The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl

by Theodora Goss

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Raymond,” said Lord Godalming, bowing to her. She could not tell whether it was a mocking bow—he seemed sincere? After all, gentlemen did bow to young ladies like Lydia Raymond. “I assume you’re all here for the meeting this afternoon?”

  “Of course,” said Miss Trelawny. “Who else are we expecting?”

  “Just Harker and Raymond,” said Seward. “I don’t suppose you’ll have some time later for a walk? Although we are not in a prepossessing area of the city, there is a park.…”

  Alice could not help looking at him with a startled expression. The Raymond he had mentioned must be Dr. Raymond! So he was involved with Mrs. Raymond and Moriarty. She truly was in the lion’s den. Luckily, at this particular moment no one seemed to be paying attention to her.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Miss Trelawny. “Mrs. Raymond and I have a great deal to do—you understand, I’m sure.” She smiled at him again, but Alice thought there was something dismissive in her smile. Could Dr. Seward see it? She thought not. Miss Trelawny held out her other hand to Mr. Morris, who took it in his large brown one. “It’s such a pleasure to meet a man who has traveled to all corners of the earth. You must tell me more about your travels at dinner. I’ll make certain we’re seated together, shall I?”

  Mr. Morris bowed over her hand, looking inordinately pleased, while Dr. Seward glared at him.

  “Come, Lydia,” said Mrs. Raymond, taking Alice’s other hand and pulling her back toward the hall. She did not look like Mrs. Raymond anymore. Should Alice still think of her as Mrs. Raymond? But she could not think of her as Mother.

  She felt herself tugged between the two women. Inadvertently, she pulled Miss Trelawny along behind her.

  “Must you provoke them?” Mrs. Raymond asked when they were standing in the hall again. Miss Trelawny seemed to be laughing to herself.

  “Divide and conquer, my dear Helen,” she responded with a smile. It was the same treacly smile she had given Dr. Seward, but now it seemed just a bit sinister. What in the world was going on in this house? Was this once again the Alchemical Society at work? It must be—after all, this was the headquarters of the society in England, and Dr. Raymond, who was expected later, had been the head of the English chapter. But what did Professor Moriarty have to do with the Alchemical Society? And who were those other men—Lord Godalming, Mr. Morris, and that other one, the Mr. Harker they had mentioned? Were they alchemists as well?

  Alice was frightened, of course. But then, she had been frightened most of her life—of the bigger girls at the orphanage, who would steal food from the smaller ones because they were so hungry themselves; of Mrs. Poole finding out that she was just an orphan, rather than a respectable girl with a family in the country; of starving on the streets of London after Mary had let the servants go; of dying in the warehouse from Beatrice’s poison. Fear was familiar, almost comfortable, like an old coat. And in addition to being afraid, she felt terribly curious. What was going on here? Why had she been kidnapped?

  She climbed the stairs behind Miss Trelawny. The upper hall was filled with sunlight—it must be around noon. They walked down a corridor with closed doors on both sides—bedrooms, Alice remembered from the last time she had been here. Suddenly, from one of the rooms, she heard a faint groan. Which room had it been?

  “Walk on, Lydia,” said Mrs. Raymond in her cold tones. For a moment, Alice had stopped, and Mrs. Raymond had almost tripped over her.

  Obediently, Alice—who would never, she mentally swore, think of herself as Lydia—walked on, following Miss Trelawny to the end of the corridor. There, Miss Trelawny opened the last door.

  “Your room is right next to mine. If you need anything, just knock on the wall and if I’m there, I’ll come right over.” Miss Trelawny smiled at her, encouragingly. Then, she stepped into the room and pulled Alice along with her.

  The room was not large, but light and airy, with white lace curtains. The last time Alice had seen these rooms, they had been bare, but now fresh linens had been put on the bed and there was a vase of flowers on top of a bookshelf filled with books, next to a comfortable chair for reading. A wardrobe, chest of drawers, and washstand completed the furniture of the room.

  Mrs. Raymond entered behind her, walked to the wardrobe, and opened the doors. Inside were dresses, hanging in a row. She pulled out one that looked exactly like the blue dress she had conjured for Alice out of energic waves.

