European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

by Theodora Goss

  Once again Watson looked as though about to protest, but Holmes continued. “However, Miss Jekyll, I can nevertheless help you. I am not without resources, even in Vienna.”

  “Indeed?” What sorts of resources could he have there? Surely the Baker Street Irregulars did not venture so far as the Austro-Hungarian Empire.

  Holmes rose and went to the rolltop desk next to the fireplace, where Mary usually worked. It was kept open, although she often had to clear stacks of books and papers off it before it was usable. He pushed on a decorative scroll between two drawers, and it slid open—Mary had suspected it was a hidden drawer, but had never tried to open it herself. She was not the sort to go prying into other people’s secret drawers, unlike some—Diana! Don’t kick me. I’m trying to write a novel and you’re interrupting my train of thought. Holmes withdrew some sort of document. What was it?

  He stood looking at it for a moment, then brought it to her. Ah, a photograph. Mary took it from him, holding it by the edges. It was the sort of image used to advertise theatrical performances. An actress in costume, dressed as—a character from Shakespeare, perhaps? A queen, judging by her medieval dress and crown. Cordelia? Lady Macbeth? She was very beautiful.

  “Who is this, Mr. Holmes?” The last thing Mary had expected him to keep in a secret drawer was the photograph of a woman. Unless she was a murderess . . .

  “Her name, when I met her, was Irene Adler. She is now Mrs. Norton. I knew her only briefly in London, but years later she wrote to me. Her husband had been attached to our embassy in Vienna, and after he died she decided to remain there rather than returning to England. She told me that England had too many painful memories for her. We established a correspondence, which we have since maintained, although we do not write often. But if I write to her and explain your situation, I know she will help you. A letter should reach her by the time you arrive. She has contacts in the artistic and intellectual communities there.”

  He took the photograph back from Mary, examining it again, his face inscrutable. Then with a brief shake of his head, surely the result of unconscious cerebration, he returned it to the secret drawer.

  What mystery was this? Whatever his association with this woman, it was no ordinary matter of business. Mary had never seen him look so pensive, almost hesitant. He had been unlike himself. Even Watson was looking at him strangely.

  “Thank you, Mr. Holmes.” She did not quite know what to think. “We propose to leave early next week—we are trying to get our affairs in order as quickly as possible—and the journey itself will take another two weeks. If you would also give me her address and a letter of introduction, I can find her in case the letter does not arrive in time or goes astray. I would of course be grateful for her assistance.” How could an actress help them? Although she was probably not an actress any longer. Perhaps, if her husband had been attached to the embassy, she might have some contacts in government or at the university who could help them locate Lucinda Van Helsing. At any rate, it would be useful to know another Englishwoman in Vienna. Justine’s German was better than she gave herself credit for, but it was certainly not fluent.

  “Am I correct in thinking Miss Moreau is currently in Purfleet?” Now he seemed himself again—all business.

  Mary merely nodded. He knew perfectly well she was. It was he who had suggested that Catherine should pay Joe Abernathy regular visits, since Holmes, Watson, and Mary were known in Purfleet, particularly at the asylum. And didn’t he keep watch over the Athena Club? One or another of the Baker Street boys was always hanging around 11 Park Terrace. Mary could not always see them, but Catherine could always smell them out. That morning, she had mentioned that she was taking Charlie with her. He would no doubt have sent Holmes word of where he was going.

  “Then perhaps when she returns you can call a meeting, if you would be so kind as to include Watson and myself. I’m very interested to hear what Dr. Seward is up to—particularly whether he intends to travel to the continent in the near future. If Van Helsing is experimenting on his daughter, I suspect Seward is involved in some fashion. You may remember that Van Helsing was writing to Seward about the progress of his experiments—perhaps this is what he meant? And we can discuss the details of your journey.”

  She had known this would happen—as soon as she told him about Lucinda Van Helsing, he would take command. If she were honest with herself, and she generally tried to be, she would have to admit that it was one reason she had put off sharing the letter with him for more than a week. Perhaps the primary reason. After all, this was her mystery—the Athena Club’s mystery—as much as it was his. Still, how could she protest? He meant well, and after all, he had offered his assistance, which they would certainly need.

