“I don’t know, she just looked like a housekeeper,” said Mary. “Lady St. Levan would never dress like that.”
Dress like what? In what looked to Beatrice like a perfectly sensible, even fashionable, gown? It was so difficult, sometimes, to understand these English distinctions. Were they, after all, necessary? What mattered was the beauty and functionality of a gown, not what it announced about one’s social position. Surely human beings were the same, underneath.
CATHERINE: You’re such a socialist! Any day now, you’re going to tell us that you’ve joined the Fabian Society.
BEATRICE: If you mean that I support food and shelter and medical care for everyone, then perhaps I should. And the Fabian Society does a great deal of good work in the East End.
MRS. POOLE: Godless radicals, that’s what they are. Although, I have to admit, they do distribute food to the poor. “Whatever you do for one of the least of these,” as the Bible says. Still, they’re practically heathens!
The housekeeper had given them a map of the gardens. Beatrice was happy to wander around for half an hour, although she found the map sadly inadequate. It did not even include the Latin names of the plant species! It was fascinating to see such plants—quite tropical, some of them—growing in an English garden. There were stately palms, aloes whose sap could be used to soothe burns, agaves that could be applied topically for inflammation, and all manner of flowering plants that she would not have expected to see in this climate.
At one point she stopped and said, with suprise, “There is Erythrina growing here.”
“So?” said Mary.
Beatrice looked at her, shocked. How could people know so little about plants? They stood upon grass, ate tomatoes and peppers and aubergines, purchased lilies for their tables, walked under beeches or oaks—and yet they knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about the plants with which they shared this magnificent Earth! Even Clarence had said to her, “Sweetheart, I don’t know a radish from a rose,” which was surely an exaggeration.
“It is more commonly grown in India and China,” she explained. “It is a potent medicine, and also a poison if the seeds are ingested. One must handle it carefully, but I imagine the gardener knows what he is doing. My father experimented with it in his garden—”
“Really? That’s interesting,” said Mary, looking down at her wristwatch. “I think it’s time for the tour. Come on.”
Had Mary been listening to her at all? Sometimes Mary did not listen. She was a good friend, and had so far been a conscientious President of the Athena Club. But she did not always pay attention to the feelings of those around her. It was a sort of obliviousness, or perhaps obtuseness. Beatrice was not certain which word most clearly expressed her meaning in English. Of course, she could never say this to Mary.…
MARY: Well, now you have, in a sense. Am I really obtuse?
BEATRICE: Mary, I assure you that I was not thinking of any such thing as we walked through the gardens of St. Michael’s Mount.
CATHERINE: Well, you were thinking of it last week when Mary would not listen to you about the foxgloves growing in the Vicar’s garden, and it took us two extra days to solve who had poisoned those choir boys. I know you’re trying to be like Holmes, Mary, but it’s not necessary to emulate him to the point of ignoring everyone else.
MARY: Sherlock listens! Well, sometimes.
Beatrice looked around her one last time, admiring the tropical lushness. Mary was already walking back toward the front entrance of the castle. When Beatrice joined her a few minutes later, the housekeeper said, “I think it will be just you two young ladies this morning. I suppose the weather is keeping less energetic visitors away! The tour of the castle lasts half an hour, leaving time for you to explore the chapel on your own later, so you can make your way back across the causeway in plenty of time. If you will follow me…”
In a cultured voice that seemed to speak to a larger crowd than two—clearly, she was used to giving tours—Mrs. Russell led them through the entrance hall, which had weapons on the stone walls, as well as the St. Aubyn coat of arms over the mantel. Mary and Beatrice followed her up a set of steep steps, through the library with its impressive collection of volumes, then into a large dining hall that must have been a refectory when the castle was still a monastery inhabited by the monks of St. Michael. From the dining room, they passed out onto the terrace, from which Beatrice could see the harbor below and the causeway stretching back toward Marazion.
