MARY: Could you please not mention to the general public that I looked through Sherlock’s underclothes?
CATHERINE: Don’t worry, I’ll take it out before publication.
MARY: That’s what you kept saying about the last book, but you didn’t take out any of the things you promised to.
CATHERINE: Didn’t I? That must simply have been an oversight on my part. I promise to this time. Cross my heart.
MARY: Thank you, Catherine. I expect you to keep that promise.
DIANA: You are so gullible.
They headed back to Park Terrace with Justine’s list and the card in Mary’s purse, as well as a basket of scones fresh from the oven, with the compliments of Mrs. Hudson to Mrs. Poole. The search had taken them longer than anticipated. By the time they returned, Mrs. Poole had already set the table for luncheon. “I thought the morning room would be best, seeing as there are only three of you,” she said. “Mrs. Hudson’s scones! Really, Adeline is so thoughtful. You know, she trained as a cook originally, before marrying a military man. Have you found anything—any clues, as you call them?”
Over lunch, Mary showed Mrs. Poole the list of addresses and the card they had found that morning.
“I don’t know as you girls should be roaming the streets of London, going to all corners without protection of some sort,” said Mrs. Poole, looking at the list of addresses and shaking her head dubiously. “Jamaica Yard, Fishmonger’s Mews, Oyster Lane. What sorts of names are these? Who knows where they might be. In some disreputable part of town, like as not, inhabited by murderers and thieves.”
“But that sounds exactly like the sort of place one might find kidnappers,” said Mary. “After all, we’re not dealing with Sunday School teachers, are we?”
Mrs. Poole said nothing more, but continued to look concerned.
“All right,” said Mary after finishing her Welsh rarebit. “Here’s the agenda for the afternoon: We need to go to the Magdalen Society first, to figure out if Mrs. Raymond is involved in Alice’s kidnapping in any way. After that, we’ll tackle Martin. These addresses may need to wait until tomorrow. We still need to figure out where they are, and I think we had better go in disguise. Agreed?”
Justine nodded, but Diana leaned back in her chair and said, “No way am I going back to the Society of Mary Blooming Magdalen. I’ll go anywhere in London, but not there. You two enjoy yourselves. I’ve got other fish to fry.”
“What sorts of fish?” asked Mary suspiciously. She did not particularly want Diana going with them—there would be no locks to pick at the Magdalen Society, and she did not want her quarreling with Mrs. Raymond. They had not parted on amicable terms. But she also worried about leaving Diana behind. What sort of mischief could she get into?
DIANA: Not amicable! That bloody bitch—
ALICE: Remember that you’re talking about my mother.
“I’m going to teach Archie a new card game,” said Diana. She looked at Justine’s plate. “Are you going to finish that, or can I have it?”
“I do not think he likes being called Archie,” said Justine. She placed her knife and fork neatly on the side of her plate, then put her napkin on the table. She had eaten only half her lunch. “Mary, I’ll go change my clothes now. I think they would not let me into the Magdalen Society dressed like this! I shall have to once again be an exceptionally tall woman.” She smiled wanly, as though she had made a joke—and she probably had. Justine’s jokes were seldom actually funny.
“That’s why I call him that,” said Diana, grinning. “To annoy him! Seriously, if you’re not going to eat anymore…”
Mary just sighed and rose. Well, Mrs. Poole would have to deal with Diana that afternoon. She was not at all sorry to relinquish the responsibility for a while. What would they find at the Magdalen Society? She remembered the dour stone edifice in which magdalenes—reformed prostitutes—in gray gowns and white caps sat in silent rows, endlessly sewing linens for wealthy patrons. She had no desire to enter its cold gray halls again, and she was certainly not looking forward to another meeting with Mrs. Raymond.
CHAPTER III
Adventures in Soho
Mary rang the bell on the gray stone wall. The sound echoed around the forbidding courtyard of the Magdalen Society. It had not changed at all since the last time she had seen it—how long ago was that now? Four months? No, five. Not quite six. Had it truly been such a short time ago that she had found Diana, and then Beatrice, Catherine, and Justine? It seemed as though she had known them much longer than that. Through the gate, she could see that the courtyard was still bare, except for a row of dark green yews by the stone wall of the building, and the building itself still looked as though it had come out of a novel by Sir Walter Scott.
