“Well, that’s a relief,” said Irene. “I was worried about infection. Come, my dear. Have some coffee—it will make you feel a little better.”
Irene poured out, and soon they were all sitting with coffee cups in their hands and pastries (one of each kind for Diana) on plates in front of them—except Lucinda, who had shaken her head to signal that she did not want anything. Irene said, “Are you sure? If you want a cup of coffee, just say so. And go on . . . You were going to tell us your story.”
Lucinda looked down. The sunlight coming through the windows turned her hair gold, and stray curls seemed to form a halo around her head. She looked like a young, pale, frightened Madonna.
“Rivers of blood,” she said. “I swam in rivers of blood.”
“Oh Lord,” said Diana. “She’s crazy. She’s just crazy, that’s all.” Justine put a hand on Diana’s arm as though to restrain her. Was Justine all right? She had, after all, been carrying a dead woman for the last couple of hours. She looked composed, drinking her coffee, a half-eaten pastry on her plate, but Mary could not help worrying. Well, at least she was getting some breakfast!
“Hush, Diana,” said Irene. “Go on, my dear. Where were these rivers of blood?”
“In Amsterdam, and Paris, and Vienna,” said Lucinda. She looked up. Her eyes were a pale green, like spring leaves. They seemed to be looking very far away. “I swam and was drowned, and I died three times. Three times they brought me back, as Christ rose after the third day. I was pierced, as he was on the cross.”
“Pierced with what?” asked Irene.
Where in the world was this line of questioning going? Mary hated to agree with Diana, but the girl did seem—well, insane. Perhaps that was, after all, why Lucinda had been committed to the Maria-Theresa Krankenhaus. She took a bite of pastry and could not help her stomach growling directly after. How hungry she was! This one was filled with walnut paste.
“Needles,” said Lucinda, matter-of-factly.
“Can you show me where?” asked Irene.
Lucinda rolled up one sleeve of her uniform. On her arm was a track of small dots, as though she had been marked with red ink.
Irene ran her fingers up and down Lucinda’s arm. Then she rolled up the other sleeve. On Lucinda’s other arm were identical red marks. “These rivers of blood—where did they come from?”
“They flowed from the garden of Gesthsemane,” said Lucinda. “And also my arms. They flowed and I drowned and died, but I was not buried. On the third day, I rose again as my father commanded.”
“Your father,” said Irene. “Do you know who your father is?”
“God in heaven,” said Lucinda. “He is my only father. My earthly father has forsaken me.”
Irene took a sip of coffee. “Ahhh!” she said, almost involuntarily. “I really, really needed that.” She turned back to Lucinda. “All right, tell me about your father. Your earthly father.”
“I have no father anymore,” said Lucinda. “He has sinned, grievously he has sinned. He has consorted with demons, and surely the Lord will send him down to perdition.”
“What the hell does that mean?” asked Diana.
“Hush,” said Mary. “You haven’t even finished what’s on your plate. Are you Diana, or some sort of doppelgänger? Because the Diana I know doesn’t leave food uneaten.”
“Go to hell,” said Diana, but she said it under her breath and stuffed her mouth with a poppy-seed roll.
“What sorts of demons?” asked Irene.
Lucinda was silent for a moment. Then, she said, “They drink the blood of the righteous, and they never die.”
Irene took another sip of her coffee. “Did they drink your blood, Lucinda?”
“He washed me in the blood of their kind, and I rose baptized, as though I had been born anew. But I was lost, lost, to God and man alike. I am forever condemned, and I shall perish in hellfire.”
Lucinda put her hands over her face and started to sob, as she had when her mother died—dry, wracking sobs that shook her body.
Irene put her arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Oh, my dear. I know this has been so difficult for you. I’m sorry to make you talk about it again. Here, have a little coffee. Just a little. It will make you feel better, I promise.” She held her own cup up to Lucinda’s mouth.
“Well, if that’s her story,” said Diana, “I don’t think much of it! I mean, she didn’t actually tell us anything, did she?”
Lucinda put her shaking hands around the cup and took a cautious sip. Then, as though suddenly remembering what coffee was, she drank it down, almost gulping it in her eagerness. And just as suddenly, she was bent over, retching it all up again, onto the table and carpet. She shook and coughed and wept, while Irene held her, making what were probably supposed to be soothing sounds although Lucinda did not seem soothed.