  “She won’t be back before teatime,” said Mary. “Until then, since Mr. Lydgate no longer requires our attention, shall we work on ears? I can at least type up the manuscript of your talk.” She was getting to be quite a good typist. She had even bought herself a book on shorthand. “And I’d like to make sure his case is properly filed, so all the records are in order before I leave.”

  “I don’t know what we will do without you, Miss Jekyll,” said Watson. “We’ll be back to the state we were in before you came.”

  Mary smiled. They would make an infernal—yes, that’s right, an infernal—mess. Well, she would clean up when she returned from Vienna. Whenever that might be. . . .

  CATHERINE: Our Mary swearing. I’m shocked.

  MARY: No, you’re not.

  She returned the letter neatly to her purse, then finally took off her jacket and sat down at the rolltop desk, glancing just for a moment at the secret drawer. Whatever curiosity she felt could not be satisfied at present. Anyway, she was Mr. Holmes’s assistant, and it was time for her to get to work.

  “All right, Miss Jekyll,” he said. “If you will transcribe these notes I made on Sunday evening. I’m afraid they’re all out of order. . . .”

  For a long time, there was no sound in the parlor at 221B Baker Street but the scratching of Mary’s pen, the rustle of Watson’s newspaper, and Holmes’s occasional murmurs to himself, all on the subject of ears: “Three inches from top to bottom of the lobe . . . fleshy auricular tubercle . . . particularly prominent lobule, pierced twice . . .”

  He had just turned to her, with a specimen jar in one hand, saying in a particularly satisfied voice, “This, Miss Jekyll, is the ear of John Seton, a famous highwayman in the time of the Georges, who was known as Black Jack Seton. He and his men terrorized Shropshire until he was hanged—even now his ghost is said to ride the country roads. You see how it disproves Lombroso’s theory that a criminal is immediately identifiable by his ears. Seton’s ear is neither large nor prominent, yet he was a thief and murderer. . . .” when Mrs. Hudson opened the door without knocking and Alice stumbled in. Her sleeves were still rolled up, as though she had come directly from doing the laundry.

  “Miss, telegram!” she managed, then put one hand to her side, breathing heavily. Had she run all the way across the park?

  “Sit down, Alice, or you’ll fall,” said Watson. “Come, there’s space on the sofa.” He brushed away flecks of ash.

  Mary made her way across the room, dodging Holmes and his precious jar. “Mrs. Hudson, could Alice have some water? And do sit down, as Dr. Watson said. What could possibly be so urgent?” She took the telegram from Alice. She stared at it for a moment, then showed it to Holmes. On the thin, cream-colored paper was written:

  LUCINDA MISSING CAN YOU FIND AND BRING HER TO BUDAPEST S.A. ANNUAL MEETING SEPTEMBER 20-24 MUST CONVINCE THEM TO STOP EXPERIMENTS LOVE MINA

  CHAPTER II

  An Appointment in Purfleet

  This time, Mary did not notice the roses. She hurried back through the park with Sherlock Holmes at her side. And to think that she had spent the entire morning on ears. She should have found a way to leave as soon as she had received Miss Murray’s letter, but there had been so much to arrange: train schedules to consul
t, accommodations to find, and of course the question of how they were going to pay for it all. They were still not ready; they could not possibly be ready for another week. And now Lucinda Van Helsing was missing.

  How in the world were they going to find a girl they had never seen, in a city they did not know, whose inhabitants didn’t even speak English? And bring her to Budapest? They certainly had not budgeted for that. September twentieth was only three weeks away. It was all quite impossible.

  “Just a moment, Miss Jekyll.” Holmes took her arm and pulled her to a standstill. “However quickly you cross Regent’s Park, it will not get you to Vienna any sooner. We have left Watson and your maid behind.”

  Mary looked back. Yes, they had fallen behind. Watson was supporting Alice, who was hanging on to his arm and limping.

  “I’m so sorry. And really I don’t know how rushing will help. We’ve lost the person we were meant to rescue. Does it even matter how quickly we get to Vienna? I fear we’ve already failed.”