“Should we ring again?” asked Justine. For the first time in a month, she was attired in women’s clothes. They felt strange—not uncomfortable, but as though she could no longer move freely and easily about in the world. She was aware of restrictions, limitations. Perhaps Beatrice was right, and our clothing did impact the way we thought and felt. And yet, there was a beauty to women’s garments that was lacking in modern men’s clothes. As a painter, she could see that. It was all rather confusing.
Mary raised her hand to ring again, but a woman—or rather a girl, because she looked only fifteen or sixteen—rushed out from the shadowy arched doorway of the building. She was halfway to the gate when the white cap on her head fell off and began rolling over the flagstones. Quickly, as though in a panic, she picked it up, put it back on her head, and ran the rest of the way, with one hand on top of her head to hold it on and another under her chin, clutching the ribbons. Surely it would have made more sense to stop and tie it? Mary remembered the sharp-featured and sharp-tongued Sister Margaret who had opened the gate for them last time. This was certainly a very different sort of greeting!
“I’m so sorry,” said the girl, panting, with one hand on her side. “I’m supposed to be the porter today, but I was in the lavatory, and I didn’t hear the bell until one of the other girls shouted. I came as quickly as I could. McTavish would be so angry if she knew I was away from my post! You must be—looking for linen to purchase? Or perhaps you wish to make a donation?” She looked at them curiously, as though wondering what two ladies were doing here. They were not fancily dressed, but nevertheless clearly ladies, and with these philanthropic young women you could never quite tell how wealthy they were by their clothes.
“Yes, that’s exactly right,” said Mary. “We’re considering a donation, but we would like to make certain that your organization is a worthy cause. Could you please tell the director that a Miss Jenks and a Miss Frank would like to see her?”
She had been wondering exactly how they would get in to see Mrs. Raymond. Well, this seemed as good a way as any! She hated lying, of course, but she thought it was justified under the circumstances.
“Follow me,” said the girl, unlocking the gate. “My name is Doris. I’ve been here six months. The society has become like a second home to me. At first I thought it was terribly gloomy, and the food bland though plentiful, but it’s been so much more jolly in the last few weeks.”
Mary looked at Justine and shrugged. How anyone could describe the Magdalen Society as jolly, she did not know!
They crossed the courtyard behind Doris. There was the ivy-covered wall that Diana used to climb when she was a resident—
DIANA: A prisoner, you mean!
—of the Magdalen Society. It was the same wall Catherine had climbed down the night she learned that Hyde was involved with the Whitechapel Murders. That night Alice had been kidnapped for the first time, drugged by Mrs. Raymond, and taken away by Hyde to the warehouse by the Thames.
CATHERINE: You do seem to have a habit of being kidnapped, don’t you?
ALICE: I’ve been kidnapped exactly twice! I would not call that a habit. And the first time was purely a coincidence—I was following you and trying to find out who you were, since you were clearly
in disguise. It had nothing to do with me.
CATHERINE: Well, try not to be kidnapped again, if you can help it.
Once again, they stepped through the forbidding doorway of that gothic edifice. When they were inside, Mary was startled to hear… was that laughter?
“What in the world?” she said.
“Oh, them’s just the girls in the workrooms,” said Doris. “You see, miss, we sew linens of all sorts here—bed linens, linens for the kitchen, and even children’s clothes, leastways the simple things like smocks. Come this way. The director’s office is up the stairs, on the second floor.”
“Did you not say the society was very strict?” whispered Justine as they followed Doris up the stairs.
She had, and it had been, the last time Mary was here. But now they passed a group of women sitting on the stairs—just sitting and talking, as though they hadn’t a care in the world. Several of them were wearing the regulation white caps, but the rest had taken theirs off.
“The director will be mad if she sees you sitting here chatting and not working,” said Doris with a frown.
