“Good morning, Sister.” Prendick was standing beside her. “You’re up early.” He sounded very tired, even more tired than he had sounded in the former headquarters of the Alchemical Society in Soho. There was a sort of desperate resignation in his voice. Could she pretend that she didn’t speak English? But it was the only language she could speak.
“Good morning, my son,” she replied. That was the sort of thing nuns said, right?
Almost immediately, she could sense that something had changed. He had not moved—rather, he was standing unnaturally still. It was like the moment when a deer smells the puma that has been stalking it. You can tell it is aware because there is a tension in its stillness. For a few minutes, he did not speak. Then he said, “Do you think there is forgiveness for sin, Sister?”
What in the world could she say? “God forgives all those who have a contrite heart.” Surely she had heard Justine say something like that before.
“But if our sin is so bad that it blackens our soul forever . . . Well. I have found, Sister, that hell is inside the human heart. Even if God forgave me, even if she whom I wronged forgave me, I could not forgive myself.”
She had no idea how to respond. He knew, didn’t he? He knew who she was. Would he go back to Seward and Van Helsing, and tell them? She put her right hand on the pistol in her pocket. She could shoot him. . . . Although she did not like the idea of shooting Edward Prendick. He had left her to die on Moreau’s island, and yet, somehow, she did not know if she could point the pistol at him and pull the trigger. Not point blank.
“No,” he continued. “All I can do now is atone. Forgive me for talking to you like this, Sister—a strange man whom you’ve never met. It is the darkness that has given me courage. Bless you—may God, if He exists, bless you and keep you safe from harm.” The sentence ended in what sounded like a choked sob. He turned and walked down the corridor, back toward the dining car.
Catherine looked at his retreating back. Had he not recognized her after all? No, she was certain he had. But he was—atoning, whatever that meant. At the moment it seemed to mean that he would not raise any sort of alarm.
She walked quickly back to her own cabin. Beatrice was still asleep, wrapped in the blanket so that only part of her face was showing, like a half-moon. Catherine wanted to wake her, simply to have someone to talk to, but no—let the Poisonous Girl sleep. Her hands were shaking, and her head hurt. She put her head in her hands, as though that might help somehow. What time was it? Almost 4:00 a.m. She would close her eyes, just for a few minutes. . . .
When she woke, the sun was shining through the window. Beatrice was shaking her.
“Wake up, Cat,” she said. “The conductor says we will be in Budapest in fifteen minutes. We need to figure out what we’re going to do there. How are we going to find Van Helsing? We don’t even know if he’s on the train. And how long have you been asleep? Are you all right? If you had woken me, I would have stood in the corridor for a while, so you could rest.”
“He is on this train,” said Catherine, sitting up. She was feeling light-headed. That was the effect of Beatrice’s poison, even though the window had been open all night. How long had she been asleep in it? Certainly longer than she had intended! I’m just as bad as Clarence, damn it, she thought. And with less of an excuse. She should have known better. “And I know where he’s going. He’s staying with Professor Arminius Vámbéry. You remember—Van Helsing mentioned him in that letter Diana stole, when we were solving the Whitechapel Murders. He’s another member of the society.”
“Then how do we find Professor Vámbéry?” asked Beatrice. “We have no idea where he lives.”
“Follow Van Helsing, I guess,” said Catherine. “The way we would follow anyone in London. But he doesn’t have Lucinda or any of the others. He doesn’t even know they were the ones who rescued her. I heard him and Seward talking about it last night.”
“Last night?” said Beatrice.
By the time they had drawn into the Nyugati railway station, Catherine had told Beatrice all about the night before. Beatrice looked at her apprehensively. “Do you think Prendick will tell them?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” said Catherine. “That’s just a risk we’ll have to take. I wonder if there’s someplace we could store our luggage for a while. Somewhere at the train station, so we can come back for it later. If we’re going to be following Van Helsing et al., I don’t want to be lugging a trunk around.”
