A moment later, Cartwright clattered down the steps from the third floor. He was a small boy with spectacles and tangled hair.
“Cartwright! Jam on your nose. What have you been doing, man? You look like a circus clown.” Wiggins sounded disapproving.
Cartwright wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Sorry, Mr. Wiggins,” he said with consternation. “Me and the boys upstairs were having our tea.”
“Well, I want you to identify these addresses. You can take them upstairs and consult the maps if you like.”
Cartwright glanced down the list. “There’s no need, sir. I know these right enough. They’re in Limehouse, down by the docks. They’re all opium dens. Oh, they don’t advertise themselves that way—some of them look like warehouses or regular shops, in front. But you go inside, and they’re opium dens right enough.”
Diana grinned. “Well, well. So there’s where Dr. Watson was searching for the great detective! And him so prim and proper all the time. I bet we’ll find him in one of those places, smoking an opium pipe. Wait until Mary hears about this!”
Wiggins looked at her with alarm. “Is that what this is about? If you’d told me you were looking for Mr. Holmes, I would have ripped this list up as soon as looking at it. He said he was going to disappear for a while, and gave us instructions not to look for him, no matter who asked—not even Dr. Watson! He said it was too important, and too dangerous. Diana, give me that list!”
“Not on your life!” said Diana, scrunching the piece of paper up into a ball and putting it in her mouth. “You try to get it from me, Bill Wiggins, and I’ll skewer you until you scream like a pig, see if I don’t!” Her little knife was already in her hand. She had the wall to her back, and she would die, or more likely kill him, rather than give it up. Of course, the addresses were still on the blotter, and Justine could copy them again—but it was the principle of the thing. Wiggins was not going to tell her what to do, nohow!
JUSTINE: Ah, that is why the paper was so damp when you showed it to us later! It is good that I wrote the list in pencil rather than ink.
MARY: Why must you always do things in the most disgusting way imaginable?
Fifteen minutes later, Diana sauntered back through the streets of Soho with Charlie by her side. In her pocket was the list of addresses and Cartwright’s handwritten instructions for how to get to them, together with a map he had marked with red crosses. She could be very persuasive when she chose, even with someone as pigheaded as Wiggins. Mary was Mr. Holmes’s personal assistant—whatever rules applied to the Baker Street Irregulars didn’t apply to her, did they? As Wiggins had finally conceded, although Mr. Holmes had told the boys not to follow him, he had not said anything about the Athena Club—and could Diana put the knife down now please? It was tickling his throat.
Mary would be so impressed! Of course, Mary was never sufficiently impressed by her cleverness.
“Do you want to hear about how I rescued Lucinda Van Helsing from an insane asylum?” she said to Charlie.
His look of admiration and prompt “Cor, did you really?” was all she could ask for.
She did not know, she could not know, that at no great distance from her, in the tangled streets of Soho, Alice was sitting on a cellar floor, gnawing on a crust of bread and drinking a cup of weak tea. The dim light of a single lantern shone on the shackle around her ankle and the chain by which it was affixed to the wall.
What was that sound? Footsteps approaching along the corridor! She stuffed the bread into her mouth, chewing as quickly as she could so she would not have to taste it, and gulped down the tea. Then she crawled back to the wall, beside the thin mattress she had been sleeping on, and put her arms around her knees. Having the wall at her back gave her no particular protection, but it made her feel safer.
The footsteps stopped right in front of her prison door—they must be coming for her again. Twice now she had refused to help them. The key turned in the lock. She wondered what they would do to her if she refused a third time.
CHAPTER IV
The Order of the Golden Dawn
The cellar door opened with its customary creak. Mrs. Raymond entered. Alice expected her to be followed by the man who called himself Professor Moriarty. She had first seen the professor on the night she had been woken by a sound and a light in her bedroom, the night a piece of cloth saturated with some pungent liquid had been held against her nose until she had passed out.
She had woken here, in this cellar, still in her nightgown, already chained to the wall. She had a mattress on the floor to lie on, a scratchy wool blanket to cover herself with, and a chamber pot in one corner that she could just get to, chained as she was. Light came from a single lantern hanging on the wall that was periodically refilled with kerosene by the woman who brought her food. The streaks of soot on the walls, and on her bare feet, indicated that this had once been a coal cellar. She was not sure how long she had been in this place, without a window to tell her when it was day and night.