  “I think this will do for today,” she said. “I want you to look respectable for our meeting.”

  Alice glanced down at herself. She was once again wearing the dirty nightgown. But Mrs. Raymond still had on her gray silk dress, and her hair was still a luxuriant black. Which was the real Mrs. Raymond? Alice could see the energic waves roiling about her head—Martin had taught her how to see them. She could see them about Miss Trelawny as well, but only faintly—most people, meaning people who were not mesmerists, had waves just like that. But Mrs. Raymond—well, it had been clear from the first moment Alice had seen her in the cellar that she was a mesmerist, much stronger than Martin. There would be no fooling her with illusions.

  “There is a bathroom at the end of the hall,” said Miss Trelawny. “I’ll have Gitla bring up hot water and towels. She’ll take you there so you can bathe. And then I want you to get dressed in that pretty dress Helen—your mother—has chosen for you. You can do that, can’t you, my dear?”

  “Yes, miss,” said Alice. It was the first thing she had actually said in—how many days? Her voice sounded like a rusted hinge.

  “Please call me Margaret. I think you and I are going to be good friends. Now, your mother and I have some things to take care of. We’ll see you in a couple of hours.”

  “Do you understand, Lydia?” said Mrs. Raymond. “You are to bathe and get dressed. We will come for you when your presence is required.”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Alice. Miss Trelawny—Margaret—had put it so much more nicely! She had at least pretended that she was not ordering Alice, but asking her to get ready for some sort of meeting. What sort of meeting? And why would Alice need to be there?

  Mrs. Raymond just nodded. A moment later, Alice heard a key turn in the lock behind them. Once again she was alone and locked up, but at least it was in better circumstances! What now? Really what she wanted to do was lie down on the bed, pull the covers around her, and cry. But how would that help? The last time she had been kidnapped, Mary had come for her—well, for Justine and Beatrice really, but she had been rescued as well. This time, no one was coming. Mary and the other members of the Athena Club were far away, in Europe, which might as well be the antipodes. Mr. Holmes was off somewhere on a case—unless he had returned already? But even if he had, there were probably more important things to occupy his time than chasing down a kitchen maid! She could certainly not expect the great detective to come after her. Alice had always been comforted by her own insignificance. If she was just a kitchen maid, she would be safe. No one would bother her or ask much of her. Well, now she was Lydia Raymond, or so they told her, and she did not feel safe at all. Surely Mrs. Poole would do something? But what could Mrs. Poole do? If she went to Scotland Yard and reported that her kitchen maid had been kidnapped, she would likely be told that kitchen maids ran away from their employers every day, and she should simply find a new one. After all, who kidnapped kitchen maids? Who would want them? There were thousands of girls just like Alice in London, who could scrub floors and sinks and dishes, who could stir soups and watch to make sure cakes did not burn. There was nothing unique about her—except her mesmerical abilities, which seemed to be what had gotten her into all this trouble!

  She would lie down on the bed after all, just for a moment, to have a good cry.

  It lasted for more than a moment. She had not cried so hard since the night after Mrs. Jekyll’s funeral, when Mary had told the staff they would have to be let go. She had known, then, that it was either going on the streets or back to the orpha
nage for her. She had never felt so alone. And here she was again, as alone as she had been that night. But no, she was not completely alone. She had friends, even if they were far away. And she herself was not as lost and uncertain as she had been back then. After all, she had participated in the escape from the warehouse, even if her part had been a small one. And later, she had helped Catherine rescue Archibald, hadn’t she? She would be fourteen years old in February. That was Diana’s age, and look at all the things Diana did! Of course, she did not actually want to be Diana, because Diana annoyed everyone. And yet, how handy the ability to pick locks would be right now!

  No, the person she really wanted to be like was Mary.

  DIANA: Why in the world would anyone want to be like Mary? She’s so boring.