“I shall speak to the conductor,” said Beatrice. “He knows a little English, but he is more comfortable in French. Look, we are drawing into the station now.”
“Why didn’t I think of that? You’re much more awake than I am.” Catherine drew the wallet that contained their money out Beatrice’s suitcase. “Here’s a krone for the tip. Or is that too much? Irene gave me some hellers—I think the little ones are called hellers. Never mind, just give him the krone. If Mary were here, she’d know the exchange rate!”
The conductor assured them that he would take care of their luggage, which would be left in the storage area allocated for passengers on the Orient Express—or so Beatrice translated. But when she offered a tip, he shook his head and said something in French. She made the sign of a cross and then intoned in Latin—at least it sounded like Latin. He thanked her—well, he looked as though he was thanking her, and he called her ma Soeur, which even Catherine knew was “sister” in French.
“What in the world was that about?” asked Catherine as they climbed down the steps onto the platform.
“He asked me to bless him,” said Beatrice. “I am not entirely certain that my Latin was correct—my knowledge of the language is scientific, not conversational. But a blessing is never out of place, I think. Do you see Van Helsing or the others? I do not know what they look like.”
Of course, Catherine did not know what Van Helsing looked like either, but yes—there was Seward, ahead of them in the crowd leaving the train station. Next to him was a heavyset man with white hair and an equally white beard, wearing a frock coat and top hat. That must be Van Helsing. She could not see Prendick. Ah, there he was—strolling up to Seward and gesturing toward the street. Perhaps he had found a cab. They must find one as well.
“Come on!” she said to Beatrice, pulling her by the sleeve. “There they are—and I don’t want them to get away.” When they emerged from the arching front door of the station, she saw Seward and Van Helsing standing on the street corner, talking to each other, while Prendick supervised a porter who was loading their bags into a hackney carriage, like the famous London growlers. There was a cab stand—the cabs looked mostly like hansoms, although there were a few traps among them. Catherine walked up to the first one. The cabbie bowed when he saw her and said something incomprehensible in Hungarian.
“I don’t suppose you speak English?” she asked. He just shook his head.
“Lei parla italiano?” asked Beatrice. “Parlez-vous Français? Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”
“Ja, ein bisschen,” he said. He looked at them curiously—these two obviously foreign nuns.
“Gut. Dieser Wagen . . . I don’t know. Oh goodness, how do you say ‘follow’? Folgen. I think my Latin is better than my German, and that is poor enough.”
But the cabbie seemed to understand, or perhaps he understood Catherine’s frantic pointing and the krone she showed him. A minute later, they were pulling into traffic, the horse clopping on the cobbled streets just as horses did in London. Ahead of them was the carriage Prendick had hired.
They drove down a broad avenue between grand apartment buildings. There were carriages and carts on the road, but not many—it looked like a quiet summer morning. Budapest reminded Catherine of Paris, except that the buildings were more colorful, and somehow the sunlight was brighter. She felt stifled under the black cloth of her habit.
Ahead of them, she could see a bridge—they were approaching the river. She remembered the map Irene Norton had shown them, with the Danube bisecting
the city. Were they going over that bridge? No, Van Helsing’s carriage turned left, down a road that ran alongside the river.
“Where do you think we’re going?” asked Beatrice.
“Well, we’re still in Pest, not crossing over to Buda,” said Catherine. “Sorry, that’s not very helpful, is it?”
“Actually, it is,” said Beatrice. “Miss Murray’s address is in Pest—5 Múzeum utca, by the National Museum. I took the precaution of memorizing it, in case we were separated. I think we are slowing down?”
Yes, because the carriage ahead of them was slowing down as well. It drew up to the curb in front of an apartment building that faced the river. Beatrice rapped on the back glass. “Anhalten hier, bitte!”
The cab drew up to the curb. They were still far enough behind the carriage that Catherine hoped they would not be noticed.