“Then let her High and Mightiness be mad!” said one of them, who threw back her head and laughed. She was still young, with pretty blond ringlets, but was missing several teeth.
Doris shook her head. “They ought to treat her with more respect, they really ought to. After all, someone has to run this place and get donations, and arrange for us to sell our work. She tries to be strict, but the girls ain’t scared of her, as you can see. Though they’re good girls really, and they don’t break too many rules. No sneaking gentlemen visitors in or anything like that, I assure you! Just a bit of gin now and then, and cigarettes, and maybe a card game for pennies—all in fun. I hope I’m not shocking you, miss. Not so as you’ll decide not to donate, anyway. We’re all liable to temptation, and all sinners in our own way, ain’t we? I assure you that we truly repent our old profession, and would much rather be here than out on the streets!”
Mary did not quite know what to say to this, but now they were at the door of the director’s office. She steeled herself to meet Mrs. Raymond once again.
Doris knocked on the door, was answered with a “Come in!,” and pushed it open.
“A Miss Jenks and a Miss Frank here to see you,” she said. “They want to donate to the institution.” She let them through, then closed the door again behind them.
The director rose from her desk, smiled graciously, and walked out from behind the desk toward them. “Miss Jenks and Miss Frank, is it? If you’ll just take a seat—You!” The exclamation sounded like a cork popping from a bottle. “What in blazes—I mean, what in the world are you doing back here?”
The director was dressed like Mrs. Raymond, in a plain gray merino, with a chatelaine at her waist. Her hair was pulled back into a tight and very respectable bun at the back of her head, so tight that it stretched her skin a little. But it was not Mrs. Raymond.
“Sister Margaret!” said Mary. “Are you—”
“You will please address me as Matron McTavish,” said the woman who had been Sister Margaret. “Mrs. Raymond, my predecessor, resigned abruptly almost a month ago, causing no end of trouble and considerable inconvenience to me. The trustees asked me to step into her place temporarily, until a new director can be found. Of course, I told them I would help in any way I could.” Miss McTavish, as we must now call her, looked both aggrieved and gratified, as though the thought of being inconvenienced rather pleased her. “But your name isn’t Jenks,” she said, looking at Mary suspiciously. “What was it now?”
“Doris must have misheard our names,” said Mary. “I’m Mary Jekyll, and this is Justine Frankenstein.” Goodness, she was getting just as bad as Diana, with all these lies! “We most particularly want to speak with Mrs. Raymond. If you have any idea where she might have gone—”
“I haven’t the faintest,” said Miss McTavish coldly. “She left without giving notice or leaving a forwarding address. So you see, I cannot help you at all.” She smiled tightly, with pursed lips, as though not being able to help was the first thing that had given her pleasure all day. “Now, I have a great deal of work to do.”
“Thank you,” said Mary, mentally adding for nothing. “Come on, Justine. I don’t think we need trouble Matron McTavish further.”
As soon as they had left the director’s office, they saw Doris, halfway down the hall, talking to another of the magdalenes—a girl, short and slight—in a gray dress. As Mary approached, the girl turned to her.
“Miss Jekyll? Do you remember me?”
She was not a girl after all—her face was marked by fine lines, and she had obviously once had smallpox. But she had a pair of sharp, clever brown eyes.
“Kate Bright-Eyes!” said Mary. “What in the world are you doing here? This is my friend Justine.” She turned to Justine and continued, “Kate was a friend of Molly Keane’s. You remember, she helped Catherine make herself up to infiltrate—well, this place, when we were investigating the Whitechapel Murders.” Kate looked almost the same as the last time Mary had seen her, except of course for the absence of rouge and whatever it was that certain women—those in Kate’s profession—used to blacken their eyelashes. Her eyes were all the more birdlike without it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bright-Eyes,” said Justine, offering her hand.
Kate shook it vigorously. “It’s a pity the Whitechapel Murders were never solved, ain’t it? Though I’m sure you and Mr. Holmes tried hard enough. I’m not blaming you, don’t think I am.”
