m expecting a report.”
A report? What kind of report? When Mary saw the parlor again by daylight, she wished she had a Kodak so she could take photographs for Beatrice. It was filled with exactly the sort of furniture Beatrice liked, made of various woods in interesting, unusual shapes. There were carpets in rich colors with stylized patterns, different from but somehow compatible with the upholstery on the sofa and armchairs. Paintings covered the walls. Mary suspected it was all very expensive, and in very good taste. Justine walked over to one of the paintings, hanging over the chaise lounge where Irene had been sitting the night before. What was Justine looking at so intently? Mary followed her and tried to make it out. The painting was of a woman in what looked like water, or maybe just wavy lines. She was swimming, or possibly drowning; it was difficult to tell. Her eyes were open, looking directly at the viewer, and her red hair floated around her, or were those more lines? The water part was green and blue, the woman was wearing a dark yellow and orange dress with strange patterns on it, and there was a great deal of gold leaf. On one corner was written La Sirène.
“This is magnificent,” said Justine. “I’ve never seen anything like it. But I can’t make out the artist’s name?”
“It’s by a friend of mine,” said Irene. “His name is not known outside of Vienna, but it will be—I think someday soon, all of Europe will be talking about Gustav Klimt. I was the model for this one. I don’t know if you can see the resemblance.”
“No,” said Diana. She was already sitting on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, just as she did at home. The sofa was upholstered in a green fabric with large red poppies on it that Beatrice would probably have fainted over.
BEATRICE: Not fainted. Women do not faint unless they wear those abominable cages for confining a woman’s natural shape. Irene never wears such a thing, and you can see how graceful she is, how beautifully she mo
ves.
MARY: Yes, thanks. We all love Irene, but do we need to go on and on about her beauty?
BEATRICE: Of course her beauty is the least interesting thing about her.
MARY: Yes, of course, I’m not disputing that—but still. And why do you keep mentioning Mr. Holmes, Catherine? This is supposed to be a story about us.
Yes, Mary could see the resemblance between the painting and Irene Norton, a little . . . although the watery woman was so pale and angular. But then, she had never understood modern art. Someday, she must get Justine to explain it to her.
“There’s an intellectual and artistic ferment in Vienna, as well as a political ferment. I think it will eventually transform the arts, and perhaps our approach to life itself. But I’m worried about the political part of it. It’s like the ripples in a pot of water before it starts to boil, made of up nationalism, sectarianism, anti-Semitism. . . . I’m afraid of what will happen if Europe boils over. But you’re not here for a political discussion.” Irene rang the bell, and a minute later Hannah appeared. “Has Greta finished her breakfast?”
“Yes, madame,” said the maid. “I will send her in.”
From a desk of very dark wood inlaid with what looked like mother of pearl, Irene fetched a large scroll of paper, then unscrolled it on a low table in front of the sofa and put four objects on the four corners to keep it flat: a small bronze statue of a woman, probably a nymph judging by her state of undress; a green porcelain vase; a silver ashtray shaped like a leaf; and finally a book of poems with gilt poppies on the cover. She sat on the sofa next to Diana and said, “If you’ll all come sit around the coffee table, I think we can have a—confabulation? A council of war? I just want to wait for—ah, here you are, Greta! Guten Morgen, my dear.”
To Mary’s confusion, Greta was a rather dirty boy, about Diana’s age, perhaps fourteen or fifteen? She wondered if Greta could be a boy’s name in German, or if she had simply heard it wrong.
“Have you had a good breakfast? I think we should speak English, for the sake of our guests. Come, sit down, all of you. These are the architectural plans for the Maria-Theresa Krankenhaus.”
They gathered around, Mary and Justine sitting in two armchairs that matched the sofa, Diana cross-legged on the sofa next to Irene. The dirty boy walked up to the table and stood with his hands in his pockets, as though waiting for orders.
“These plans come from the architectural firm that designed the Krankenhaus, around the time the old state mental hospital, the Narrenturm, was closed down. It was replaced by a group of private asylums on the outskirts of Vienna: this was one of them. It was originally designed to hold criminals that the court had determined to be insane and a danger to the public, but came to house private patients as well. Most of those private patients are confined there by relatives because they are a danger to themselves or others. It has always been, essentially, a place of incarceration, offering little hope and less healing. I have a friend who is trying to change how the mentally ill are diagnosed and treated—he believes mental illness is not an inevitable hereditary tendency but a symptom of repressed thoughts and desires. If patients can somehow bring those thoughts and desires to consciousness, they can be healed—or so he says. He calls himself a psychoanalyst, because he analyses the psyche, the human mind—or soul, if we go back to the Greek. He interprets dreams, slips of the tongue—it’s a controversial theory, and some of his colleagues think he’s mad himself. But he helped me after my husband died, when I was so depressed that I could barely get out of bed. He was the one who confirmed for me that Lucinda Van Helsing was in the Krankenhaus, although he could not tell me where. But perhaps Greta can tell us more?”
“Yes, madame,” said the boy. Like Hannah, he had a strong Austrian accent, and as soon as he started speaking, Mary realized that he was a she, although she made an even more convincing boy than Diana. Actually, she looked a lot like Charlie, and she had that same London swagger, although Mary supposed it was a Viennese swagger, here. Perhaps city urchins were much the same everywhere.
