MARY: I still can’t believe Dr. Watson was so stupid. Why didn’t he go to Lestrade?
CATHERINE: Do you really think Lestrade would have believed him? Anyway, Wiggins was partly to blame as well. He wanted a raid and he got a raid. Men and boys—honestly, I don’t think there’s much difference between them, except for the length of their pants. They like playing soldiers.
DIANA: Don’t you dare say anything against Wiggins!
CATHERINE: Why? You do all the time.
DIANA: That’s different.
“Hold my hand, Lydia,” said Helen. “I’m not going to let them take you away from me.”
Alice was standing at the window with her mother and Professor Moriarty in the common room of the Order of the Golden Dawn. It was difficult to tell exactly what was going on outside.
“Dr. Watson and a group of ragged boys!” Professor Moriarty had said, sounding incredulous. “Do they really think they can get in here, past Moran and his men? Helen, I don’t have time for this. Get rid of them.”
Alice looked up at her mother, worried. She had felt so hopeful, ever since she had sent that message to the Baker Street Irregulars and hung the handkerchief out the window, in case anyone might notice. Perhaps they would understand that it was a signal. Then, last night, Helen had come into the room where she was sitting with Margaret Trelawny, checking items on a list Margaret had given her against an exhibition catalog. “Well, my dear,” she had said, “you will be glad to know that we captured Mary Jekyll, that devil Diana, and a confederate of theirs, the monster Justine Frankenstein. I always assumed she had been destroyed, as Mrs. Shelley described, but it seems not. I shall have great satisfaction, eventually, in taking her apart, to see how she was assembled. But there’s no time for that now. We have more important work to do.” It had taken all of Alice’s effort not to break down and cry in front of her mother and Margaret.
“You do not look as pleased as you should, daughter,” Helen had said. “These are the people who relegated you to being a kitchen maid. You should be glad that we have them safely locked up so they can’t interfere with our plans. You do not understand those plans yet—I will tell you more when the time is right—but in the end we will have such power as you cannot imagine. You and I and Margaret—will that not be grand?”
“Yes, mother,” Alice had said. She had tried to smile, while Margaret had looked up at her sharply. She did not want either her mother or Margaret to suspect her betrayal. That night, she had barely slept. No matter how she tried, she could not keep from sobbing. If Mary, Justine, and Diana were here, that meant they had returned from their mission in Europe and were trying to rescue her and Mr. Holmes. If they had been captured, it was her fault.
In the middle of the night, she had tried to sneak all the way down to the coal cellar. She was sure the door would be locked, but perhaps she could knock on it quietly and contact them? Perhaps she could help them escape in some way? Diana was with them, and Diana could pick any lock that had ever been made, couldn’t she?
DIANA: Damn right I could!
But when she got down to the bottom of the back stairs, she had seen that the cellar door was guarded by one of Colonel Moran’s men. After that boy had told her there were only two of them guarding the house, she had tried to observe them surreptitiously, to figure out any weaknesses that might be important if one were trying to escape. Surely that was what Mary would do? Observe and learn.… This was the younger one, with shaggy dark hair. The older one was bald and had a broken nose. He must be guarding the house outside. This one was sitting in front of the door, playing some sort of solitary card game by the light of a single lantern. There was no way she could get past him. She waited a while to see if he might go to the kitchen for some food, or perhaps to use what she thought of as the facilities, but he had not moved. Finally, she crept back up the dark staircase to the second floor. She paused by the door of the room where Mr. Holmes was being kept and put her ear to the keyhole, but all was silent. As far as she knew, no one had noticed the substitution of the salt for heroin, although she had replaced almost half the bottle. She hoped a lower dose of the drug would have some effect. Then she had gone back to bed and cried herself to sleep, feeling useless.
Now here she was, watching through the window as Dr. Watson and the Baker Street boys attempted a rescue.