Justine picked up the cup that Lucinda had dropped and put it back on the table. Mary wiped up as much of the coffee as she could with a napkin, trying not to think about where it had just come from—whether it was coffee or regurgitated coffee should make no difference, right?
“Disgusting,” said Diana, which was about the least helpful comment she could have made.
“I will take care of it, Mary,” said Greta. “I know where the cleaning supplies are, and you do not. So don’t worry.”
Reluctantly, Mary nodded. Greta was probably better at anything cleaning-related than she was. Still, she felt particularly useless.
“All right, I think you’re going to bed,” said Irene. “I shouldn’t have kept you here, after all you’ve been through. Mary, can you help me get Lucinda to my bedroom? I think that’s the best place to put her. Justine, Diana, once you’ve finished eating, I want you to get some sleep. And Greta, I’m sorry, I wish I could tell you to go to bed as well, but I think you’d better do what we discussed on the drive over—ask Hermann to go with you. Or better, take Georg. Hermann has enough to think about right now.”
“Yes, madame,” said Greta. “I’ll find him right after I take care of that stain. If I didn’t, Hannah would never let me hear the end of it!” Quickly, she drank the rest of her coffee, and then she left, pocketing the last walnut roll. Where was she going with Hermann—or Georg, whoever that was? Irene must be referring to the conversation Mary had slept through. In the carriage, Irene had told Greta to do something—Mary would have liked to know what, and whether it concerned her, Justine, and Diana.
But this was not the time to ask questions. She led Lucinda to the bathroom, so the girl could wash her face and brush her teeth. When Lucinda rolled up her sleeves to wash her face in the basin, Mary saw those red marks again, as though she had been bitten by two very persistent insects. She felt as though she should say something—but what did one say to someone who had just lost her mother?
DIANA: “I’m very sorry for your loss.” Even I know that!
MARY: When I lost my mother, “I’m very sorry for your loss” did not help one bit.
Longing for a wash herself—she had not had a proper one for several days—she led Lucinda to Irene’s bedroom.
Irene was there, rooting through the wardrobe. “I put a nightgown on the bed,” she told them when they came in. “I’m just looking for some clothes for Lucinda. She’ll need several dresses, and perhaps a suit for Budapest.”
“Budapest?” said Lucinda, clearly startled. Hadn’t Diana told her anything?
“We’re going to take you to Budapest,” said Mary. “Mina Murray is there. She asked us to bring you to her.” This was probably not the best time to tell Lucinda that they needed her help convincing the Société des Alchimistes to stop its experiments in biological transmutation.
“Wilhelmina!” said Lucinda. “I would like to see Wilhelmina again. She was a friend to my mother. . . .” Once again, she put her face in her hands, and Mary heard a low sob.
“Come, my dear,” said Irene. “Put this on, and tuck yourself into my bed—it’s very comfortable, I assure you. I’ll com
e back and check on you in a few minutes. All right?”
Lucinda took the nightgown that Irene was holding out and nodded.
Irene put her arm through Mary’s, gave her a glance that Mary was pretty sure meant, I want to talk but not here, and led her out of the room. She closed the door behind her, then said, “Oh Mary, what a night! You always look so composed, as though you could manage anything, but you must be exhausted. I know I am.”
“Thank you,” said Mary, startled. She was glad to hear that she looked composed. She certainly did not feel it. “I am too. Exhausted, I mean. And not just physically. Somehow, the last few days . . .” Well, they had taken all her strength.
“I know,” said Irene. “And I want you to get some sleep as well, but first there’s something I need to show you. Come on.”
Mary followed her down the hall. As she passed the bedroom she was sharing with Diana, she heard a loud noise, as though bees were buzzing around a hive. She looked in. Diana lay sprawled on the bed, still fully clothed. She was snoring.
Thank goodness she’s safe, thought Mary. Of all the stupid plans . . . And yet it had worked. They had, indeed, rescued Lucinda Van Helsing. Unless Diana was right, and Lucinda was mad? In which case her mind might remain a prison from which she could never escape—like Renfield in the asylum at Purfleet, catching his flies, or Lady Hollingston, cheerfully discussing how she had murdered her husband.