By the time they got out and Beatrice had paid the driver, Van Helsing and Seward had crossed the street and disappeared into the front door of the building. Prendick, who was following at a slower pace, carrying both his valise and someone else’s, crossed just in front of their cab as it drove on down the street. Then, he disappeared into the dark doorway.
Catherine and Beatrice stood by the side of the road. Behind them, steps led down to the Danube. A little farther along, boats and barges were tied to the river wall. Upriver, she could see construction—were they building another bridge? There seemed to be enough bridges already. It looked as though they had just begun. Across the river in Buda rose a forested hill, topped by a palace complex. It looked quite grand. This side of the river was not as grand—wagons rolled down the street, workmen called to one another on the barges, and down the street from them, across from the apartment building, a beggar woman was sitting on the curb, with a hat on the ground in front of her. The sun shone down on them all. It was hot, bright, and dusty.
“What now?” asked Catherine. She had not planned any further than this. Mary was the one who made elaborate plans. Pumas were not planners—she had a tendency to act on impulse. Her impulse to follow Seward and Van Helsing had brought them here, and now she was not quite certain what to do.
“We could go directly to Miss Murray’s address,” said Beatrice. “I believe if we walk down to the next bridge and take a left, we will get to the museum. It is a long walk, but would likely be easier than finding another cab. There do not seem to be any cab stands in this part of the city. However, did you not say that Seward wanted to—how did you put it—inspect his troops? They were keeping men somewhere, men trained and willing to fight for them. Should we wait until they come out again and follow? It would be useful, I think, to determine where they are keeping their army, as it were. But we might have to wait for some time, if they breakfast first. What do you say, Catherine? Shall we go directly to Miss Murray, or wait and see if we can gather any more information?”
“You sound just like Mary,” said Catherine. “She lays it out like that: on the one hand, on the other, etcetera. I’d rather wait and see if they come out again, but we can’t just stand around in the street wearing these!” She held out the cloth of her nun’s habit, which she was beginning to heartily dislike. It was hot and itchy. “Also, I wouldn’t mind some breakfast either.”
“I think that if we take off the coifs—here, I will show you.” Beatrice unpinned her black veil from the coif, then took off her coif and bandeau. She stuffed them into her pockets and tied the veil around her head as though it were a kerchief. Her hands were still gloved, but her fingers were as nimble as though they were bare. “You see?” she said. “Now I look like a poor widow from the country.”
Catherine immediately did the same thing, although less nimbly. That was the one drawback to having been a puma—her former paws were not as flexible as human hands. Oh, that felt so much better! She rolled up the sleeves of her habit. Yes, this was more like it—at least she could get some air on her neck and arms! “So we just stand here, looking like poor widows? I suppose we could beg, although there is a previous claimant to that position”—she pointed toward the beggar woman, who was still sitting, looking down at her hat—“if we had something to beg with! Even a bucket would do.”
“As we were driving past that bridge they are constructing, I believe I saw—wait, I shall be back in a moment.” Before Catherine could protest, Beatrice was hurrying up the street, toward the construction site. Catherine herself had not looked at it closely—it had been on Beatrice’s side of the cab, and all she could see now was a structure of wooden slats where stones were being raised. There were workmen walking around the site, calling to one another. What had Beatrice seen there? She felt like calling, “Don’t poison anyone!” But of course Beatrice would be careful.
What now? She would simply have to wait and watch the building in case Van Helsing or Seward came out. While Beatrice was gone, could she perhaps find out more? If she could get into the building and find Arminius Vámbéry’s apartment, perhaps she could put her ear to the door and overheard what they were planning, just as she had done on the train. Of course Beatrice would think it was too dangerous, but then Beatrice wasn’t here, was she?
Catherine lifted her habit and sprinted across the street—men’s trousers would have been so much more practical! In the shadow of the apartment buildings on the other side, out of sight of the windows above, she walked down to the building Seward and Van Helsing had entered. She put her hand on the front door handle, turned it downward, and—it opened! Well, that was easy. She let herself into a small lobby with stairs leading up to a second door. There was a row of mailboxes on the wall, with Vámbéry’s surname on one of them. Good so far! Now, the second door.