  “You have certainly not yet failed. I recognize this place, Miss Jekyll. It is where, on a May evening, we left the body of the Beast Man that had assaulted Miss Frankenstein. Right under that tree. You, Miss Rappaccini, Miss Moreau, and Miss Frankenstein—and yes, even Miss Hyde, as troublesome as she is—have resources denied to ordinary women, or men either. Do not discount yourselves before you have begun.”

  Mary looked at him curiously. It was not like him to give encouraging talks. And now he was looking back down the path, waiting for Watson and Alice. She liked his profile. It was lean, aquiline—a determined profile, nothing halfhearted about it. With Mr. Holmes one knew where one was . . . most of the time.

  “Forgive us,” said Watson as he approached. “Alice’s ankle is hurting rather badly, although she keeps telling me it’s nothing. I believe she may have twisted it running over.”

  “I’m all right, Dr. Watson,” said Alice, but her face was pale and damp.

  “Come on, then,” said Holmes. To Mary’s surprise, he picked Alice up in his arms—the kitchen maid let out a short but piercing shriek of surprise, like a teakettle coming to a boil—and started carrying her up the path. Mary stared at his back.

  “He seems like a machine sometimes,” said Watson, “but he has great depth of feeling in him. You saw him with that photograph, Miss Jekyll?”

  “Yes, what was Mrs. Norton to him?” It was scarcely polite to ask . . . but she wanted to know.

  “Ah, who knows the depths of Holmes’s heart? But I believe she was the love of his life.”

  Mary walked beside Dr. Watson in silence. Somehow she had never imagined . . . But of course even Mr. Holmes must have fallen in love at some point. After all, he was quite a bit older than she was, and he had not lived the sort of restricted life to which she had been confined. She mentally scolded herself for being surprised.

  “It was a curious case,” he said after a few moments. “At first we thought she was a common adventuress. The King of Bohemia asked us to find her—she had been his mistress, and retained a compromising photograph of them together in her possession. He was about to be married to a woman of his own class and the strictest moral standards. He feared Miss Adler, as she was then, might make their association public, and he asked us to retrieve the photograph. A simple matter, or so we thought. But she turned out to be a woman of uncommon cleverness and integrity. She is the only adversary I know of who bested Holmes.”

  And there they were at Park Terrace, with Holmes waiting on the front steps, Alice still in his arms. Mary stepped around him and unlocked the door. What sort of woman was this Mrs. Norton? The former mistress of the King of Bohemia! A potential blackmailer! She sounded like a character out of a book. Why would Mr. Holmes be attracted to such a woman? But then men, as Mrs. Poole often said, were incalculable. Mary prepared to dislike Irene Norton intensely.

  MARY: Do you have to put that in? Irene is going to read this.

  CATHERINE: I think Irene will understand.

  MARY: Of course she will. But it’s embarrassing.

  CATHERINE: Because it’s true. That is, in fact, how you felt at the time.

  MARY: That doesn’t mean we have to mention it.

  “Mr. Holmes, could you put Alice on the sofa?”

  “I’m all right, miss,” said Alice, her voice muffled by Holmes’s shoulder. “Really, I can walk down to the kitchen.”

  “Not just yet,” said Watson. “I want to inspect that ankle. Miss Jekyll, this room looks quite different than the last time we were here. Surely it was darker?”

  When was the last time Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had been in the parlor of 11 Park Terrace? Mary was startled to realize that it was almost three months ago, shortly after they had solved the Whitechapel Murders. Yes, the room had changed. “That’s Beatrice’s doing,” she said. Although it was Justine who had painted it blue, with a border of red and yellow flowers just below the ceiling, and several of her paintings hung on the walls. But Beatrice had bought additional furniture, as well as the fabric in a Morris & Co. pattern they had used to recover the sofa and armchairs. She had also bought the blue Chinese jars. She was decorating in an Aesthetic style on a budget, she told them—whatever that meant. At least the parlor wasn’t as dismal as it had been after Mrs. Jekyll’s death!