“If you’ll follow me to the south terrace,” said Mrs. Russell, leading them around the stone walls of the castle. “From there you can see the chapel, which as I said you may explore yourselves. But first I will show you the blue drawing room, used by the family for entertaining.” She led them through a vestibule into a pleasant room painted the blue of a Wedgwood vase, furnished in a very pretty gothic style. It was not as artistic as Mr. William Morris’s designs—there were no arching vines or medieval furnishings here—but Beatrice imagined that Mr. Ruskin would approve of it.
“This is a lovely room,” said Mary, looking around at the paintings on the walls.
“That one is by Thomas Gainsborough,” said Mrs. Russell. “And that one, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, shows Lord St. Levan when he was still Sir John St. Aubyn. It is a pleasant room, is it not? In the style of Horace Walpole’s Strawberry Hill, I have been told. And that Chippendale sofa, upholstered in blue, is particularly important. Tomorrow, a very special visitor will be taking elevenses on it!”
“Do you mean Her Majesty?” asked Mary, clasping her hands together. “Right here, in this room? We read all about her visit in the Daily Telegraph.”
“This very room,” said Mrs. Russell in a satisfied tone. “I’ll be serving her a variety of sandwiches—cucumber and cress, shrimp salad, Cook’s special curried egg salad—as well as a Charlotte Russe. And the Lapsang souchong she likes.”
“How wonderful!” said Mary. “I imagine Lord and Lady St. Levan will be thrilled. Will any guests be allowed on the island while Her Majesty is here? I’m sorry she won’t be visiting Marazion. I should so like to see her again myself. My mother took me once, when I was a little girl.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Russell. “The family are abroad in France, and Her Majesty particularly asked to make a private visit. She is coming here to commemorate a visit she made with Prince Albert in 1846, when Their Majesties arrived unannounced during a tour of Cornwall. Prince Albert played the organ in the chapel, and the Queen had tea with my predecessor, a Mrs. Thomasina Sims, who was housekeeper here at the time. She was a friend of my mother’s and told me the story herself when I was a child. On this visit, Her Majesty will greet the servants who live in the village below, take refreshments in the blue drawing room, and then spend some time by herself in the chapel, praying. I understand that she is making a tour of places she visited when she was considerably younger. It is a sort of—well, I don’t like to say it.”
“I understand,” said Mary. “She’s seeing these places for the last time, isn’t she?”
“Well, she is quite old now,” said Mrs. Russell apologetically, as though she did not want to admit it. “As a young woman she climbed up the hill herself. This time we have arranged for her to be carried in a chair by the undergardeners. Of course, the island will be closed to visitors while she’s here. The only boat allowed in the harbor will be the barge that rows out to fetch her from the Royal Yacht.”
“Then I’m glad we’re getting to see it today!” said Mary. “What about the tower? Is that still used for anything?”
“That is the chapel bell tower,” said Mrs. Russell. “But at one time it was also used as a beacon. In the eighteenth century, there was a regular system of beacons on the cliff tops. If danger threatened—if Black Jack Rackham were sailing along the coast, for instance—each of the beacons would be lit, signaling the boats to return to the mainland. From St. Michael’s Mount, you would be able to see the beacons light up along the coast, like a row of firef
lies. We don’t go up there anymore except to clean the bells—it’s a cramped, narrow stair up to the top. But there’s a sort of iron cauldron up there in which the beacon fire was lit. I suspect it’s used as a bird’s nest now! Let me show you the map room and the armory—then you can go into the chapel and make your way back down to the causeway before the tide turns.”
An hour later, as Beatrice and Mary stood once again in the garden, Mary turned to her and said, “Bea, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Beatrice was not at all sure—she seldom thought the way Mary, or any of the other girls, did. But she might as well venture a guess. “That we should have warned Mrs. Russell? She was so kind, showing us all around the castle. Surely she should be warned that the Queen is in danger.”
“No, I mean that I’ve thought of a way to warn the Queen. Or at least her ship, before the Queen gets into that barge. The captain, or whoever is responsible for that sort of thing on a ship, should be able to see a fire on the tower. I think we should light the beacon and warn her away from here.”
