At Charing Cross, as they were about to board the train to Dover, Mr. Holmes had shaken their hands and held Mary’s, she thought, a little longer than necessary.
“I would worry about you, Miss Jekyll,” he said, “but I know an Englishwoman with your good sense and observant eyes will always make her way in the world. I look forward to your return, and to hearing about your adventures. Remember that you promised to send regular telegrams!”
“Of course, Mr. Holmes,” she said, pleased at the unaccustomed praise, although she bridled a bit at the reminder. Yes, of course she would send telegrams. She had said so, hadn’t she?
And then they had taken the train to Dover, where they had boarded this ferry. She checked her wristwatch. In about twenty minutes, they would arrive in Calais. Then they would have to catch the train to Paris, which should get them there in plenty of time to board the Orient Express. Should she check the schedule she had written out for herself? It was tucked into her waist bag. But really she could recite it all from memory: train to Dover departing 9:00 a.m., ferry to Calais departing 11:50 a.m., train to Paris departing 1:15 p.m. from Gare Maritime, through Boulogne and Amiens, arriving 4:45 p.m. at Gare du Nord. Then they would need to get to Gare de l’Est to catch the Orient Express, departing 7:30 p.m., arriving 11:15 p.m. two days later at a train station called Westbahnhof, whatever that meant. Below was written Irene Norton’s address, which Mr. Holmes had given her, as well as Miss Murray’s address in Budapest, which had been on the telegram. In her waist bag she also had the twenty pounds she had withdrawn from the bank, which left Mrs. Poole with only two pounds in the bank account Mary had set up three months ago for the Athena Club. All of them except Diana could access it—she did not trust Diana with their money. Had she taken too much? But Catherine had said Mary should take as much as she could, that she and Beatrice would manage. Mary double-checked everything, then felt silly. The schedule had not changed, the money had not changed—she was just being nervous.
What she should be doing instead was checking on Justine—or her brother Justin, as she must now call him. Justine . . . or rather, Justin had said he just wanted to be left alone in his misery, but it would be a good sisterly thing to make sure he was all right. The last time she had seen him, his face had been positively green. She must make a mental note, so she did not forget in public—he was her brother Justin now.
She turned and started across the deck, toward the stairs that would take her below. The deck was almost empty—the sky was gray with clouds that send down intermittent gusts of rain, and most of the passengers had chosen to sit indoors. But there across the deck . . . surely she recognized that boy, turned away from her and looking over the railing? No, it was impossible. But she knew that back, remembered that posture, hands in pockets. She recognized the curling red hair under the newsboy’s cap, and surely she had seen that cap recently on Charlie? The boy swayed easily with the deck, as though born for sea voyages. He had no need to hold on to the railing.
She walked over to the other side of the deck, although her balance was not as good as his, and stood at the railing beside him.
“I can not believe you would do this,” she said.
“Why?” said Diana. Now that she was standing next to him . . . her, Mary could see Diana’s freckled face under the cap.
She was so angry—so very angry, as angry as Mary ever gets—that she did not know what to say.
“Seriously, why?” asked Diana. “I mean, this is exactly the sort of thing I would do. You should know that.”
Which was, Mary had to admit despite her anger, entirely true.
DIANA: That was prime! Mary looked like a goldfish with its mouth open in a great big O.
MARY: Someone should have drowned you at birth.
“How?” was all Mary said.
“Wouldn’t you like to know!” said Diana, looking particularly smug. Mary would have liked to slap that expression off her face. “Let’s just say you should always check to see if anyone is hanging on to the back of your carriage! The Baker Street boys do it all the time when they’re tailing someone. I bet old Holmes would just kick himself if he knew. Outwitted by a girl! I don’t think much of Mr. Famous Detective!”
“Well, you’ll have to go back,” said Mary. “We’re not taking you with us. As soon as we get to Calais, you’re taking the ferry right back home again.”
“Shan’t,” said Diana. “And you can’t make me. If you try, I’ll go . . . well, I don’t know where. Maybe I’ll keep following you. Or maybe I’ll stow away on a boat to America! I can go anywhere I want to.”
Mary sighed. No, she could not in fact make Diana go back to London by herself. Justine would have to go with her, but without Justine’s help, what chance did she have of finding and helping Lucinda Van Helsing? And if she went back with Diana, Justine would have the same problem, in addition to which she would have to make contact with Miss Murray, whom she had never met, in Budapest, a city she had never visited. What in the world was Mary to do?
“Anyway,” said Diana, “you know how useful I can be. I wouldn’t have made a mess of Purfleet, like Catherine.”
DIANA: Seriously. I would have opened that desk drawer, quick as winking. I bet Seward kept all his S.A. letters in there. They would have told us about Lucinda, right enough!
CATHERINE: Can we drop the Purfleet incident already?
DIANA: What? You mentioned it first. You’re the one writing the book, remember?
“If they’ve got that Lucinda girl locked up somewhere,” Diana continued, “I can get her out. I can pick any lock that’s ever been made.”