“But they were solved,” said Mary. “I mean—we found out who did it, but he—well, he escaped to the continent, so he could not be brought to justice. And he died there—a painful death, I assure you. As painful as the deaths he brought on all those poor girls.” She remembered Adam Frankenstein in that bare room, on that small bed, dying of his burn wounds. Of course, Hyde had not been punished—he was still out there somewhere, free to continue his nefarious career. Well, if there was any justice in the universe, he would get his own comeuppance, someday.
“And it wasn’t in the papers?” said Kate. “Well, he must have been someone high and mighty, to keep it all so quiet. Connected to the Royal Family, maybe? But whoever he was, I’m glad he got what was coming to him. Anyone who did what he did to Molly deserves to rot in Hell. Talking about high and mighty, Doris tells me you’re looking for Mrs. Raymond.”
Mary looked at her, startled. “How did you know—”
“Keyhole,” said Doris. “Not very proper, I know, and my mum would scold me about it, but it’s important for us to know what’s going on around here, so we take turns eavesdropping. No one dared, while Mrs. Raymond was here—she always seemed to know what we were up to, I don’t know how. She must of had eyes in the back of her head. But McTavish doesn’t notice half of what goes on.”
“A completely necessary and understandable practice,” said Mary. “And yes, we are looking for information on Mrs. Raymond. Do you happen to know—”
“Not here in the hall,” said Kate. “Come on, follow me.”
She led them to a small room that was apparently used for storing the products made by the Magdalen Society, because there were shelves stocked with tea towels, aprons, and children’s smocks. Through a narrow window, Mary could look down to a dismal garden behind the building, with a few privets and an unkempt lawn.
“This is all I know, and it ain’t much,” said Kate. “Maybe Doris knows more—she’s been here longer than I have. I came because I caught the influenza, and when I got out of St. Bartholomew’s, I was too sick and tired to work—say what you will about this place, they do give you hot meals you don’t have to pay for! Anyway, about a week after Mrs. Raymond admitted me, we were told she was gone, and Sister Margaret—Matron McTavish, as she insists on being called—was in charge. There were plenty of rumors going around, I assure you—like that she wasn’t Mrs. Raymond after all, but a Mrs. Herbert. Do you remember the Herbert mur
der case? It was more than ten years ago—Mrs. Herbert was accused of murdering her husband, although they never could figure out how she done it, so she was acquitted for lack of evidence. They say she killed him to be with her lover!”
“The trustees found out about it—at least, that’s what we think—and she had to go,” said Doris. “Agnes insists that one night, about a week before Mrs. Raymond disappeared, she saw a man in her office. He was tall, with dark hair. Maybe that was her lover, come back for her? Or maybe he was blackmailing her and she refused to pay up? Then he told the trustees.…”
“Agnes has the most vivid imagination,” said Kate, shaking her head. “What she probably saw was the shadow of a hatstand—if anything at all! Anyway, some say Mrs. Raymond was the one who wanted to leave—the trustees were fair begging her to stay. Either way, one morning she was gone, and nothing has been heard of her since.”
“When was this?” asked Mary. “When did she disappear?”
“Around the end of August,” said Doris. “I’m sorry, miss, I wish we had more information for you. The truth is, no one really knows where she went, or what became of her.”
Mary sighed. Rumor and conjecture, that was all. Well, at least it was something! Mrs. Raymond had vanished about a month before Alice was kidnapped. Could the two disappearances be connected? She had no idea.
“Thank you both,” she said. “And Kate, if you ever need help, you know that you can come to us: 11 Park Terrace in Marylebone. If we’re not at home, tell Mrs. Poole who you are, and she’ll admit you.” She held out her hand, which had a shilling in it.
“That’s very good of you, miss,” said Kate, taking the shilling and then pressing her hand.
“Particularly if you need medicine,” said Justine. “Beatrice cannot cure the influenza, but her plants can help you recover from it sooner. She’s away from home, but should be back in a few days. Her medicines are as effective as anything you’ll receive at St. Bartholomew’s.”
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 6