The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl

by Theodora Goss

  “Moriarty—I have heard that name before,” said Justine. “But I cannot recall where?”

  “You are French!” said Mr. Gray, looking at Justine with curiosity as well as admiration. “I cannot quite place your accent. I myself adore the French—their fashions, their novels, their jeu d’esprit. Do you ever go to Antibes? I have a house there. If you ever wish to visit…”

  “I am Swiss,” said Justine, looking both pleased and a little confused. “I have never been to the south of France. I have heard it is very pleasant, and a wonderful place to paint.”

  Oh, for goodness’ sake! They were sitting in an opium den, trying to find two of their friends who had, it now seemed, both been kidnapped! This was no time for a flirtation.

  Mary leaned forward. “You’ve heard that name because Catherine read us Dr. Watson’s stories in The Strand, remember? While Mrs. Poole was teaching me to knit, and Beatrice was doing some sort of intricate embroidery, and you were—I don’t remember what you were doing. But Professor Moriarty died at Reichenbach Falls. At least, that is what Dr. Watson wrote.” She looked at Watson almost accusingly.

  “That is what Holmes himself told me,” said Watson. “But then, I believed Holmes to be dead as well. I was astonished when he revealed that he had not died in the waters of the falls but found a small ledge to stand upon. It seems Professor Moriarty also escaped the falls alive, and has been conducting his nefarious operations here in London for some time. Miss—Mulligan, I think I had better get you and your friend home. I came here because Holmes was last seen in one of these places—the beggar Poor Richard conveyed this information to me. Mr. Gray has confirmed that Holmes spent considerable time in this establishment—he saw Mr. Holmes here himself about a fortnight ago. But I have been here three days without finding out any more, although Mr. Gray has been very helpful—he has, among other things, informed me that Professor Moriarty is still alive. We can conjecture that Holmes’s old enemy Moriarty, as well as his lieutenant Moran, are somehow involved in his disappearance. I am surprised to see you back from Budapest, but now that you are here, perhaps we had better regroup and recalibrate. You know I hesitate to involve you in such a dangerous enterprise, but this is a matter of Holmes’s life. I would be most grateful for your help.”

  “And I for yours,” said Mary. Should she tell him about Alice? No, not here—she was not at all sure whether to trust Mr. Gray, and anyway, they still did not know if Alice’s kidnapping had anything to do with Mr. Holmes’s disappearance. It could be a separate matter altogether.

  “You will call upon me, will you not?” Mr. Gray was saying to Justine. “At my house in Grosvenor Square, I have some art I would like to show you—lovely pieces. Sculptures as well, tapestries… I am a collector, you see. And remember, you are always welcome in Antibes.”

  “Thank you,” said Justine, lowering her eyes. How utterly ridiculous—she was actually responding to his advances! Although Mary had to admit that if the force of Mr. Gray’s charms had been turned on her, she might well have behaved in the same way.

  MARY: I would most certainly have not! Mr. Gray was not at all my type. Who was he, anyway? A man we met in an opium den! Imagine what sort of dissolute life he must lead, although indeed he did not look like the sort of person one would expect to see there. He had a sort of choir boy look about him, as though one might meet him at a Sunday School outing.

  BEATRICE: Do you truly not know who he was? Mr. Dorian Gray, the lover of Mr. Oscar Wilde, who was sent to Reading Gaol for—well, for holding opinions that society does not approve of! For believing in beauty, and art, and love. What guilt and remorse he must feel, for causing the downfall of the greatest playwright of the age! It was Mr. Gray’s dissolute parties, the antics of his hedonistic friends, that exposed Mr. Wilde to scandal and opprobrium. No wonder he has fallen prey to the narcotic.

  MARY: Or he could just like opium. He didn’t seem particularly remorseful, Bea.

  JUSTINE: Mr. Gray is not what society deems him to be. He has been greatly misunderstood. He assures me that he had no intention of harming Mr. Wilde.

  MARY: He would say that.

  CATHERINE: Can we not discuss the Wilde scandal in the middle of my book? You’re going to get it banned in Boston, and such other puritanical places.

  BEATRICE: I think we must stand up for what we believe to be right. Surely you do not think that Mr. Wilde should have been confined in such a barbaric fashion, for so trivial a reason? I’ve heard that his health is entirely ruined. We cannot help whom we love.