As they passed the study, Justine sat up on the sofa. She was wearing the man’s nightshirt and robe she had brought with her. “I have tried to sleep, but I simply cannot,” she said. “After the events of last night . . . I have killed again, this time two men.”
“I’m not at all sure you have,” said Irene. “Come on. If you can’t sleep, you may as well come with me and Mary. I’ll show you too.”
Justine stood and followed them on slippered feet. As Irene turned to climb down the stairs to the kitchen, Justine looked at Mary as though to ask, What is this all about? Mary shrugged and shook her head.
Were they going to the kitchen? No, of course not. Irene had told Greta to bring Mrs. Van Helsing’s body to her office, so that was where they must be headed. Sure enough, Irene walked to the end of the hallway, lifted the painting of poppies, which looked unnaturally cheerful on this grim morning, and turned the knob hidden underneath. The wall opened inward, and once again they were in her secret office, with the weapons on the wall, the shelves of file boxes holding who-knows-what, and the desk with that modern mystery, a telephone.
The electric lights were on. The long table was covered with a white cloth that was probably a bed sheet, and on it, under another sheet, with only her head visible, lay Mrs. Van Helsing.
Irene walked to the end of the table and stood next to Mrs. Van Helsing’s head. For a moment, she looked down sadly and stroked the dead woman’s hair. Then, in a businesslike tone, she said, “You noticed the marks on Lucinda’s arms, right?”
“As though she had been bitten by insects,” said Mary.
“Not insects.” Irene drew back one corner of the bed sheet. She lifted up Mrs. Van Helsing’s arm and drew back the sleeve of her blood-stained nightgown. That arm was also marked with small red spots.
Justine stepped closer to examine them. “They follow the vein.”
“You noticed that too?” said Irene. “Someone was drawing her blood, often enough to need multiple sites of insertion. There are marks on both arms.”
“Then—they’re the marks of a hypodermic?” asked Mary. “But why?”
“I don’t know,” said Irene. “But there’s something else. I examined her while you were helping Lucinda. I did not have time to do it thoroughly, but I noticed this.” She put one hand on the corner of Mrs. Van Helsing’s mouth and, with her fingers, drew the lips apart.
Lucinda’s mother had fangs.
“Like the man in the alley!” said Mary. “Well, that explains why she had blood on her mouth. She must have bitten him.”
“Fangs?” said Irene. “The men had fangs?” She frowned, as though puzzled.
“Well, one of them did,” said Mary. “I mean, I didn’t see them all that clearly because it was in the middle of everything, but he was snarling at me, like a rabid dog. Or like a Beast Man. Do you think it’s possible that these are Beast Men, like those made by Dr. Moreau?”
“No,” said Irene. “I examined one of them before we left the scene—quickly, but I would have noticed if he was a vivisected animal. Sherlock described the Beast Men in his letter. No, he was entirely human—as is Mrs. Van Helsing.”
“Could they be reanimated corpses?” asked Justine. “That would explain why they do not die.”
“I don’t know. But then why the fangs? You don’t have fangs, my dear.” Irene smiled at Justine. “I think we’re looking at something new, something not described in Sherlock’s letter. Those fangs are not the only strange thing about this body. When you were carrying her, I noticed there was less blood than there should have been—it coagulated quickly. And she’s been dead for several hours, but rigor mortis has not set in.”
“Is she not dead, then?” asked Mary. “Could she—rise again, like those men?”
“I don’t think so,” said Irene. “She has no pulse, no heartbeat—I think she is, as Lucinda herself told us, truly dead. But someone did something to her—changed her in some way. Look also at how thin she is. . . .” Irene drew the sheet back further. She was right—even covered by the nightgown, it was clear that Mrs. Van Helsing had been emaciated, almost skeletal. “How could she survive, starved in this way? And who would have starved her?”
“Professor Van Helsing?” said Justine. “We know he was conducting experiments. This has all the hallmarks of an experiment—unusual marks on the body, physiological and psychological changes. . . . Alas, I know all too well, having been an experiment myself.”
