“No,” said Alice. “I should be here. At least, I think I should. But after this, I think I would like to go back to being kitchen maid for a while.”
They were standing across the street from a tenement. It looked very much like one of the tenements of the East End, and very different from the elegant house by Lincoln’s Inn Fields where Beatrice had last seen Professor Petronius, when he had exhibited her at the Royal College of Surgeons as the Poisonous Girl.
“I hope the Baker Street boys were right and this is the house.” Beatrice looked at it appraisingly. “Are you quite certain, Alice? We could ask Mr. Wiggins and his followers to rush in and effect a rescue, as they did at the British Museum.”
“And a lot of good that did!” said Alice. “If the Baker Street boys did that, I’m sure someone would get hurt. I don’t want anyone to get hurt, especially not Martin—he’s such a gentle soul. All right, I think I’m ready, miss.”
But was Beatrice ready? She wished she did not have to face Professor Petronius again. She would much rather have forgotten that particular episode in her life. Instead of standing here, she wished she could be back in her conservatory of poisonous plants, surrounded by their silent companionship. That was where she was happiest nowadays—and with Clarence of course, but her plants provided her with an uncomplicated joy, whereas her happiness at being with Clarence was always complicated by the care she had to take not to hurt him. Inwardly, she sighed. If only things were different! But they were not, and no amount of wishing would make them so. She might love Clarence, but she was a scientist. She believed there were implacable realities of life that could not be changed, and her poisonous nature was one of them.
Here, again, there was no use wishing the situation could be different. What had to be done might as well be done now. “All right,” she said to Alice. “Set fire to the house.”
Alice waved her hands. Suddenly, Beatrice could see flames through the upstairs windows of the tenement. Smoke poured through them, black and acrid. It all looked so real! The rising flames, the dark smoke—she could even feel the heat of it. Then, she heard a scream.
The door of the building opened with a bang. First, out rushed an elderly woman. Ah yes, that was Professor Petronius’s housekeeper—a Mrs. Thorpe, if Beatrice remembered correctly. She had been kind enough to Beatrice in her own way, but completely under the control of the man she had always referred to, reverently, as the Professor. She was followed out by a tall man in a black frock coat, with a top hat in one hand and a pistol in the other. As soon as he stepped out the door, he automatically put the top hat on his head. He still had the thick black mustache that Beatrice remembered—a bit too black to be convincing. She suspected him of using hair dye.
“Come on, come on,” he shouted. “Come out here at once!” Behind him came a line of three men and two women, the men in shirtsleeves. One of them was tall and lean, with long, dark hair. That must be Martin—he fit Catherine’s description perfectly.
“Over here, and don’t any of you dare make a run for it.” Professor Petronius waved his pistol at them. “Even if you manage to get away from me, Mrs. Raymond will hunt you down personally! You don’t want to face her wrath again, do you now? So just stand here like good boys and girls, in a straight line as though doing recitation at school, until the fire brigade comes and puts out that blaze.”
“There won’t be much left by that time,” said Mrs. Thorpe. “I don’t know how it could have started. I banked the stove so carefully, and there was no fire burning in any of the upstairs rooms.”
“Which means one of you set it deliberately!” said Professor Petronius, waving his pistol around in a way that Mary would have found completely irresponsible. “Which of you did it? When Mrs. Raymond finds out—”
This was the part Beatrice had been worried about. Would Alice be able to do it?
“Petronius!” It was the voice of Mrs. Raymond, and it emanated from the effigy of Mrs. Raymond that stood at Beatrice’s side. Good for Alice! It was a perfect imitation.
Professor Petronius noticed them for the first time. He stepped back, startled. Mrs. Raymond strode toward him. “This is your responsibility. I told you to keep guard over these mesmerists, and see what has happened?” She pointed to the blazing house and looked at him coldly. “However, I have no more need of them, so you are to let them go. As for your pistol, lower it immediately or I will turn it into a poisonous snake.”
Looking at her with an expression of incredulity, Professor Petronius lowered his pistol. “But you said I was to guard them, to make sure they didn’t escape. You said you might still have use for them.” He sounded upset, as though he had been ill-used.