Periodically the woman brought her porridge and tea for what she assumed was breakfast, then bread and a thin stew, with scraps of meat in it, for a dinner of sorts, again with tea. It was weak tea, without milk or sugar, but Alice drank it eagerly enough. Once, the woman had brought a slice of apple tart, and Alice had almost cried—it tasted like Mrs. Poole’s apple tart, although with walnuts in it, and Mrs. Poole would never have used walnuts. How it made her long for the house at Park Terrace! She might only be the kitchen maid, but it was still her home.
Several times, she had tried talking to the woman, who was dressed like a respectable domestic: a housekeeper, or perhaps a superior housemaid. But the woman had simply shaken her head. Once, she had said, “No Anglich,” with an apologetic smile. It was obvious that she was a foreigner of some sort. Once she had set down Alice’s food, she usually scurried away as quickly as she could. She had a frightened look in her eyes.
Alice’s only other visitors had been Mrs. Raymond and Professor Moriarty. Twice they had come. Twice, the professor had said the same thing: “If you will help us in our endeavor, Lydia, all this will be over—you will join us upstairs, as a member of our company. Show me that you are your mother’s daughter.” Was Mrs. Raymond truly her mother, as she claimed? She had demonstrated her own mesmeric powers, dissipating Alice’s illusions as though they were smoke. But would a mother treat her daughter like this?
Lydia Raymond. That was, evidently, her name—the one she had been christened with. That was who they wanted her to be. Well, she was not Lydia Raymond, she would never be Lydia Raymond, no matter how they tortured her—although so far there had been no actual torture, only hours and hours of tedium and the weight of the shackle and chain. In the books Alice liked to read, printed on cheap paper and sold for only a penny at newspaper stalls, beautiful young girls were frequently captured and imprisoned. Mrs. Poole often told her to stop reading such nonsense. “They are nothing at all like real life,” Mrs. Poole said, and Alice had to admit that Mrs. Poole was right. Being kidnapped was neither as exciting nor as terrifying as those books made out, but considerably more boring and painful. She was so tired of sitting all day or pacing in the short circuit the chain allowed her! Also, she felt dirty all over. And she smelled.
To amuse herself, she created small illusions—sometimes she sat in a forest grove, with a stream running through it. She could hear the wind in the trees above her, and the notes of birdsong dropping down like rain. It reminded her of the walks in Regent’s Park. Sometimes she sat in a palace out of a fairy tale, with windows overlooking a garden, and delicate painted furniture scattered about, and a chandelier overhead, blazing with a hundred candles. That was inspired by a theatrical production of Cinderella, or the Little Glass Slipper that Mrs. Poole had taken her to at a theater in the West End. “I don’t hold with theater in a general way,” Mrs. Poole had said. “But there’s no harm in Shakespeare or fairy stories, even for a girl like you, Alice.” Once, she had tried to re-create the kitchen
at 11 Park Terrace, with its black iron stove, the long table on which Mrs. Poole rolled out pastry, the capacious sink… but the sight of it had made her so sad that she had allowed the mesmerical waves to dissipate. It was better, after all, not to think too much of home.
What must Mrs. Poole think of her disappearance? She had disappeared once before—would Mrs. Poole assume she had run away? And what about Miss Mary, so far away in Europe? Would she be angry that Alice had left without giving notice?
That was another way in which her penny tomes were not particularly accurate. There would be no handsome young hero coming to rescue her! She must figure out how to rescue herself.
She had decided that when she next saw Professor Moriarty, she would agree to help him with whatever he was planning. It would be a lie, of course—she had no intention of helping him. But at least it would get her out of this cellar, and then she could get a better sense of what this was all about and why they had kidnapped her. Surely that was what Mary would do?