  Mary was logical. Mary could break a problem down into its component parts and solve them one by one. What was the central problem, then? She needed to escape. There was either the window or the door. Alice stood up and walked to the window. It was a sheer drop to the ground. Nothing to climb down, not even some ivy growing up the wall, and she wasn’t a monkey like Diana. The door, when she tried it, was most definitely locked. The key was not in the keyhole—Mrs. Raymond must have taken it.

  While standing there, she heard a groan again—it was coming, faint but distinct, from down the hall. Then there was another sound—boot heels! Was Mrs. Raymond or Margaret Trelawny coming back for her? A moment later, when a key turned in the lock, Alice was sitting back on the bed, with her feet tucked under her, crying into her hands—but this time the tears were false. If whoever came in thought she was distraught, it might be easier to escape somehow.

  When the door opened, she looked through her fingers and saw a girl, not much older than she was—perhaps fifteen or sixteen?—in a maid’s uniform. Alice sniffed and dried her nonexistent tears. It was a waste of time pretending to cry for a maid, and anyway, maids, in her experience, were more perceptive than other people. The girl might be able to tell that she had not really been crying.

  “Hello,” she said tentatively.

  “Hello,” said the maid back, smiling in a friendly fashion. Her “Hello” was heavily accented. She had dark brown hair and wide cheekbones that reminded Alice of the old woman who had brought her food in the coal cellar. Could this be her daughter?

  “My name is Alice.” She scooted over to the edge of the bed and put her bare feet on the floor. “I’m in service, just like you.”

  The girl shook her head and said something that sounded like a stream of gibberish—but of course it must be another language. It sounded nothing at all like English. “I have no Anglich,” she repeated, more slowly.

  “You don’t speak English?” said Alice.

  The girl nodded, smiling again. So much for trying to communicate with her or elicit her sympathy!

  The maid pointed to herself. “Gitla,” she said. “Gitla Mandelbaum.” Yes, then she must be the Mandelbaums’ daughter. The mother a housekeeper, the father a butler, and daughter a maid—that was often how it worked when entire families were in service.

  Well, if they were reduced to pantomime—“Alice,” said Alice, pointing to herself.

  Gitla nodded, then said something in that foreign language of hers, and gestured for Alice to come along. This must be her promised bath?

  Sure enough, Gitla led her to a bathroom at the end of the hall. The bath was already filled with water. Beside it stood the bucket in which Gitla must have carried the water—several trips up and down, since the water was comfortably deep. On a stool beside the bathtub were a towel and robe. Gitla gestured toward the bath, then curtseyed and walked back out into the hall, shutting the door behind her.

  Alice listened intently, but there was no sound of footsteps receding. She tiptoed to the door and peeked out through the keyhole. Yes, Gitla was still standing there, leaning against the wall. So she wasn’t just a maid—she was a guard as well! There was nothing to do now but take a bath, and goodness, she needed one! Mrs. Poole would have been shocked by how dirty and, yes, smelly she was.

  She immersed herself in the bathwater, which was still deliciously hot, and scrubbed herself with a bar of Castile soap she found on the towel. Just for good measure, she washed her hair as well. There was no vinegar to rinse with, but she rinsed her hair as well as she could in cold water from the tap.

  She put on the robe, leaving the soiled nightgown neatly folded on the chair, then called out, “I’m ready!”

  Gitla opened the door and gestured for her to come out, saying something incomprehensible. It was strange not being able to talk to someone! This was how Mary must feel in Europe, where everyone spoke different languages. But Mary had Justine and the others to translate, whereas Alice must do her best without a translator. Somehow, communicating by pantomime, Gitla led her back to the room, then combed her hair and dressed Alice in the blue silk frock that Mrs. Raymond had picked out. There were stockings to go with it—goodness, silk stockings, with embroidered clocks! And a very fine pair of button boots that Gitla fastened with a boot hook.

  By this time, her hair was almost dry. Gitla patted it once more with a towel, then braided it and tied it at the bottom with a blue silk ribbon. Alice had never worn such fine clothes in her life. Evidently, Lydia Raymond was not a kitchen maid! Alice felt like a perfect fraud.