“Give me your hand,” said her mother again. Reluctantly, Alice put her hand in Helen’s. Once again she could feel the tug of mesmeric power being pulled out of her. What was her mother trying to do? What did she need Alice’s power for?
Suddenly, there were men standing in front of the house—men with pistols in their hands. Where had they come from? Of course—they were only an illusion. But that one—no, he was no illusion. That was the older guard, the bald one. And, yes, there was the younger, with his shaggy hair. Now Alice could see boys running across the street toward the front of the house. Those must be the Baker Street Irregulars! They were carrying knives, slings, what looked like pieces of lead pipe. She could hear their cries through the closed windows. They sounded like war whoops. Did those boys think this was some sort of game? Did they not realize the gravity of the situation? Two of the guards shot—no, they were illusory guards, and the bullets were illusions as well. The boys hesitated. Some of them kept running forward, some of them retreated. One of them cried out to those who were retreating and waved them forward. Had they realized the bullets weren’t real? They were rushing forward again, and there was Dr. Watson, who had run to the front, leading the charge, a pistol in his hand. Something struck the window—a rock thrown from a sling, she guessed, because cracks spread across the glass. Another of the guards shot—illusion again? No, it was the bald one. That shot was real. Dr. Watson was down! The Baker Street boys would not be able to tell which of the shots were real and which ones weren’t.
Horrified, Alice pulled her hand from her mother’s.
“What is it, Lydia?” said Helen, looking down at her. “Are you afraid those boys will get in here somehow and harm you? You should not be—I will protect you. I learned very young that life is a struggle. What matters is how much power you have in that struggle. The more power, the better. You and I will emerge from this particular struggle triumphant, you shall see. And then we shall have enough power so that no one will ever harm us again. Now, let me finish this, and then we can have—breakfast? Have you breakfasted yet? No?”
Outside, the Baker Street boys seemed to be retreating. Where was Watson? Alice could not see him. The illusory guards were still there, alongside the real ones, although they seemed to be growing fainter, more translucent, and they were no longer shooting their pistols. Helen must not be paying as much attention.
“I had coffee and toast early, with Margaret. She has already gone to the British Museum to prepare for our ritual. We shall join her tonight, after the museum closes. It will be closed tomorrow as well—it is always closed on Sundays—so we shall have plenty of time to complete the ritual without fear of interruption. Fortunately, the director himself gave her a set of keys so she could complete work on the exhibit after hours, which means we can come and go as we please. Now, I think the situation outside has been resolved satisfactorily. Mr. Hoskins and Isaac can handle any remaining disturbance. I’ll order an omelet and—what else? Potatoes and sausage? Some sort of compote? You’re so skinny, my dear. And you need to keep up your strength—this will be a busy day.”
Feeling heartsick, and dreadfully worried about the people she loved, Alice followed her mother out of the room. She had no idea what to do. Somehow, she must try to rescue her friends. But how?
CATHERINE: Do you know what happened to that set of keys? I would love to be able to get in and out of the British Museum whenever I pleased.
MARY: I haven’t the faintest idea. That wasn’t at all what we were focused on at the time!
CATHERINE: Could they be somewhere in the Alchemical Society headquarters? Or would Margaret Trelawny have taken th
em with her?
MARY: You’re interrupting your own narrative for this stupid question?
BEATRICE: Forgive me, Mary, but it is not a stupid question. A person who had such a set of keys would have access to one of the most magnificent collections of art and artifacts in the world. Imagine being able to roam among the Elgin Marbles without interruption!
ALICE: Or study the mummies. I’ve been trying to learn about the Egyptians. Ancient history means so much more when it actually happens to you.…
CATHERINE: All right, we’ll start by searching the Alchemical Society, and then if that doesn’t work, who’s up for a trip to Cornwall and Kyllion Keep?
MARY: You are all quite mad.
DIANA: Barmy, the lot of them.