“The situation has changed,” said Mrs. Raymond haughtily. “They are useless to me now.” She turned to the group of mesmerists, who were huddled together and staring at her with fear—it was clear that Mrs. Raymond had made an impression on them. “All of you, go! I do not need you anymore. Except you, Marvelous Martin. You must stay. And as for you, Professor, I would like you to leave London and never return again, on pain of my wrath, as you called it.”
“But I haven’t been paid!” he protested. “You promised me twenty pounds for my services!”
“Why don’t I pay you instead?” said Beatrice sweetly. “You remember me, don’t you, professor? I’m working with Mrs. Raymond now. Let me show you how I repay those who help me as you have.”
Professor Petronius was so startled to see her that he simply stood, mouth agape, while she approached, stood up on her tiptoe, and kissed him on the cheek. It was a longer kiss than any she had given Clarence.
“Bloody hell!” shouted Professor Petronius, jumping back and clapping his hand to his cheek. “You bitch!”
“That was to thank you for all the help you gave me when I first came to England,” said Beatrice, in her usual sweet tones. When he lowered his hand, she could see the shape of her lips seared into his cheek. That mark would never come off, not as long as he lived. “Go, Professor—although in truth you are no professor, but a charlatan. Leave London, as Mrs. Raymond has ordered, or I will come find you and leave a similar mark on the other cheek!”
He glowered at her, then turned and, without a word, ran up the street toward the Thames. Mrs. Thorpe ran after him, shouting, “Professor! Professor, wait for me!
Beatrice turned to Mrs. Raymond. “I always knew he was a coward,” she said with satisfaction.
“But I’m not,” said Martin, in his deep, sad voice. The other mesmerists were still behind him, huddled together. Evidently, despite their fear, they had not wanted to desert their friend. “I won’t tell you any more about Alice. I’m sorry I told you what I did, and I hope you never find her.”
“And we’re not going without Martin,” said a woman standing behind him. “We’re circus people, and we stick together. If you want to keep him captive, you’ll have to keep us as well.”
Beatrice turned to Mrs. Raymond, to see how she would respond. The director of the Magdalen Society waved her hand. The flames in the house died down, then disappeared as though they had never been. And there, beside her, stood Alice once more.
“My dear girl,” said Martin, evidently astonished. “What in the world—”
“I’ve learned a few new tricks,” said Alice, smiling. Then, she threw her arms around Martin in a way Beatrice could not help envying. “I’m so glad you’re safe—that you’re all safe,” she said, looking at the other mesmerists, who were also looking at her—most of them respectfully, some a little doubtfully, as though expecting her to turn back into Mrs. Raymond at any moment.
“That was an impressive demonstration,” said the woman who had stood up for Martin. “Thank you for getting rid of Professor Petronius, Miss—”
“I’m not a miss, I’m just Alice,” said Alice. Now that she was back to herself, she spoke with her usual shyness.
“You’re not just anything,” said Beatrice. “Come, let us all return to Park Terrace.
Mrs. Poole will have luncheon waiting, and you’re all welcome to join us.”
MRS. POOLE: Well, you could have told me we’d have a troupe of mesmerists coming to lunch! Five extra mouths to feed is no laughing matter!
BEATRICE: I am truly sorry, Mrs. Poole. Luckily Mary, Diana, Catherine, and Justine were out that day, although I remember Lucinda kept asking the mesmerists to make things appear and disappear.
ALICE: That’s what gave Martin the idea for our show. There had never been a show of mesmerists working together before—it was always one mesmerist giving a demonstration. A show of all the best mesmerists in London—well, other than Merton the Magnificent, who had gone home instead of coming to lunch. You can’t blame him, with Mrs. Merton having a new baby and all. The show’s been quite successful, with all five of us working together.
BEATRICE: Especially you, Alice. You are becoming the star attraction.
ALICE: Oh, I very much doubt that! Martin is still so much better than me at talking to people. I’m good at manipulating the waves, but I can’t do the patter the way he can.
