Just then, Mary heard a knock on the cabin door. Was it M. Waldman? But when Diana opened the door, it was the Duchess. “Ah, ma chère Diane,” she said. “Would you like to continue our petit jeu? The gentlemen say they are willing.”
Diana looked back at Mary. “Well?”
“Oh, I don’t care!” said Mary crossly. “Go do whatever you please.” She immediately regretted it—after all, Diana still had ten francs to gamble with, and five of them were hers! But by the time she opened her mouth to protest, Diana had already slipped out the door.
DIANA: What you really wanted to say was “Go to the Devil!” But proper Mary could not say that, could she?
MARY: I seriously doubt the Devil would want you.
MRS. POOLE: I do believe you would scare the Old Gentleman to death!
DIANA: You bet I would.
At dinner they were joined by M. Waldman again. This time the conversation focused on the relative merits of the classical and romantic schools of art, as well as the innovations of the Impressionists. Justin admitted liking Monet, although yes, his technique could be sloppy. But his light! His choice of colors! He had experimented some with Impressionism himself. Waldman said that he preferred Courbet and Delacroix. Mary felt terribly ignorant. Why did Justine know so much more than she did? Of course, she had lived for almost a hundred years, and had spent much of that hundred years reading. Still, Mary resolved that, once this adventure was over and she was back in London, she would embark on a course of self-improving study. She would go to art galleries, listen to lectures on science and politics. She would read important books.
CATHERINE: Most important books are not worth reading. Well, most books are not worth reading.
BEATRICE: Surely you don’t mean that, Catherine!
CATHERINE: Oh, I don’t mean mine. But realistically, only a small percentage of the books written are worth anything at all. Look at all the penny dreadfuls out there!
ALICE: I rather like those. . . .
Halfway through dinner, Diana said, “May I be excused on account of boredom?”
Mary frowned and said “Go!” under her breath. Now M. Waldman was discussing innovations in music, which Justin admitted he knew very little about.
Diana smiled angelically, said “Thank you, dear sister,” with as much sarcasm as possible, and went. By the time dinner ended, Diana had not returned, so Mary looked for her—in the cabin, all up and down the corridor, in the dining car again. Finally Michel, the porter, told her that her sister had gone into the baggage car, presumably to retrieve a piece of luggage? Mary found her still there, arm-wrestling with the porter’s assistant, a boy who looked about Diana’s age and whose job was to bring out trunks when the passengers requested them.
She dragged Diana back down the corridor and told her to get ready for bed, or she would take away all the francs she had won. Anyway, she wanted the five Diana had stolen, and stealing was wrong, hadn’t anyone taught her that? But as she was about to follow Diana into the cabin, she saw M. Waldman standing in the corridor by an open window, smoking a cigarette.
It might be bold of her, but . . . she walked up to him and said, “Thank you, monsieur, for such an interesting evening. I’m afraid I don’t know as much as my brother about art, but I feel that I profited a great deal from your conversation.”
He smiled down at her. He had a very attractive smile. “It was a pleasure to converse with such an intelligent and amiable woman, Miss Frank. And please, perhaps you will call me Heinrich? I hope you will let me continue the conversation when we are in Vienna. I would like to call upon you. And your brother, of course.”
“Oh . . . certainly,” she said. Call upon her! Intelligent and amiable! Mary felt both pleased and flustered. No man had ever wanted to call upon her before—only have her organize files and transcribe articles about the ears of murderers. But then she remembered that in Vienna, she would not be staying with friends and going to museums, as she had told M. Waldman . . . or Heinrich. She would be trying to rescue a woman who had probably been kidnapped.
“Perhaps if you could give me your address . . . ,” he continued.
“We’re not quite sure yet where we will be,” she said. “You see, although we are staying in Vienna, we may venture into the countryside as well, so our travel plans are not set. My brother has heard the Austrian villages are very picturesque.” It was the best excuse she could think up at the moment. After all, she couldn’t very well give him Mrs. Norton’s address, could she? Who knew what they would be doing once they got there, or what sorts of dangers they would encounter?