Which was, Mary had to admit, probably true. “I don’t know,” she said, although she already knew that, for good or ill, Diana would be accompanying them to Vienna, at least. They were stuck with her. What in the world were they going to do with her on the Orient Express? Mr. Holmes had only purchased two tickets. . . . “I need to consult with Justine. Come on, she’s below.”
Justine looked better, or as much better as Justine ever looked. She was always unnaturally pale, as one tends to be when one is a reanimated corpse.
JUSTINE: Is it absolutely necessary to mention that, Catherine?
“Look what I found,” said Mary, holding Diana by the arm. “Evidently, she was hanging on to the back of the carriage the whole way! And then she must have snuck onto the train somehow. And then the ferry. That’s a lot of sneaking.” She frowned at Diana.
“Hey, let go of me!” said Diana, pulling away. “I came down here willingly, didn’t I? I want to help.”
“So you propose coming to Vienna with us?” said Justine. She answered in the slightly deeper voice of Justin Frank, who looked both tired and skeptical.
“That’s the idea.” Diana glared back, defiant.
This was no place to argue, Mary realized, looking around the large passenger cabin. It was, of course, full of passengers: families with children, the fathers reading newspapers, mothers distributing sandwiches, brothers and sisters playing cards or cat’s cradle until it was time to eat. Salesmen carrying display cases. Lady travelers in groups of two or three, consulting their Baedekers. Students returning to continental universities after the holidays. It was crowded and noisy, and no one was paying attention to them. Nevertheless, this was neither the time nor place for a serious discussion.
“You can come with us as far as Calais, and then we’ll see,” said Mary.
“It’s not like you have a choice,” said Diana. “You can’t exactly make me get off the boat in the middle of the channel, can you?”
“Don’t tempt me!” was Mary’s response.
Diana did not answer. Instead, she sat next to Justine, looking as cross as possible. But for the rest of the voyage, she was quiet and obedient, which worried Mary more than if she had been up to her usual mischief. What in the world was going on in that head of hers?
DIANA: I’d gotten my way, hadn’t I? If I got my way all the time, I’d never have to be
bad. I would be just like Mary.
MRS. POOLE: I don’t believe that for a minute!
When they disembarked at Calais, the first order of business was finding a telegraph office so Mary could let Mrs. Poole know Diana was with them. Here Justine proved invaluable. She arranged for their trunk to be taken to the Gare Maritime and loaded onto the Paris train—luckily they had registered it in Dover, so it would not need to be inspected again by customs. Then she helped Mary exchange one pound for twenty-five francs, which made Mary feel quite rich, at least in French money. Then, although telegraphy had not yet been invented when she had last spoken French as Justine Moritz, she found the way to the telegraph office. Evidently, telegraph in French was télégraphe.
When Mr. Justin Frank and Miss Mary Frank went up to the telegraph window and told the clerk what they wanted, they were surprised to learn that there was a telegraph waiting for Mademoiselle Frank. “Mais oui,” said the clerk, who resembled a turtle. “Vous pouvez le voir ici—votre nom est en haut. Mademoiselle Mary Frank.”
Mademoiselle Frank was no less astonished when she read the telegram.
HELLO TO DIANA WILL INFORM MRS POOLE SHE IS WITH YOU GOOD LUCK GODSPEED HOLMES
She sent a telegram to Mrs. Poole anyway. She had intended to, and she would, no matter what Mr. Holmes chose to do. For goodness’ sake, would he continue popping up, like some sort of marionette, at every stage of their journey?
“So he knew,” she said to Justine as they walked out of the telegraph office, to where Diana was lounging about and waiting on the street corner. They seemed to have left the gloom and fog behind them—now the sun blazed overhead and on the small shops and hotels of the French town. “He knew Diana had followed us and didn’t say anything. Of all the . . .” She was going to say “cheek,” but it sounded so rude and ungrateful. Well, she was not feeling very grateful at the moment.
“I’m sure Mr. Holmes had his reasons,” said Justin Frank, replacing his hat, which he had taken off indoors. “He usually does, as you know. But we must get to the gare, or we will miss our train.”
Justine was right, of course. Anyway, Mary was supposed to be the practical one, the one who remembered timetables and how much money they had, so she would be practical, no matter how she felt. What can’t be altered must be endured, as Cook used to say, when Mary could still afford a cook. She hoped that Cook was doing well at her sister’s in Yorkshire. The change in Mary’s fortunes had brought Diana into her life, and Diana was one of the things that couldn’t be altered. She was a fact of nature, like thunderstorms.
DIANA: Exactly!
CATHERINE: Or slugs. They’re forces of nature too.
DIANA: Slugs don’t do anything. They just sit there.
BEATRICE: They will destroy a garden, eventually. Slowly, slowly, they eat the leaves of the plants, and then the plants cannot drink in sunlight. They are as destructive, in their own way, as thunderstorms.