  Holmes put Alice down on the sofa, with her head on one of the embroidered Turkish pillows—in Beatrice’s Aesthetic style. “Doctor’s orders,” he said, then stood up again and put his hands in his pockets, nonchalantly as though he had not just carried an injured girl halfway across the park.

  “Miss Mary! I heard your voice.” Mrs. Poole was still wearing an apron, with her shirtsleeves rolled up above her elbows. Her hair was, uncharacteristically, coming down in tendrils around her face. She even had soapsuds on one arm. It was evident that she had come from the laundry tub.

  “Alice seems to have sprained her ankle.” Mary took off her hat and gloves, then put them on the mantel. “Is Beatrice around?”

  “I’ll get her,” said Mrs. Poole, and disappeared down the hall—but not before picking up the gloves and hat, no doubt to return them to their proper place. Mary felt a pang of guilt—this was not Holmes’s flat, in which hats and gloves and human skulls could be left anywhere. She had not meant to make extra work for Mrs. Poole.

  “I believe it’s just sprained,” said Watson, feeling the ankle in question. “Nevertheless, it will hurt for a while, and you will have to stay off it for a few days, Alice. Can you do that?”

  Alice nodded unconvincingly.

  “Mary! Have you seen the telegram?” Justine stood in the doorway, her dress protected by a painting smock, which was covered with streaks and splotches of oil paint. She had a scarf tied around her head and was still holding a paintbrush in one hand, its bristles the blue of a Swiss sky—which was in fact what she had been painting. “Oh, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson! What a surprise to see you today.”

  “Yes, I saw it, and I have no idea what to do,” said Mary. “Is there any way we can leave in less than a week?”

  “The passports arrived today, but we have not yet started packing. And I believe you were going to make arrangements with the bank?” Suddenly, Justine stared at the paintbrush in consternation. “Mon Dieu, did I really bring this down? Forgive me, I’ll return in a moment.”

  “Alice, cosa ti è successo? What happened? Mrs. Poole told me you were injured.” As Justine hurried up the stairs, Beatrice came into the parlor, holding a basket in her gloved hands. As she approached the sofa, they all automatically drew back. Even Watson took a step backward, although he almost immediately stepped forward again, as though to show that he, at least, was not afraid of her. She knelt by the sofa and took a white roll of linen out of the basket, then a bottle of green liquid.

  “I believe it’s merely twisted, Miss Rappaccini,” said Watson. “May I ask what that is, in the bottle?”

  “An anti-inflammatory of my own concoction. Yes, I can feel the swelling.” Beatrice
ran her gloved hands up and down Alice’s ankle. The gloves were made of the thinnest, finest kidskin, to her specifications so they would impede her as little as possible. Of course, it was not like making actual contact—but with them on, she could touch without causing injury. “If the gentlemen could give us a moment?” she asked, looking pointedly at Holmes. With a smile, he turned and examined the portrait of Mary’s mother over the fireplace. Watson also turned away. Once their gazes were properly averted, Beatrice stripped off Alice’s stocking. She doused the linen with the green liquid, then wrapped it around and around her ankle, covering it with another strip so the bandage was both tight and dry. “There, that should make the swelling less.”

  “Please, can I just go to my room?” asked Alice. She looked pale, ill, and mortified.

  “Of course,” said Beatrice. “Now you need to rest. No more adventures for you, for a while I think!”

  “Shall I carry her down?” asked Holmes, turning back from his minute examination of the portrait.

  “No!” said Alice at the same time that Justine, standing in the doorway, now without her paintbrush and smock, said “I can do it.”

  “Yes, please, Justine,” said Alice, with evident relief.

  Alice: I would have died. Mr. Holmes in my room by the kitchen? Indeed, I would rather have crawled down the stairs on my hands and knees!

  “Come then, ma petite. Put your arms around my neck.” Justine lifted Alice even more easily than Holmes had.

  “I’ll open the doors for you,” said Beatrice. Putting the basket once again over her arm, she followed Justine out of the room.

  “Miss Rappaccini would make a wonderful doctor, if she were not a woman,” said Watson.