“Of course,” he said. “I will give your brother my address, and perhaps the both of you can call upon me, or send word? I will stay a week or two in Vienna before heading to Ingolstadt.”
She nodded and held out her hand. “Good night, M. Waldman.”
“Pleasant dreams, Miss Frank.” She had intended to shake his hand, but instead he bowed and kissed hers, with continental courtesy.
She was glad of the darkness, because she was sure that her face was growing red. Mary Jekyll of 11 Park Terrace was not used to having her hand kissed. She turned and walked back to her cabin, not quite certain what had just happened.
Diana was already in bed, on the top bunk. “You know, you can be kind of an idiot sometimes,” she said to Mary.
By the time Mary could ask her what in the world she meant and how she could talk to her sister like that, Diana was already snoring.
The next day proceeded much the same way, with Justin in intellectual conversation and Diana off somewhere or other, whether with porter’s assistants or duchesses. By the afternoon, she boasted to Mary that she had accumulated thirty-two francs. That night, they would arrive in Vienna.
M. Waldman seemed slightly constrained. He smiled at her more rarely and hesitantly, directing his remarks to her less often. She worried that she had somehow offended him. Did he think that his interest, if that’s what it was, might not be reciprocated? Mary wanted very much to tell him where she would be, and how much she would like to see him again. When had a man of her own age been interested in her? When had she had the opportunity to meet such men at all? Never, that’s when. She had always been the responsible one, the caretaker. And here was a man who seemed genuinely interested in her! Unlike some.
That night, they would be parting, forever as far as she knew. As soon as the Orient Express drew into the Vienna Westbahnhof, she, Justine, and Diana would need to hire a cab and take it to Mrs. Norton’s apartment. It would be late, they would be tired, and she hoped there would be no problem finding the address. There would be no more time for the M. Waldmans of the world.
During dinner, he seemed unusually quiet. At one point he leaned toward her and said, “I will be sad at losing such a charming companion.” She did not know how to respond.
What harm could it do, simply to let him know how to contact her? At least she could give him her address in London.
As they were once again packing their clothes and other necessities into the trunk, which had been brought up from the baggage car, she quickly jotted down her address at Park Terrace. She would find a way to give it to him before they separated.
Mary heard a knock on the door. Could that be—but no, it was the porter, coming to tell them that in a few minutes they would arrive in Vienna. He would take their trunk, which would be waiting for them on the platform. Mary nodded and gave him the customary pourboire. When he was gone, she checked to make sure she had her pistol and ammunition in her waist bag. Just in case.
“In Vienna, can I dress like a boy again?” asked Diana. She was kicking her heels against the bottom of the seat, impatient for their arrival.
“No,” said Mary brusquely. “Come on, let’s wait out in the corridor.”
They both watched as the train drew into the Vienna Westbahnhof. It was past 11:00 p.m., but even at that hour, the station was lit by gas lamps. Through the train windows, Mary could see travelers waiting
for trains next to piles of luggage. This was one of the great rail termini of Europe. The Westbahnhof never sleeps.
Just as the train stopped, Justine came striding down the corridor. “It’s about time—,” Mary began, but Justine grabbed her by the arm. It was such an unusual gesture for Justine that for a moment Mary stood staring at her, startled, not knowing what to do. “Come on!” said Justine, urgently. Usually she was so gentle, but now she gripped Mary’s arm as though with steel pincers.
“All right, I’m coming!” said Mary. Justine was pulling her toward the train doors. “Be careful, you’re hurting me.”
She followed Justine down the steps, onto the platform. It was a confusion of travelers and their baggage. Where was Diana? Thank goodness, the girl was not dawdling for once. She was right behind Mary, although looking very put out.
“I’m sorry,” said Justine. “But we need to find a cab, now! Where is the cab stand?”
“Herr Frank? You are Herr Frank?” Mary turned to see who had spoken. It was a young man dressed in the uniform of a footman, holding a sign that said “The Frank Family.”
“Who wishes to know?” said Mr. Justin Frank, more suspiciously than Mary had ever heard him speaking.