Would that work? Beatrice was not certain. “But Mary, do you think the captain would understand it as a warning? After all, this is no longer the eighteenth century. And you must consider the weather—there will almost certainly be a storm. I can feel it. A strong wind or pouring rain would put out the fire.”
“Well, that’s the only thing I can think of at the moment,” said Mary crossly, as though vexed. “The beacon was used to warn people—hopefully someone would understand that it’s a warning? The problem will be getting some sort of fuel to the top of the tower. What would create a really fearsome fire? You’re the one who seems to know all about chemistry and combustion. After all, you created the paprika spray we used on the vampires in Budapest. I was hoping you would be able to suggest something useful.”
Beatrice thought for a moment. “There is of course kerosene, but I do not think it would burn well in a storm. Turpentine? We could soak rags in it. I believe you said the general store was well stocked. Turpentine would burn hot and bright.”
“Isn’t that what Justine uses to clean her paintbrushes? Can we find turpentine in a general store in Marazion?” asked Mary doubtfully.
“Of course. Turpentine is used by housewives to clean their floors, and by sailors to treat lice.” How could Mary not be familiar with such a common chemical? But then, it was not she who did the marketing and cleaning at 11 Park Terrace. She could not be blamed for that—it was the social system that dictated that one person should clean, and another command. But it did leave those who did the commanding dreadfully ignorant about the facts of life.
Beatrice did not say any of this aloud, but there must have been something in her tone, because Mary turned back and said, “It’s not my fault I don’t know these things. I wasn’t raised to, you know.”
“You know other things,” said Beatrice consolingly. After all, it was Mary who brought in the steadiest paycheck through her secretarial skills. It was she who did the accounts, she who organized them all. There was certainly value in that!
“Well, I don’t know how to fight someone with Tera’s power!” said Mary. “Even if we manage to warn the Queen, we still have to deal with Tera and Mrs. Raymond. Perhaps Justine will have a telegram from Ayesha with instructions for us. Come on, we have to hurry. I can see the tide starting to come in. I don’t want to get stuck on this island.”
Beatrice took Mary’s hand again, and together the two of them hurried across the causeway toward the mainland. There was a storm coming—she could feel it. Tonight, she thought. It will come tonight. I hope it will not prevent us from saving the Queen.
BEATRICE: I truly do not understand why more people do not pay attention to the vegetable creation. Plants are fascinating, once you learn about them. If you observe closely, you will see that they think and feel, just as we do. They communicate with one another. They even organize for mutual defense against insect species.
CATHERINE: Maybe because plants are boring? They just sit there.
BEATRICE: But they are not, Catherine, as I have just been explaining! They are really not so different from us. If you sat in a forest for an hour, I promise that you would see wonders you have not imagined. Leaves falling, the fronds of bracken curling open, birds alighting on the branches and bursting into song.
CATHERINE: Speak for yourself, plant girl. And I don’t sit in forests unless I’m waiting for a nice, juicy meal to show up.
BEATRICE: I’m almost certain you’re saying that simply to upset me.
CATHERINE: If I succeed, will you leave me alone so I can finish this chapter?
So this was the Athena Club! Lucinda looked up at 11 Park Terrace. It was a tall brick building, three stories high, that seemed no different from the buildings on either side, except for the brass plaque over the bell, which was still ringing through the house.
“Are you all right?” asked Laura. “You look pale—I mean, you always look pale, but you look paler than usual, and not very well. It’s hard to tell with vampires, but I can always sense when Carmilla is sick somehow.”
“I don’t feel particularly well,” Lucinda admitted. “Our journey was—long.” Long and not particularly comfortable, although she had gotten used to the motion of the motorcar eventually. But it had been loud, and there had been the constant smell of the fuel Bertha Benz used. They were continually stopping so she could purchase another can along the road—evidently, it could be bought at pharmacies. A motorcar was certainly faster than a horse, and unlike a horse it never tired, but on the whole Lucinda thought she preferred slower means of transportation. Would motorcars become popular with the general public? Mrs. Benz was certain they would, but she herself had doubts.