LUCINDA: I’m so glad I gave you the idea! It’s a wonderful show, especially the part in the mummy’s tomb when the sarcophagus rises and the mummy appears—I scream every time I see it.
Catherine looked around at the headquarters of the Baker Street Irregulars. She was not particularly impressed.
“You’re going to come with me,” Diana had said earlier that morning. “You’re the one who got Jimmy court-martialed in the first place, and I want you there to protect him in case any of the Baker Street boys decide they don’t like our suggestion. Not that I can’t protect him myself with my little knife, but you have teeth. Sometimes I wish I had sharp teeth. It would be useful to carry your weapons around in your mouth all the time.”
Jimmy Bucket had looked at them, frightened. He was a small boy, with brown hair that seemed to have been cut with nail scissors. It stuck out every which way. “I don’t know if I should go back to headquarters,” he had said. “Wiggins was powerful angry with me. He might court-martial me all over again.”
“First of all, he can’t do that—you can’t court-martial someone twice. And second of all, we’re not going to let him,” Catherine had said. “Don’t you want to be a Baker Street boy again?”
“Ye-es,” he had responded, sounding as though he were not entirely sure.
But he was standing steadily enough beside her now.
“Why should we reinstate him?” asked Wiggins. His arms were crossed and he was leaning back against his desk. His mouth was set in an obdurate line. Behind him were Buster and Dennys. Evidently, Buster was well enough to start taking up his old duties again, although he was seated in a chair rather than standing up, and gauze bandages were visible where his shirt collar was unbuttoned. He was looking fixedly at the floor.
“Because I asked you to,” said Diana.
“Because the Athena Club is asking you to,” said Catherine. This was not all about Diana! Not everything was about Diana.
“And why should I do what the Athena Club asks?” Wiggins looked at them skeptically.
“Because we rescued Mr. Holmes,” said Catherine. “We were there when you couldn’t be, and we will be again in the future. And you will be there when we can’t. Would you rather fight us or have our assistance? Would you rather be our friend or foe?”
“Why do you care so much about Jimmy Bucket anyway?” asked Wiggins.
“I don’t,” said Diana scornfully. “If it were up to me, he would stay court-martialed.”
“It’s Beatrice and Justine who care,” said Catherine. “Beatrice says he’s just a little boy who didn’t know better, and Justine says you can’t blame a man for stealing bread when his family is hungry.”
“Whatever that means!” said Diana. “Sometimes I think everyone else in the Athena Club is barmy.”
Dennys rolled his eyes. Evidently, he agreed with her.
Wiggins looked again at the scrawny boy standing before him and hanging his head in penitence, or shame, or perhaps both. “Well? What do you have to say for yourself, Jimmy?”
Jimmy looked up at him with watery blue eyes. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wiggins. I didn’t mean no harm. Lady Crowe said she could help with my sister’s treatments if I told her about the ladies—Miss Moreau and the others. What they were doing, when they went out, that kind of thing. And she did—Jenny is doing ever so much better now. I wouldn’t have done it for any other reason, but she’s my only sister, and I don’t know what Mum would do without her. My little brother can’t do anything to help—he’s only four years old. I’m the man of the house since Da died. So I had to do something, you see.”
“That doesn’t justify breaking your oath to me and the Baker Street Irregulars,” said Wiggins severely. “If I let you join again, do you promise not to do such a thing ever again so long as you’re a member? You’ll be on probation. And you won’t be reinstated a second time, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy, sniffing and wiping his nose with his sleeve. “But will the boys accept me back? They wouldn’t look at me as I came upstairs. Buster won’t look at me even now.”
Buster looked up and stared at him, eyes narrowed. Jimmy shook a little in front of that glare.
“They’d better, or they’ll feel the prick of my little knife,” said Diana, drawing that knife out of wherever she kept it—she must have some sort of sheath in her waistband. She glared back at Buster. “And the bite of Catherine’s teeth!”