  “Ślicznie Panna w tym wygląda,” Gitla said, looking at Alice as though pleased with her handiwork.

  And then Alice was left alone again. With an apologetic smile, Gitla locked the door behind her. What now? There was nothing she could do until Mrs. Raymond or Miss Trelawny came to get her, so she looked at the bookshelf—The Cuckoo Clock by Mrs. Molesworth, The Water-Babies by Mr. Kingsley, The Little Lame Prince by Miss Mulock.… She had read all those books at the orphanage, where they had been considered improving literature. Someone had planned this room for a child. But what child? It took a moment for the truth to dawn on her. She was the child. All that time she had been locked in the coal cellar, this room, with its clothes that were a little too large for her, its books that were a little too young, had been waiting for her. Planned by whom? Mrs. Raymond? She could not imagine Mrs. Raymond planning any such thing, and yet who else could have done it? Sometimes, at the orphanage, she had imagined that she was not an orphan after all, that one day her mother would come for her. Who would she be? A soldier’s widow reduced to penury who had been unable to keep her daughter? A fallen governess who had sought to hide her shame? In her dreams, her mother had always loved and wanted her, but had been forced to give her up due to unfortunate circumstances. As she had grown older, she had put such dreams aside. And now her mother had come for her—kidnapping her, imprisoning her, wanting her to work for a man such as Moriarty, who was, she could tell, what Mrs. Poole called a wrong ’un. She did not know what to think.

  She was quite hungry by the time a key turned in the lock again. This time, it was Margaret Trelawny. She was no longer dressed in a black walking suit. Now she had on a very attractive black afternoon gown with a neckline that was, Alice thought, a little too low for mourning attire—after all, she must be in mourning, or why would she be wearing black? Around her neck was a magnificent gold necklace with a pendant that looked like a large ruby carved in the shape of a beetle. Surely that was not proper under the circumstances either? In mourning one wore a set of jet beads, or perhaps a locket with the braided hair of the beloved dead inside. But it certainly did look striking on her white neck, framed by the black collar.

  “Why, Lydia, don’t you look lovely!” she said. “Come on down. The meeting is about to start, and there will be tea—I’m sure you’d like some. I asked Mrs. Mandelbaum to send up some of those little cakes she makes so well. At least, I think I did. The Mandelbaums don’t speak English at all—well, Gitla knows a few words, but they’re recent immigrants. And of course I don’t speak any Polish. But Abram Mandelbaum speaks a little German—he was a school teacher in his own country—and my father taught me G
erman so I could help with his research. At any rate, there will be food of some sort. Now, here’s what I want you to do.…”

  Alice nodded. As she followed Miss Trelawny down the hall, she mentally repeated to herself what Margaret had told her: Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to; when you are spoken to, answer clearly but briefly—no need to volunteer more information than you are asked for; listen carefully to the conversation and remember what you have learned; make sure to eat and drink, so you can keep up your strength. She was not at all sure whether she should like Miss Trelawny. Certainly, she was much kinder than Mrs. Raymond or Professor Moriarty—after all, she had gotten Alice out of the coal cellar. And yet she was in league with them. In league to do what? Alice had no idea. Well, for now she would follow Margaret Trelawny’s instructions to listen and learn.

  As she put one foot on the stair, she heard it again—a groan, this time from behind her. It was long and drawn out. Someone was in pain. Should she ask Miss Trelawny about it? But Margaret Trelawny was already halfway down the stairs. Listen and learn, she reminded herself. Listening and learning had gotten her out of bad situations in the past, at the orphanage for example. Whoever was groaning so piteously, she would have to find out about it later.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Miss Trelawny led her to the common room, with its plush chairs, dark paneling, and brocade curtains. Portraits of solemn old gentlemen looked down from the walls. Seated in the armchairs gathered around the fireplace, in which a fire had been lit, was a collection of gentlemen much younger than the ones in the portraits. Among them, in the armchair closest to the fireplace, was Mrs. Raymond. She was still in her soft gray dress, with lace falling over her shoulders and arms, and her black hair was swept up in the most modern style. She looked quite romantic, like a duchess in a society magazine.