But the second door was locked. Did she have anything . . . No hairpins this time, since her hair had been held back by the coif and bandeau, but she did have the two pins that had held her veil in place. Quickly, she bent one into an S shape—it was not really long enough, but she did her best. And then she inserted it into the lock. As soon as she tried to turn it, the half she had inserted broke off, and there she stood, holding a stub of metal. Damn and double damn! She tried the second pin. It broke off, just like the first. Fuming at herself, she walked out into the sunshine again.
DIANA: Didn’t you wish I was there!
CATHERINE: I don’t think you would have done any better than I did, with what I had.
DIANA: Oh please. I would have gotten into that building so quick. . . .
Beatrice was waiting for her where they had been standing before, holding a large wicker basket. “I bought this from two women—I think a mother and daughter? They were selling gingerbread to the construction workers. They were happy to sell me the entire basket at once! We can stand here selling the pieces that are left—then we will not look so conspicuous. And look.” She drew out a white piece of cloth and handed it to Catherine. “Tie it around your waist. I do not think they understood my German, but sometimes krone are as effective as words!”
It was an apron. As Catherine tied the apron strings behind her, which made it a little easier to move in the voluminous habit, she said, “I was just going to see if I could pick the lock of the building. You know, so I could find Vámbéry’s apartment.”
“I know exactly what you were going to do,” said Beatrice, disapprovingly. “And I would have told you not to. How would it help us, or Mary and the others, if Seward or Van Helsing found out that we were following them? We would put ourselves needlessly in danger. Worse, we would no longer be able to gather information to help Miss Murray. Really, Catherine, I’m surprised at you! Here, hold the basket.”
Catherine stood silent, feeling thoroughly chagrined, while Beatrice took another apron out of the basket and tied it around her waist. She pulled off her gloves and stuffed them into one pocket. Peasant women did not wear gloves like fine ladies! Then she said, “Look, I purchased a sausage from a man who had brought it for his lunch. You mentioned that you were hungry?” Which made Catherine feel worse, but it was a
very good sausage, spiced with paprika, and once she had torn it apart with her teeth, puma-fashion, she felt a little better.
The only thing they were missing was water, but there was none of that around, except in the broad green river behind them. Beatrice did not seem to need anything—for several hours, she stood in the sun, looking as fresh as a poisonous daisy, selling pieces of gingerbread to passers-by in either German or pantomime. She never seemed to wilt. Catherine, increasingly thirsty, finally risked a few handfuls of water from the Danube. Well, at least it looked cleaner than the Thames! But she was a puma, used to drinking from muddy pools and malarial streams—she hoped it would not do her too much harm.
Just when she thought they would have to abandon their post and go find Miss Murray—perhaps Seward had decided not to inspect those troops today after all—Beatrice said, “I see one of the men from the carriage. Is that Seward or Prendick?”
It was Seward. With him was a man Catherine did not recognize, with a dark beard and mustache, in a light summer suit—he must be Arminius Vámbéry. The two men emerged from the doorway of the building, then turned downriver.
“Come on,” she said to Beatrice, tugging at her apron. “Let’s see how far we can follow them without being seen.” As they passed the beggar woman, Beatrice put the basket down beside her, leaving the remaining gingerbread. She just grunted—Catherine supposed it was a sort of thanks.
They hurried after the two men, trying to stay far enough behind that they would not be spotted. But Seward and Vámbéry were deep in conversation and never looked back. They turned off the road that ran along the Danube and walked quickly through a labyrinth of narrow, twisting streets, where buildings blocked out the sun and laundry hung from balconies. Even with her excellent sense of direction, Catherine worried that she was starting to get lost. But no—she could still smell the river. As long as she could smell the river, they would be fine.
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman Page 48