But this time it was not the professor who entered the room. Instead, accompanying Mrs. Raymond was a woman—tall and very beautiful, with a pale face and masses of black hair piled on top of her head in the most fashionable style. She was wearing a black walking suit and still had a hat pinned to her coiffure, as though she had just arrived and not yet taken it off. The feathers curled down and almost touched her cheek. In one hand she was still holding a pair of gloves.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she said. “What were the two of you thinking? I would expect this sort of thing from Moriarty, but you should know better, Helen. Your own daughter!”
She strode across the cellar to Alice, who could not help scurrying back against the wall—not so much from fear as from surprise.
“My dear Lydia, I do apologize. If I had been here, you would never have been treated so shamefully. Come, show me your ankle. Shackled! How ridiculous and unnecessary. Here, let me unlock it.”
With a key she was holding in her slender, manicured hand, she unlocked the shackle from Alice’s ankle.
Oh, how good it felt to have that weight off! Her ankle itched terribly. There were red marks all around it where the skin was rubbed raw.
“No, don’t scratch,” said the woman. “I’ll put some cold cream on it. Come, my dear. Can you stand up? You must be so stiff!”
Mrs. Raymond frowned. “I assure you, Margaret, the intent was not to harm her. We were simply trying to convince—”
“And you thought this was the way to do it?” The woman, who must be named Margaret, shook her head incredulously.
Mrs. Raymond looked disapproving. “Lydia, this is Miss Margaret Trelawny. Evidently, she believes I have mistreated you. Well then, do whatever she directs. I am not used to having my actions questioned, but if she believes this is the wrong way to proceed, we shall try her way. Go on, Margaret—I will follow you. We shall see if you get better results than I have!”
Miss Trelawny smiled. “You are all vinegar, my dear Helen. I believe in the judicious application of honey.”
Alice looked at the two of them—Mrs. Raymond in her gray dress, with her gray hair up in a net, looking as grim as always, and the woman she had called Margaret Trelawny, who looked as though she had stepped out of a fashion magazine. Who was she, and why was she involved with Mrs. Raymond and the professor? But there was no time for such questions now, for Miss Trelawny had taken her hand and said, “Come on. I’m going to doctor that ankle, then take you upstairs.”
Since she had woken up in the coal cellar, Alice had wondered where she was. Still in London, she supposed—why would Mrs. Raymond and the professor want to transport her elsewhere? But of course she had not known for certain.
As soon as Miss Trelawny pulled her out of the room in which she had been confined, she thought, I’ve been here before. She recognized the long hallway with its half-moon windows at both ends. On one side would be a large kitchen, on the other a butler’s pantry. In the kitchen would be two dumbwaiters that ascended to the rooms above. She knew because she and Catherine had used them to listen in on a conversation between Dr. Seward, his associate Dr. Raymond, and Mr. Prendick about reestablishing the English branch of the Alchemical Society. Could this be the same house? Or did it just resemble that one? After all, houses in certain parts of London were much alike.
Miss Trelawny pulled her down the hall and into a kitchen. The woman who had brought Alice’s food looked up from her cooking, startled. A man in a suit, who was sitting at the table eating some bread and cheese, stood up and said something—what language was he speaking? Alice could make neither heads nor tails of it, but it was obvious, from his clothes and bearing, that he was the butler, just as it was clear, now, that the woman was both housekeeper and cook. “Setzen Sie sich, Mandelbaum, setzen Sie sich,” said Miss Trelawny. The man nodded, then sat and continued his meal, looking at them curiously from under thick eyebrows.
“Sit here,” she said to Alice, pulling out one of the kitchen chairs. “I’ll ask Mrs. Mandelbaum to get our medical supplies.” Then she said something to the housekeeper in what sounded like the same language, except that Mrs. Mandelbaum did not seem to understand her. The man turned to her and explained whatever it was—in the same language or another? His name must be Mandelbaum, so they were husband and wife? This was becoming very confusing. Miss Trelawny leaned down, took hold of Alice’s ankle, and raised it to show the woman the bruise that the shackle had left. She mimed putting something on it.
The woman nodded, then went to one of the cabinets and pulled down a large tin box. From it, Miss Trelawny took a bottle of alcohol, a roll of linen, and a jar of cold cream. Mrs. Raymond looked on with a frown.