  JUSTINE: Are you speaking of Mr. Wilde, or of yourself and Clarence?

  MARY: So it’s your book, is it? I thought you said it was our book. Why is it always your book when you want to leave something out, but our book when you want us to contribute?

  “Thank you, my friend,” said Dr. Watson, gripping Mr. Gray’s hand. “If you do hear anything more of Holmes, you’ll contact me, won’t you? And remember that the inhabitants of 221B Baker Street are at your service.”

  “I will, Dr. Watson,” said Mr. Gray. “And thank you—your conversation over these last few days—your friendship—has meant a great deal to me. There are not many men in England who would speak to me as kindly as you have. I am an outcast in this country—for a short time, you made me feel as though I were an Englishman like any other. I hope to see you again, in a better place than this.”

  “Why not come with us?” said Watson. “You are welcome to lunch—or is it dinner? I’ve lost track of time in this place. You would feel better for fresh air, and exercise, and Mrs. Hudson’s cooking.”

  “You are most kind,” said Mr. Gray, with a melancholy smile, “but I think I will remain here for some time at least. I have a great deal—more than most men—to forget. And, Mr. Frank, remember, I count upon you for a visit.”

  Dr. Watson shook his head, but took his leave of Mr. Gray. Mary and Justine followed him back though the rooms of the opium den, to the entrance where the supposed Chinaman—Bobby who played cricket and spoke with a cockney accent—accepted a rather large sum of money from Watson and bowed them out ostentatiously. Mary felt so much better when they were out on the street again, away from all those fumes. They had given her a headache!

  It was already midafternoon by the time they reached Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson sighed with relief to see Dr. Watson, then exclaimed over the state of their clothes—none of them looked particularly reputable, Mary least of all! “I’ll bring up some tea,” she said. “Surely you all need it, after whatever adventure you have been on.” She looked once again surreptitiously at Mary, who drew her shawl more closely around her borrowed dress.

  “Tell me what you know of Mr. Holmes and this mysterious errand of his,” Mary said once they were seated in the parlor, waiting for tea and sandwiches from Mrs. Hudson.

  “Very little, I’m afraid,” said Watson. He ran his fingers through his hair. Mary had never seen him look so perplexed or put out. “He disappeared shortly after you left for Europe, saying his brother Mycroft had sent him on an errand of such secrecy and urgency that he could not even tell me about it. After that I heard nothing of or from him until Poor Richard came to me with his message. I was terribly worried, but did not wish to betray his trust by attempting to track him down—he would not have welcomed my interference. However, when Poor Richard told me that Holmes had requested my help, I knew that I had to act. But what are you, Miss Jekyll and Miss Frankenstein, doing back from Europe? How did you come to be in that den of iniquity?”

  As succinctly as she could, Mary told him about the telegram they had received and Alice’s disappearance, as well as what they had discovered up to that point—what little they had discovered, because they still knew so very little about where Alice might be.

  “So you see,” said Mary, “we followed the clues we had—the list of addresses on your blotter—as Mr. Holmes himself would have done.” She did not apologize for intruding into his room. Surely Holmes would have done the same?
“But we must also look for any clues as to Mrs. Raymond’s whereabouts. Or Mrs. Herbert’s, if indeed they are the same woman. Do you remember—”

  “The Herbert murder case?” said Watson. “Yes, vaguely. I’m certain Holmes has the files—he has records of every murder committed in London for the last twenty years. So Mrs. Raymond may be Mrs. Herbert! Well, with her notoriety, she would have had to leave the country or hide under another name. Half of London believed she was innocent, while the other half was calling for her blood. But let me see if I can find the case file.”

  “Allow me,” said Mary. After all, she was the one in charge of the files, was she not? She was Mr. Holmes’s assistant. She had never seen that particular case, but guessed where it might be—there was a box of cases in his room that she had not yet filed. She would look in there.

  By the time Mrs. Hudson brought up tea and sandwiches, they were already deep into the files of the Herbert murder case, which had indeed been in that box. No wonder Mary had never seen it before, or she might at least have remembered the name.

  “Third gentleman found dead in the vicinity of Paul Street.” Mary looked down at a notice clipped out of The Times. “That was on June third, 1883. The account in The Daily Mail says he appears to have died of fright, like the other two men—but you know these sensational papers. You can’t trust a thing they say!”