“I am from the household of Frau Norton. She sent me to meet you at the train, and described you very exactly: ein Herr, very tall, and zwei Frauen. She said, tell to them that Meester Holmes sends his greetings. Her carriage is waiting for you before the station.”
“Right,” said Justine. “If you will help me to carry the trunk, we will follow.”
Mary looked back at the train. There was M. Waldman, disembarking. He looked around the platform, as though confused or searching for someone. Was it her? She still had the piece of paper with her address on it. Was there time to run back, very quickly, and give it to him?
But the steel pincers closed on her arm again. “Come on,” said Justine, and she had to follow.
The carriage, resembling a clarence but fancier, was waiting out front, its lanterns lit. The footman exchanged a quick greeting with the driver. The horses nickered and stamped their hooves. The footman helped Justine and Mary in—Diana refused his arm—then stowed the trunk and swung up on the footboard behind.
“Hü!” said the driver, and then the horses were clopping over the cobbled pavement. The carriage rumbled through the darkness of the Viennese night, down streets Mary could barely see, between buildings she could just discern in the darkness.
“What in the world was that about?” she asked. “My arm is going to be black and blue. I just wanted to . . .”
“I do apologize, Mary,” said Justine. “But you see, I found something. I don’t know why—I felt like a thief—but while Heinrich was out smoking, I searched through his bag. He was too perfect, you see. To friendly, too solicitous. He knew us only a little, yet spent all his time with us. And certain details, when he was talking about Switzerland—they were not quite right. It is a long time since I have seen my home country, but some things do not change in a hundred years. Even his accent, when speaking French . . . I wonder if he is truly Swiss?” She drew something out of her bag. Mary could barely see it in the dim light of the carriage lanterns, which anyway were not meant to illuminate the carriage, only to warn other drivers of its movements. She leaned close to the window and tried to examine it by the gas lamps on the city streets. She felt terribly jostled as the wheels bumped over cobblestones.
“What is it?” asked Diana, leaning over her.
“Stop that! You’re poking me in the ribs with your elbow. You’ll get your turn in the minute.”
It was a piece of paper, an envelope. But it was empty, and she was about to ask Justine what in the world it signified when she saw that it had a seal: it seemed to be black, but would probably appear red in daylight. Looking at it closely, she could just make out the raised letters S.A.
MARY: Did you have to go into such detail in this chapter? It makes me look like an idiot.
DIANA: That’s because you were.
JUSTINE: You had no way of knowing that Heinrich Waldman was connected with the Société des Alchimistes.
DIANA: No, but she was still an idiot. Oh, Heinrich! What blue eyes you have!
MARY: It was definitely not one of my finest moments.
CHAPTER VI
Morning in Vienna
Do you think anyone else you met along the way was a member of the Société des Alchimistes?” Irene Norton poured herself a cup of coffee.
They were sitting in a pleasant dining room, with morning light streaming through the windows.
“I can’t think of anyone,” said Mary. “That nice Madame Corbeau, who gave us biscuits? Mademoiselle Nicolette? I can’t imagine either of them as members of the society. Maybe the Duchess, I don’t know.”
“She told me she was a spy for the Romanian government,” said Diana. She took the pot and poured herself another cup of coffee, added five sugar cubes, and stirred vigorously.
“Then depend on it she wasn’t,” said Irene. “Spies don’t go around telling people they’re spies. More crêpes, anyone? Frau Schmidt made them especially for you.”
Diana held out her plate, and to Mary’s surprise so did Justine. “I ate these as a child,” she said. “I don’t know how I remember, but . . . yes, with a little sugar sprinkled on them. And then we would roll them up. I mean in my human childhood, in Geneva.” She frowned as though trying to recall the occasion.
“Just a little more coffee for me,” said Mary. She had already eaten four of the thin, flat pancakes herself. Weren’t continental breakfasts supposed to be small?
“With jam or chocolate?” asked Irene. “Or both? I’m sure Diana wants both. You know, that name, Waldman, seems familiar for some reason. . . . But it wasn’t among the names in Sherlock’s letter.” She has shown them the letter, five closely written pages describing them, their adventures solving the Whitechapel Murders, and the Société des Alchimistes. Mary had seen his signature on the final page: a scrawled Yours as ever, Sherlock. What did that mean? In what sense was he Irene Norton’s, exactly?