Mary sat up groggily. Had Mrs. Poole come in to tell her that breakfast was ready? She was terribly hungry! It took her a moment to realize that she was still in the coal cellar. The lamp had burned low, and she could only see dimly, but Diana was still asleep, thank goodness. She heard a groan. Who was that? Of course—Justine. Was she all right? Mary managed to sit up again. What time was it? Automatically, she looked at her wrist, but they had taken her wristwatch.
Justine groaned again. “Où suis-je?” she asked. “Mary—where are we? I’m am so—étourdie. My head, it does not feel well.”
“We were captured, remember?” said Mary. Was Justine all right? In the dim light, she looked even paler than usual—almost a little green. Mary probably looked that way herself.
“In Styria?” Justine raised her hands to her head, then seemed startled to see that they were tied together. She looked at her bound wrists, and at the shackle on her ankle, in wonder.
“No, that was—well, ages ago. We’re in London. We’ve been captured by Mrs. Raymond, and I suspect Professor Moriarty, although we haven’t seen him yet. You were chloroformed. I don’t know how long we’ve been here—I fell asleep. Are you all right?”
“No. My head—it is swimming, as though I were underwater.”
“I suspect that will wear off after a while. I’m just glad you’re awake at last!”
Justine sat silently, with her head in her hands. The minutes passed. Mary looked at her, worried. Would Justine be all right? Finally, she raised her head, looked at her hands, and pulled her wrists apart. Mary expected the ropes to start fraying and then break—after all, this was Justine! But they did not.
“I am still too weak,” said Justine apologetically. “Perhaps when I have recovered a little more…”
Diana rolled over and opened her eyes. “Is breakfast ready yet?” She sat up groggily. “Oh, bloody hell. We’re still in here, aren’t we?” She looked around. “I need to piss.”
MARY: Do you have to include such details in our book?
CATHERINE: Oh, it’s our book now, is it?
Just then, the door opened—slowly, tentatively. In came an older woman in the black dress and apron of a housekeeper. In one hand she was carrying a pitcher of water.
“Hello,” said Mary. “I’m Mary Jekyll.”
The woman simply nodded, then walked up to her with the pitcher. “Wasser,” she said. She held the pitcher out to Mary. Should she drink? It could be a trick of some sort. Perhaps the water was poisoned, or contained some sort of drug? She looked at it with suspicion.
“Ist gut,” said the woman, holding out the pitcher as though urging her to drink.
“You speak German,” said Justine. “Verzeihung, sprechen Sie Deutsch? Sind Sie aus Deutschland?”
“Nein, nein,” said the woman. “Bisschen. Gut Wasser.” Again, she seemed to be urging Mary to drink.
Justine replied with what seemed like a stream of German phrases, but the woman shook her head, as though trying to indicate that truly, she did not understand. She seemed apologetic.
Mary was so thirsty! She could not take hold of the pitcher with her wrists bound, but she steadied it with her hands and then drank. The water was deliciously cold. Not too much—she had to leave enough for Diana and Justine. After she had drunk, the woman carried the pitcher to Diana, then Justine. And then Diana again, because Justine drank only a little. “I need less than the two of you,” she said.
When the pitcher was empty, the woman carried it to the door, as though about to leave. But as she opened the door, she turned back to them. “Hilfe kommt,” she said solemnly. Then she walked out and closed the door behind her.
“Help is coming,” said Justine. “What do you think that means?”
“Probably that someone is coming to help us,” said Diana. “Turn around—I’m going to use that chamber pot.”
MARY: Oh, for goodness’ sake! Are you going to give a detailed account of all our bodily functions?
JUSTINE: While I agree that it is indelicate, I understand what Catherine is trying to do. In those penny dreadfuls Alice is continually reading, imprisonment is often described as some sort of adventure, but in truth it is tedious and painful. We sat for hours with nothing to do. The ropes rubbed the skin on our wrists raw. Our muscles ached. We were hungry—that is, you and Diana were hungry. I can go for a long time without food. And of course there were bodily needs, as well as a lack of privacy. Catherine is trying to be truthful and accurate about our experiences. I think that is an admirable goal, for a writer.