Not likely! Catherine had no intention of biting any Baker Street boys. For one thing, she was not sure how often they washed. Dennys looked clean enough, but Buster had dirt around his collar.
“Well, Buster, Dennys?” asked Wiggins. “Shall we give Mr. Bucket another chance?”
“No,” said Buster decisively, in his deep voice.
“Are you pulling our leg?” said Dennys. “We don’t want traitors here.”
“Oh, so it’s no from the two of you, is it?” Wiggins turned his head as though to look at them, although he could only have seen Buster at that angle. “I’m inclined to let him back in, myself. So that’s two against one. And whose vote counts around here?”
“Yours, Bill,” said Dennys, immediately. “If you say he’s in, he’s in, and the boys won’t gainsay it. They won’t be happy, but they’ll accept it if you say so.”
Wiggins nodded. “Well, I do say so. Buster, make sure all the boys know that Jimmy’s under my personal protection. And Diana’s, of course.” Diana had been about to protest, hadn’t she? Now, Catherine noticed that she was looking at Wiggins with smug satisfaction. “All right, Jimmy,” Wiggins continued. “You’ll get one more chance, on account of your age and family circumstances. But it’s your last one!”
“Thank you, sir,” said Jimmy, looking down again and shuffling his feet. Catherine hoped he was properly grateful for what they had done that morning. She could think of many things she would rather have been doing than pleading Jimmy’s case in front of the Baker Street Irregulars. But at least Beatrice and Justine would be pleased.
She was startled when Wiggins turned to her and said, “Miss Moreau, are you really a puma? Charlie says you showed him your teeth.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake, as Mary often said! “Yes, I’m a puma,” she replied impatiently. In a moment he would ask to see her teeth as well, and then she would have to be the Puma Woman, just like in the circus, for an audience of Baker Street Irregulars! Ah well, perhaps it was good for Mr. Holmes’s boys to learn about the abilities of the Athena Club. They would no doubt have to work together again in the future.
MARY: They were very helpful when we had to recover the naval treaty Colonel Protheroe so stupidly left on the table in his study while he went out on the balcony for a smoke. Although I think Wiggins and Charlie are going to have to decide which of them is Diana’s admirer. They almost came to blows about who was going to rescue her from the Russian Embassy.
DIANA: As
though I needed rescuing! And if they’re going to be such idiots, I don’t want anything to do with either of them. I don’t need an admirer, thank you very much.
LUCINDA: I admire you, Diana, for your courage and cleverness. If it were not for you, I would probably have died in that madhouse in Vienna.
DIANA: Well, that’s different. You can admire me without being stupid about it.
Mary looked down at the face of Sherlock Holmes. It was softer in sleep than when he was awake. The alert, inquisitive look that always characterized it was gone. It was still lean, angular, with a certain elegance to it that lay deep in the bone. But it seemed younger, less lined with cares. She pulled up the blanket to cover his bare shoulder, with the white linen bandage wrapped around it and down his side. He shifted and turned. For a moment, she though he might wake up, but his eyes did not open.
“How is he? Dr. Watson asked me to check on him and send word as soon as he wakes.” Bill Wiggins was standing in the door of the infirmary. Behind him were Catherine and Diana.
While she was glad to see them, she was grateful to have had the infirmary to herself that morning. Buster was ambulatory, Charlie was hopping about despite doctor’s order, and Dr. Watson, who was still recovering, had been moved to 221B Baker Street so he could be nursed by Mrs. Hudson. Watson had not wanted to leave Holmes, but Dr. Radko had insisted. “His wounds are much worse than yours,” Dr. Radko had said. “He needs absolute quiet, while you are ready for company and amusement. He will recover better if you are not here. However, you may visit as soon as you are well enough.”
In the meantime, Mary had been the one at his side. She had barely left it for the last few days. “Sleeping well,” she said. “He does not have a fever. But he has not woken yet.”
“Right, then,” said Wiggins. “I’ll come back later to check on him, and Dr. Radko is coming this afternoon. He says it’s a miracle Mr. Holmes survived.”
The Sinister Mystery of the Mesmerizing Girl Page 38