“It’s been a long trip, for both of us,” said Laura sympathetically. “And that parade through London didn’t help, did it? Although I think Bertha was thrilled at all the publicity. But here I’m sure we’ll be able to rest. Here we will be among friends.”
A moment after the bell stopped ringing, the door was opened by a boy with red hair and bony wrists who said, “Yes, miss?” to Laura in a strange, guttural voice. Was he a footman? He must be—he was certainly dressed like one, although the uniform seemed to hang on his frame, and both the arms of the jacket and the trouser legs were rolled up.
“I’m Laura Jennings, and this is Lucinda Van Helsing,” said Laura, looking at him with surprise. Evidently, he was not quite what she had expected either. “Is Miss Jekyll at home? Or Miss Frankenstein? Or even Miss Hyde? We are friends of theirs from Austria. We arrived in London earlier today.”
“If you will come this way, miss,” said the boy, stepping back into the front hall to admit them. “I will tell Mrs. Poole.”
He smelled strange, like a dog or some other small animal, not human. And yet he looked human enough? Lucinda wondered if her senses could have been affected by the long journey. After all, she had been smelling automobile fumes ever since they had left Styria. Perhaps it would take time for her nose to recover.
The footman, or whatever he was, left them to wait and scurried—really, he seemed to be scuttling—down the hallway. Lucinda looked around with curiosity. The front hall was elegant, with dark paneling and a gold-framed mirror over the side table, on which lay a card tray. The Athena Club had never seemed real to her before. Here she was at last, in the club headquarters. She was a member, she reminded herself—but she did not feel like one.
“Oh goodness,” said a woman in the black dress of a housekeeper, who emerged from a door farther down the hall. The strange footman peeked out from the doorway behind her. “Miss Jennings, I am so pleased to see you, and Miss Van Helsing as well—Miss Jekyll has told me all about you. I’m Mrs. Poole. But I’m afraid none of the ladies are here right now. They’re down in Cornwall trying to stop Mrs. Raymond and some Egyptian mummy she resurrected from kidnapping the Queen. I think you’d better come in. There’s someone you should meet.”
“Well,
that’s unexpected!” Laura whispered as they followed Mrs. Poole into what turned out to be a large, sparsely furnished but attractive parlor, with yellow walls and a frieze of flowers near the ceiling. “I thought England was going to be a nice, quiet holiday for us, but this is just like being in Budapest. Something always happening… Ayesha!”
For a moment, Lucinda thought Laura had sneezed. Then she saw the President of the Alchemical Society seated on the parlor sofa. Startled, she looked around her, doubting her own eyes. They were in England, weren’t they? Yes, this house looked nothing at all like Count Dracula’s house or the Hungarian Academy of Sciences.
“Miss Jennings,” said Ayesha. She did not seem surprised, but then Ayesha never did.
“You remember me?” said Laura. Clearly, she had not expected Ayesha to. “We’ve only met twice, once after the battle and once—”
“Yes, I remember you perfectly well,” said Ayesha, curtly. “Have you come to join in the fight against Queen Tera? I did not know the Athena Club had summoned you.”
“No one summoned me,” said Laura, clearly a little offended. “And I’m afraid I don’t know what fight you mean, or who Queen Tera might be. Lucinda and I are here on holiday—or were supposed to be. We had no idea Mary and the others would be down in Cornwall fighting anyone. Who are they fighting this time, by the way? More mad alchemists?”
“Do sit down,” said Mrs. Poole. “May I take your coats? Or, Archibald, why don’t you do that, and I’ll make another pot of tea. It sounds as though you ladies have a lot to talk about.”
“Very well, but come back again and join us, Mrs. Poole,” said Ayesha. “I would like you to describe the scene at the British Museum one more time, in as much detail as possible. Anything you remember may be important.”
“Well, I wasn’t there, of course,” said Mrs. Poole doubtfully. “I can only tell you what Mary told me.”
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 30