The alcohol stung Alice’s ankle terribly, but the cold cream felt soothing going on. Once her ankle was properly bandaged, Miss Trelawny said, “All right, that’s better. Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” Alice followed Miss Trelawny up the stairs to the ground floor, limping a little. Mrs. Raymond walked behind them, still grim and disapproving.
Yes, this was the English branch of the Alchemical Society. Alice recognized it now for certain. But how different it looked from the last time she had been here. Then, dim light had come through cracks in the boarded windows. Everything had been covered with a layer of dust. Clearly, the building had not been used in a long time. Now, sunlight filtered through the lace under-curtains, and the damask over-curtains were bright from washing. Everything had been dusted—wooden tables gleamed, and the gilding on the picture frames shone with a soft luster. They were ugly pictures, Alice decided as she followed Miss Trelawny along the front hall. Most were of men wearing wigs, presumably members of the Alchemical Society from the last century. Surely the English branch had been around that long?
The house still seemed empty, and silence reigned over all, although when they passed the entrance to the large common room, Alice could smell a cigar and hear the murmur of male voices.
As they passed, one of those male voices called out, “Miss Trelawny, is that you?”
Miss Trelawny stopped so abruptly that Alice almost bumped into her. “What does he want?” she said to Mrs. Raymond, so low that Alice could barely hear.
“It’s always best to humor them,” said Mrs. Raymond in the same low tones.
Miss Trelawny sighed with what seemed to be exasperation. “Come on,” she said to Alice. “This won’t take long, and then we’ll go to your room and make sure you have a proper bath.”
She took Alice’s hand and pulled her into the common room. Mrs. Raymond followed behind them. Three men rose from armchairs drawn up to the fireplace, although there was no fire. One of them moved toward her.
“My dear Dr. Seward,” she said, holding out her hand and shaking his when it was extended. Her voice sounded like treacle, rich and sweet. Alice looked at her, startled. She was smiling, and seemed pleased to meet him. So this was Dr. Seward, the director of the Purfleet Asylum, who had helped Professor Van Helsing perform experiments
on his daughter Lucinda! And who had confined Archibald to the same coal cellar where Alice had been held captive. She looked at him with a frown. He seemed ordinary enough—of average height, with middling brown hair that was starting to recede, and a not particularly noticeable face. Strange, that evil should look so bland.
“How lovely to see you again.” Miss Trelawny turned to the other two men. “Lord Godalming, a pleasure as always. And this must be your friend Mr. Morris. One cannot mistake the American adventurer.” Lord Godalming bowed. He was a handsome man, with golden hair just starting to turn gray at the temples and a mustache that reminded Alice of a nailbrush. His companion was clearly Mr. Morris. So this was what Americans looked like! He had dark brown hair curling down to his shoulders, and a long mustache that made Alice think of the walrus from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. His jacket and trousers were made of leather, with a leather fringe. Hanging from his waist was a long sheath—Alice could see the hilt of a knife sticking out from the top. It must be a large knife! He looked so theatrical that she felt an impulse to laugh. It did not seem a very practical outfit for walking around London. His face was brown from the sun, and his blue eyes crinkled up at the corners. It was he who had been smoking a cigar, which was now in an ashtray.
“Hello, little lady,” he said to Alice. She stared at him without answering.
“This is my daughter, Lydia,” said Mrs. Raymond.
Alice looked at her, startled. She had never been introduced as anyone’s daughter before! But she was even more startled by Mrs. Raymond’s appearance. Gone was the gray hair—now it was entirely black, piled in an elegant chignon, and her plain gray dress had become a watered silk afternoon gown. It was still gray, but with lace at the low bodice and around the cuffs. She could have been Miss Trelawny’s sister!
Alice looked down at herself, ashamed of her nightgown, but she too had miraculously changed clothes. She was wearing a blue silk dress with an apron of white lawn, and on her feet were button boots. Goodness, she had never worn such an outfit in her life! The dress was far too fine for a kitchen maid, and what would she have done with such an apron? Why, it would have torn almost immediately, if she had worn it for her daily work. But none of this was real—she could still feel the wooden floor beneath her bare feet.
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 8