“She is here, on the third floor, but I do not know which room.” Greta pointed to part of the scroll marked DRITTE-ETAGE. “My informant is one of the maids, a Swabian named Anika Krause who works in the kitchen and is responsible for taking food to patients on a cart. She remembers taking food to a young woman named Lucinda who sat on her bed, looking at the floor as it was brought in. There was an attendant—that is the right word?—ein Aufseher with her the entire time. When Anika came again to fetch the tray, none of the food was eaten. That was why she particularly remembers the woman—none of the food was ever eaten. And she wonders what such a young woman could have done to be confined on the third floor, which is for criminals.”
“Ah, so that’s why Sigmund couldn’t find her,” said Irene. “He told me he doesn’t have access to the third-floor patients. What’s the layout? He described the building to me in general terms, but I’m sure you’ll have more detailed information. Like most visionaries, he’s not particularly observant of the material world. I’ve seen him tip his hat to a hall stand.”
“Yes, madame. The first floor is administrative. The second floor is for private patients, and the third floor is for criminals. The second and third floors have bars on the windows, and the rooms are locked only—I mean except—when the patients are allowed for exercise or recreation. On the second and third floors, the left wing is for women, the right for men. On the third floor, both wings also are kept locked. No one may go in or out except he has permission of the director. The private patients and criminals are not allowed to mingle—that is the right word, no? Umgang pflegen. There are guards at the front and back entrances of the Krankenhaus to make certain no one comes in. Deliveries come to the back door, where they are searched by the guards. I asked Anika if they could be bribed, but she says no, they are paid too well. Only those who work in the Krankenhaus—who have authorization—are allowed in or out. There are no visitors, not even family. Anika is searched every morning when she enters, as are all the attendants. I did not have to pay her for this information, madame. She is proud of working there, and boasted so much that I learned a great deal simply from listening to her. Indeed, I think paying her would have made her suspicious of me.”
“And what about internal guards?” asked Irene. “Sigmund says there are no guards on the second floor. What about the third?”
“She did not tell me,” said Greta. “And I did not wish to ask her more—I could see she was beginning to wonder why I was asking so many questions. I myself observed the hospital is surrounded by a high wall, nine feet I believe, topped with metal spikes. If you would like my honest opinion, das, was ich glaube—”
“Of course,” said Irene.
“I do not think it possible. The Krankenhaus is not like any place we have previously . . .” She paused, looking suspiciously at them all, particularly Diana. “What I mean, it is not like breaking into a private house, or even the Hoffburg. It is more like breaking into a prison!”
“Thank you, Greta,” said Irene. “As always, you’ve been most resourceful. Why don’t you keep the funds we allocated for Miss Krause? And now you should probably get some sleep. I know you were out all night, on this as well as other business.”
Greta nodded. “That other business . . .”
“Let’s talk about that later, when we meet with the other girls.”
Greta nodded again, then turned and strode out of the room, hands in her pockets.
“You see,” said Irene, “I have my own Baker Street Irregulars, as it were, although I prefer to work with girls, often rescued from a life on the streets, like Greta. She’s Hannah’s younger sister. They were both in prison when I—well, rescued them, I suppose. Girls can go anywhere, do anything, indeed become anything. They’re inconspicuous.”
“See? That’s what I’m always saying,” said Diana. “But will Mary let me do anything? No.”
“Well, any thoughts?” asked Irene. “I must
admit that I’m stumped at the moment. How in the world are we going to get this girl out? Right now, we can’t even get in to communicate with her. No visitors allowed, and no one goes in unless they’re known to the guards at the front or back. There may also be additional guards on the third floor. Even if Greta’s informant is wrong and the guards can be bribed—there are very few people who can’t be bribed, if you find the right currency—it would take time, and Sherlock tells me you don’t have time. What does that leave? Some sort of disguise? What sort of disguise will give us access to Lucinda? Or even to the Krankenhaus itself.”
“What about the friend you mentioned?” asked Justine. “The one who is an interpreter of dreams.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think he can do anything more for us,” said Irene. “He has admitting privileges at the Krankenhaus, but that only gives him access to his own patients on the second floor. He’s not allowed on the third floor, and might get in trouble if he were seen up there. When I got Sherlock’s letter, I asked my girls to find out where the Van Helsings live in Vienna. About a year ago, Van Helsing rented a house close to the university, outside the Ringstrasse. His wife and daughter moved there, and he would come and go, as his research required. Several months ago, his wife was confined to a mental asylum—yes, the Maria-Theresa Krankenhaus. According to his housekeeper, Frau Müller, she died there a few days before her daughter disappeared. The police believe Lucinda was kidnapped by several men, probably to hold for ransom—their bootprints were found in the garden beds. But I figured if Van Helsing had sent his wife to a madhouse, he might have sent his daughter there as well, staging the kidnapping to deflect attention from his activities. So I asked my friend if he could look at the admissions book, and there was a Fräulein Van Helsing, as well the reason for her admission—neurasthenic, hysterical, suicidal. We’re lucky that Van Helsing admitted her under her own name, or we wouldn’t have found her—I suppose he felt that he could fool the police with a fake kidnapping, but the director of the Krankenhaus would know him and realize who Lucinda was. My friend looked around on the second floor and couldn’t find her there. Even that was dangerous for him—aside from his controversial theories, he’s Jewish, and it’s becoming increasingly difficult to be a Jew in Vienna. If he’s caught on the third floor, it will jeopardize his professional position. That’s why I sent Greta to see if she could get more information. Greta is an expert at information, as you’ve seen. We need to find a way in so we can let Lucinda know we’re trying to help her, and of course get her out. But how?”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman (The Extraordinary Adventures of the Athena Club Book 2) Page 13