“And who better to experiment on than his wife and daughter,” said Mary, bitterly. “That’s the pattern, isn’t it? These scientists—no, I won’t dignify them with that name. These alchemists believe that women, preferably young women, make the best experimental subjects.”
“That,” said Irene, in a cold, contemptuous voice, “is revolting.”
“So what now?” asked Mary. “Do we—I don’t know—fight Van Helsing somehow? He’s not even in Vienna, is he?”
“He will be as soon as he finds out that his wife and daughter are missing from the Krankenhaus,” said Irene. “Why did he have Lucinda and her mother confined? And why did he tell his servants that Mrs. Van Helsing was dead? Would he have announced Lucinda’s death as well, eventually? Clearly he was trying to hide whatever he was doing to them—that’s the only logical explanation. But what exactly was he doing? And what do those hypodermic marks mean? I wish Lucinda could give us some answers, but I think whatever her father did to her has affected her mind.”
“Then you don’t think she’s just gone mad?” said Mary.
Irene shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. All I know is that your friend Mina was acquainted with Mrs. Van Helsing, and knows when the Société des Alchimistes is meeting in Budapest. Clearly, she has more information about this business than we do. So no, you’re not going to fight Van Helsing. What you’re going to do is take Lucinda to Budapest, exactly as planned. You told me that you trust Mina. She has a plan, and you should follow it. Anyway, I want you out of the city when Van Helsing arrives. Let me deal with him—I can at least put his investigation on the wrong track. Hannah is already out trying to determine what the authorities know, whether they’re trying to chase down the three escaped patients. . . .”
“Then—do we go by train again?” asked Mary. Did she have enough money to pay for tickets, for the four of them?
“No. I don’t know who those men were, whether they were working for Van Helsing, or the Société des Alchimistes, or both. But the train is too obvious—if the society is still on your trail, the Staatsbahnhof, where the Orient Express departs Vienna, will be
watched. I don’t want you to run into Heinrich Waldman or, more likely, another of their henchmen. I sent Greta and Georg—that is my footman—to arrange for a private coach for the four of you. You’ll leave before dawn, when there is the least amount of traffic on the roads. The coach will take you south of Vienna, then over the border to Hungary. It’s slower, but less obvious, and you should still arrive in plenty of time. I’ll pay for it, of course.”
“You needn’t—,” said Mary, ashamed that she was accepting money yet again.
“But I want to,” said Irene. “Those men attacked me too, remember? This is my fight now, as well as yours.”
“You are too kind and generous,” said Justine.
Irene smiled. “Or really, really mad at those bastards. When I shoot a man, I expect him to die! All right, now you’re going to get some sleep, the both of you. You have a long, hard trip ahead of you—several days, even by the most direct route. So go to bed.” She pulled the sheet over Mrs. Van Helsing’s face. As she did so, Mary saw Irene’s lips move, as though in a silent prayer.
How could Mary sleep after all she had learned? There was so much to think about! But even as she followed Justine upstairs, Mary felt her eyes closing and struggled to keep them open. She would lie down next to Diana. . . .
Her dreams were filled with bees, and she wondered how they had flown all the way from England to Vienna.
When Greta shook her awake for the second time that day, the gas was lit. Mary sat up, confused about where she was. Why was it dark out the window, and why wasn’t she in her own bedroom? Where was Mrs. Poole?
“I’ve drawn a bath and left out a change of clothes for you,” said Greta. She was once again dressed as a respectable parlormaid. “Madame Norton says you should be prepared to leave within the hour.”
“Leave? For where?” Mary rubbed her eyes. Hadn’t Diana been sleeping next to her? Where had she gone?
“For Budapest,” said Greta, and suddenly it all came flooding back—the events of the last few days, the plans for the next few. For a moment, Mary would have given anything to be back in England again, in her own parlor, with Mrs. Poole bringing in tea on a tray. “Madame Norton sent me to find a coach that would take you—for hire, as you say. With Georg’s help, for he knows the stables hereabout—from gambling with the grooms, I’m afraid! It was not easy finding a coachman willing to take such a long trip. But a friend of Hermann’s recommended a Hungarian who is familiar with the route, and the coach will be here soon.”
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 30