  “August seventeenth, Herbert himself was found dead. Look here—” Dr. Watson pointed at another article that had been neatly clipped and filed. “The Herald contains a particularly gruesome description of the victim—evidently, his face was frozen in a ghastly expression of fear, as though he had seen something too terrible to be borne. That’s The Herald for you—an objective account isn’t enough. It must be embellished with all sorts of gothic flourishes. It says his widow is suspected of doing away with him for the insurance money. The Times again, October seventh: ‘Mrs. Herbert, who was recently acquitted in the murder of her husband, Mr. Charles Herbert of Paul Street, has been reported missing. The Metropolitan Police are particularly anxious to find her, as she is with child.’ I’m not sure this enlightens us at all, Miss Jekyll. Even if Mrs. Raymond had a disreputable past—even if, as Mrs. Herbert, she murdered her husband and those other three fellows—what does that have to do with the disappearance of little Alice?”

  “Pardon me, Dr. Watson, but remember that little Alice is also Lydia Raymond,” said Justine. “Or so Frau Gottleib told us, and we have no reason to disbelieve her. If Mrs. Raymond was with child, perhaps that child was Alice? Perhaps she kidnapped Alice because she wished to be reunited with her daughter.”

  “I rather doubt that Mrs. Raymond is overflowing with maternal instincts,” said Mary. What sorts of sandwiches had Mrs. Hudson brought up? Ham and cucumber. She felt in need of ham. She was not entirely recovered from the miasma of the opium dens. A ham sandwich and very strong tea—that was what she needed. Luckily, Mrs. Hudson’s tea was always strong and hot. She added sugar, which she did not usually take, to revive her spirits, and then a slice of lemon. “If she kidnapped Alice, it may be because of her mesmerical powers, as Ayesha suggested. After all, according to Frau Gottleib, Mrs. Raymond had those powers herself, as a result of Dr. Raymond’s experiments.”

  “But for what purpose?” asked Watson. He looked down at the file folder on his lap and rifled, once again, through its contents. “What use is the power of creating illusions? They cannot alter empirical reality.”

  “Nevertheless, they can frighten a man to death,” said Mary. “What if the newspaper accounts of men being frightened to death are not mere sensationalism? Imagine if a tiger were coming at you—or a giant serpent, or something even more terrifying. Could that not be what happened in these cases? We cannot know what frightened these gentlemen to death, but surely Mrs. Raymond can produce such an illusion.”

  “Poor Alice!” said Justine. “She must be terrified if she is in the power of a woman like Mrs. Raymond. How can we find her? And Mr. Holmes, of course. Does her disappearance have anything to do with Mr. Holmes? I think not—we have found no connection between them.”

  “Then we should pursue two lines of inquiry,” said Mary. “We need to find out more about Mrs. Raymond—if we find her, we will also find Alice. We don’t know if Diana has found out anything—the Baker Street boys are resourceful, but this inquiry may be beyond their powers. They are only boys, after all.”

  DIANA: Only boys! The Baker Street boys, only boys? Oh, if Wiggins heard you say that…

  MARY: That was a long time ago. I have since seen for myself what courageous and resourceful young men they are. Mr. Wiggins knows how much I respect him and his organization.

  DIANA: Well, all right then.

  “I hate to suggest it,” continued Mary, “but might this be the time to go to Inspector Lestrade? I honestly don’t know if he will agree to answer any of our questions, but Scotland Yard was keeping an eye on Mrs. Raymond because of the Whitechapel Murders. If we tell him she was also Mrs. Herbert, he may be able to tell us something about where she has gone, or is likely to go.”

  “And I would like to ask him about Moriarty,” said Watson. “Before his death—well, his supposed death, as we now know—Moriarty was a mastermind of London’s criminal underworld. It seems as though he has resumed his illegitimate activities. I would like to know more about what he’s doing now. However, before we go to Scotland Yard, I suggest trying once more at the Diogenes Club. It may be that Mycroft has returned from wherever he’s been this past week. I would like to consult him—or rather, confront him, because it is clear that he has put Holmes in danger. He should at least be willing to tell us what sort of danger!”