CATHERINE: Thank you! Unfortunately, truthfulness and accuracy don’t pay as well as Rick Chambers, exemplary English gentleman, facing giant spider gods in the Cavern of Doom! I’m proud of my Astarte books, but you can’t say they illuminate human nature.
MARY: Perhaps they illuminate spider god nature.
CATHERINE: That’s supposed to be a joke, right? It’s sort of remarkable that your jokes are never funny.
After what felt like hours, Justine said, “I think perhaps I am strong enough now.” She held her hands up in front of her. Then, she began to twist and turn them, one way and then the other. The ropes strained, then began to break. Mary could see blood on her wrists, and almost told her to stop and rest for a little longer—but Justine looked so determined, and surely she was the best judge of her own actions? Justine twisted and pulled, the ropes continued to strain—a strand broke, and then another. Suddenly, with a shredding sound, the final strands broke and Justine’s hands were free. Now, if she could break the chain that bound her to the wall, she could free Mary and Diana as well. Then they could smash their way out of this pit.…
Again Justine pulled, this time at the chain that bound her to the wall, close to the shackle around her ankle. Yes, she was regaining her strength, Mary could see that. And then with a snap, the chain broke. Justine was free! At that moment, the door opened. Standing in the doorway was Colonel Moran. With him were more of his lackeys—three of them this time, different from the ones who had captured them, all armed. “I don’t think so, missy,” he said when he saw what Justine had done. “You won’t get away from the professor. But you’ve saved me some trouble with the lock. Mr. Fletcher, would you mind tying this young lady’s hands together again? And quickly, if you don’t mind. The professor wants to see them upstairs, toute suite.”
JUSTINE: I am not a missy. We are not, any of us, missy. And that is not the correct pronunciation of toute suite.
As the three of them filed upstairs, Mary felt a sense of despair, as well as a burning anger at how they were being treated. The anger was useful—the despair was not. She must try to put it away for now, lock it in some sort of box so she would be calm and collected and resolute for whatever was about to happen. After all, she was her father’s daughter—Jekyll’s, that is—born of his most rational self, or so Hyde had told her in Styria. She must be that person now.
They followed Colonel Moran, and were followed by the men with revolvers pointed at them, up the stairs and into a large room. It appeared to be some sort of common room, like the one at the Diogenes Club—there were armchairs and small tables scattered about. By the light coming through the window, it was late in the day. How long had they been in that cell
ar?
Standing at the front of the room was a tall man, almost as tall as Holmes, with sharp features. That must be Professor Moriarty. Next to him stood—was that Mrs. Raymond? Her features were the same, but she looked so much younger, with black hair piled on her head, in a stylish gray walking suit. Beside her, holding her hand, was Alice. She did not look like Alice anymore. She was wearing the sort of fancy dress Alice had never worn, and would probably never have worn if she had a choice. It was blue, with all sorts of frills and furbelows. It seemed—impractical? Alice stared at her with wide, wary eyes.
“Well, well,” said Professor Moriarty. “So here are our honored guests. Greetings, Miss Jekyll, Miss Frankenstein. I’ve heard a great deal about you, Miss Hyde—none of it good. I hope you have enjoyed your stay here. Dr. Watson dropped in for a visit this morning, but could not stay. I believe he took a bullet to the leg. He’s an old soldier, used to such wounds, so I hope it causes him no inconvenience. He seemed to be with a group of boys—I was not aware that he had become a scouting master?”
Oh, he was so smug! Mary despised him. And she felt a sense of dismay. So those shots in her dream must have been real shots after all? Watson must have tried to stage a rescue with the Baker Street boys—against her express orders! Damn his sense of chivalry. But what, exactly, was going on with Alice? Why was she dressed that way, and why was she with Mrs. Raymond? She did not look like a captive.…
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 20