Last night, when they had arrived and been shown up to Irene’s parlor, she had risen from a chaise lounge and said, “Finally! I’m so glad you’re here.” Shaking their hands, she had added, “I hope we won’t stand on ceremony. I want you to call me Irene. Sherlock’s letter reached me yesterday. I want you to know that I’ve found out where Lucinda Van Helsing is being held. But there’s nothing you can do for her tonight, and you must be exhausted. Do you want anything to eat? No? Then I suggest you all get some sleep, and we can talk in the morning.”
Mary had been astonished. First, by the fact that Irene was obviously not an Englishwoman. She had a rich, deep voice with an undefinable accent. And second—“How in the world did Mr. Holmes’s letter reach you before we arrived? I expected you to receive his telegram, but a letter couldn’t have gotten here so quickly by post.”
“Oh, Sherlock has his ways,” she said, smiling. “Did you know his brother works for the British government? Queen and country and all that. Governments can send things more quickly than ordinary folks. But for goodness’ sake, do take off your things! Hannah,” she said to the parlormaid who had let them in, “can you see that Miss Jekyll, Miss Frankenstein, and Miss Hyde’s luggage is unpacked?”
“Of course, madame,” said the maid, with a curtsy. She gathered and carried off their hats and gloves.
“She speaks English!” said Mary after the maid had left.
“Yes, all my household staff speak English, German, and French,” said Irene. “Except for the cook, Frau Schmidt, but she’s excused on account of her pastries. Well, if you’re not hungry, I’ll have Hannah bring hot milk with honey to your rooms. That will put you to sleep, if sheer exhaustion won’t.”
“And Lucinda,” said Justine. “You mentioned that you know where she is?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how you’re going to get her out, or even get in to speak wi
th her. You see, she’s in the Maria-Theresa Krankenhaus.”
“Krankenhaus—that is a hospital,” said Justine. “Is she ill?”
“It shouldn’t be hard to get her out of a hospital,” said Diana.
“Ah, but this isn’t a regular hospital. It’s an institute for the mad. And not just ordinary madmen, but those who are judged capable of harming others, or themselves. Convicted criminals are housed there, when they’re not sent to the gallows. It’s impregnable.”
DIANA: What do these alchemical chaps have about shutting people up in madhouses? They seem obsessed.
MARY: We have often been told, by criminologists such as Lombroso, that genius and madness are closely related. Perhaps they see, in these madmen, a dark reflection of themselves. Remember Renfield.
DIANA: I think they just like to lock people up, and madhouses are easier to get people into than gaol.
CATHERINE: I thought you said Lombroso’s theories were all wrong?
MARY: That’s what Mr. Holmes says, and I agree with him.
DIANA: No surprise there.
That night, Mary had followed the maid down the hall to a bedroom she would share with Diana. Their bed was already turned down, their bedclothes laid out for the night. The trunk was neatly unpacked. Justine had a sofa in the study to herself. It was just long enough to fit all of her. Irene Norton’s apartment took up two floors in one wing of 18 Prinz-Eugen Strasse. So far, they had only seen the second floor, up a flight of rather grand stairs from the front entrance. But what they had seen was—well, “elegant” was one word to describe it. “Sophisticated” might be another. Far more elegant than 11 Park Terrace, thought Mary. But you couldn’t expect an English house to be as elegant as an apartment in Vienna, could you? Particularly when that house was inhabited by five young women, one of whom was Diana, who left a mess wherever she went.
Mary changed into her nightgown, then went to find what turned out to be a surprisingly modern bathroom, with heated running water and a large porcelain tub on clawed feet. Gratefully, she washed her face in the basin. She could feel all the grime of travel washing away, then swirling down the drain. She dried her face and hands on a luxurious towel, thicker than any English towel she had used. The bathroom had an intricate pattern of tiles, with designs of fish and other aquatic creatures, octopuses and sea anemones, that she thought Beatrice would like. It seemed—modern? Artistic.
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