  “Well then, let us meet tomorrow morning,” said Mary. “Dr. Watson, could you lend me a coat or jacket of some sort to cover this dress? If I return to Park Terrace looking like this, Mrs. Poole will have a fit.”

  MRS. POOLE: When have I ever had fits? You girls dress in all sorts of ways—as ministers of the Lord and circus performers, as women in unfortunate circumstances.… Someday, you’ll go out looking like chimney sweeps, for all I know! I have never once had a fit, no matter what you have looked like.

  CATHERINE: You’re right, Mrs. Poole. We don’t give you nearly enough credit.

  MARY: We really don’t, Mrs. Poole. If it weren’t for you, the Athena Club could not function—and none of us would ever get our breakfast! We are most grateful, I assure you.

  DIANA: Speak for yourself! I think we would get along just fine without Mrs. Busy Body bothering us to take meals and baths and go to bed because it is past our bedtime.… Who invented the idea of bedtime, anyway?

  MRS. POOLE: Which it is—past your bedtime, I mean. So off with you! And don’t make that face at me, young lady! Or start with your endless complaining. When have I taken notice of it? Never, that’s when.

  CHAPTER VII

  The Scarab Necklace

  What had Alice been doing all this time? The problem with being imprisoned, she had discovered, was that it was just so boring. Usually, her days were filled with activity from dawn to dinner. There were fires to lay, and breakfast to get, and then the washing up, and a few hours for dusting and general cleaning before lunch, and then she and Mrs. Poole would sit down to do the housekeeping accounts—Mrs. Poole was teaching her how—and plan their afternoon. Trips to the grocer’s, the butcher’s, the baker’s, sometimes the fishmonger’s or fruit seller’s—there was always a great deal to do, things to see and learn. Now all she could do was sit on her bed reading The Water-Babies—could this book be any more dull?—and wait to be summoned. Really, she felt about ready to tear her hair out!

  It was another hour before Gitla came, unlocked the door, and mimed something that looked like eating. Finally, she was going to have breakfast! Goodness, it must be nearly ten o’clock. Breakfast at Park Terrace was always served at eight sharp. Everyone in this house must be terribly lazy. She had been up and dressed, in another of the fancy dresses fr
om the wardrobe, this time a green-and-blue plaid one, for hours.

  As she followed Gitla down the hall, she reminded herself: You have a plan. Follow the plan, no matter what happens. Don’t be afraid, or at least don’t show you’re afraid. You must help Mr. Holmes. Was he ill, or under the influence of some powerful narcotic? Alice thought the latter. After all, how else would Moriarty be able to imprison a man like the detective? If she could figure out where the drug was kept and how it was administered, perhaps she could do something… although she did not, at this particular moment, know what.

  She was worried that she might have to endure a meal with those men again—she no longer thought of them as gentlemen. Perhaps it was not her place to judge—well, it was not the place of a kitchen maid to judge, although Alice knew her own mind of course—but she had found them both rude and frightening, especially Professor Moriarty. Despite Lord Godalming’s handsome countenance, she did not trust him an inch. Mr. Morris had been ridiculous in that American getup. She could tell he was the sort of man who was constantly posturing for others. Dr. Seward had looked like a turnip carved for All Hallows, and Dr. Raymond had reminded her of a dried-up prune. They might have fancy initials after their names, but she knew them for what they were—the sorts of men who imprisoned helpless Beast Men. Colonel Moran had been, quite simply, a bully. She knew the type well from her years at the orphanage, where the headmistress’s son had been exactly the same way. He had been large for his age, and enjoyed lording it over the smallest children. Mr. Harker had been a nonentity—even she could tell that he simply did not matter, that he was there because seven men were needed for whatever ritual they were planning. And Professor Moriarty—thinking of him sent shivers down her spine. There had been a light in his eyes that she had seen before in the eyes of a hellfire and brimstone preacher who had come to the orphanage and told the girls, who had not two pennies to rub together, that most of them were going to Hell. The rows of orphan girls, with holes in their stockings and nothing in their pockets, had watched him in stony silence, until one of the little ones started wailing and had to be taken away by a matron. And his plans for England—she had not entirely understood what he was saying. There were foreign words in his speech—she suspected they were Greek, and she knew only a little Greek. Nevertheless, she knew that they were wrong. Would she have to share another meal with them?