CATHERINE: Right. Like Diana, who destroys pretty much everything, eventually.
MARY: How in the world did we get onto the topic of slugs?
Mary wished she had more time to spend in Calais. It was a charming seaside town, still quaint and old-fashioned despite the influx of visitors that had turned it into one of the most important ports in France. She could see pastry shops and cafés, some old churches, and what looked like a bustling market. Farmers drove their wagons over the cobbled streets. There were fishing boats tied up at the piers, and in the distance she could see sandy beaches covered with bathing huts. But there was no time, not now.
At the ticket office, Mary bought a ticket for Diana, despite her protestations that if she could sneak onto the train from London to Dover, and the ferry to Calais, she could sneak onto the train to Paris. They’d had enough sneaking for one day, thank you. Her ticket, and Justine’s, had been bought as part of the London to Paris express package. Luckily one extra ticket from Calais to Paris was not very expensive, but the Orient Express would be another matter. Holmes had arranged for those tickets, which would be waiting for them at the Gare de l’Est in Paris. But what was she going to do about Diana?
Soon they were on yet another train, chugging out of the Gare Maritime toward Boulogne, on route to Amiens and Paris. All the way to Amiens, she, Justine, and Diana were the only occupants of the carriage, so she could lower the window and smell the sea. The day was sunny, the countryside fresh and green—someday, Mary thought, she would come back here on holiday and visit properly. When she didn’t have anyone to rescue!
Diana continued on her best behavior, a feat made easier by the fact that soon after they pulled out of Calais, she fell asleep. Mary had brought sandwiches for her and Justine to eat before they reached Paris—two cheese and chutney for Justine, two ham mayonnaise for her. Diana had announced that she was ravenous and eaten one of each before yawning without covering her mouth, lying down full-length on the seat across from theirs, and falling into a deep slumber. Without a word, Mary handed the remaining cheese and chutney sandwich to Justine and started on the ham mayonnaise herself. At least Diana had left them the two apples! With that, they would have to be satisfied until Paris. Mary watched the countryside roll by and Justine studied her German phrasebook. Diana snored.
“How’s that going?” Mary asked at one point.
“Alas that my German is so inadequate!” said Justine.
Of course, she would say the same if she were fluent in the language, thought Mary. Justine was constitutionally incapable of self-confidence. Well, whatever German she spoke by the time they got to Vienna would have to do!
JUSTINE: That is not quite fair, you know. I do have confidence in myself as a painter, although I am not perhaps in the first rank. And I speak rather good French. But my Latin is not as good as it should be, and even my English is inadequate at times. . . .
CATHERINE: I think you just made Mary’s point.
Eventually, Mary dropped off a little herself. It had been such a long day already! At Amiens they were joined by an old Frenchwoman with a soft halo of white hair under a black straw bonnet, dressed in a widow’s black crepe, who nodded at them amiably and introduced herself as Madame Corbeau. Mary moved to Diana’s seat and told her to sit up properly, but Diana just put her head on Mary’s lap and continued sleeping. The old woman and Mr. Justin Frank exchanged a few pleasantries in French. She lived in Amiens and was going to Paris, where her daughter lived in the dix-huitième arrondissement. Would they like to see a photograph of her granddaughter? So pretty, and such a good girl. Ah, they came from England, where it was always raining. Madame Corbeau hoped they would enjoy France. Then she commenced to knit, with a rapid clicking of needles. Halfway between Amiens and Paris, she pulled a tin out of the basket that was her only luggage, and out of that she pulled a package of waxed paper. “Voudriez-vous?” she asked, holding it out to Mary. It contained rolled biscuits that looked like little snails. Gratefully, Mary took one, then at the woman’s urging, another. They were filled with apricot jam, and better than any English biscuits she had tasted. Justine took two as well. Incredibly, despite the proximity of food, Diana did not wake up.
DIANA: Hey, you never told me about the biscuits! You should have woken me up.
CATHERINE: They couldn’t have. It’s one of the rules of the Athena Club: Always let sleeping Dianas lie.
DIANA: Where is that written? Seriously, show me.
Madame Corbeau ate a few biscuits herself, then recommenced her knitting, click-click to the sound of the train, clack-clack as the wheels went around. By the time they arrived in Paris, she had finished an entire sock.
Mary had been watching the city approach through the train window. First the fields and distant farmhouses had been replaced by detached villas sitting in their own gardens, filled with flowers and rows of vegetables. Then had come the first buildings of the famous capital.
Ah, Paris! It is the most beautiful city in the world. London is more grand, Vienna more intellectual, Budapest more
charming. But Paris is certainly the most beautiful.
MARY: I prefer London, thank you.
BEATRICE: But you have not yet seen Florence! If you had, you would acknowledge her as the most beautiful of all cities. I still remember the sunset turning her walls to gold. . . .
JUSTINE: Geneva is also very beautiful. I have only vague memories, but I remember the blue sky above, and the mountains in the distance.
DIANA: Mary’s right, give me London any day. It may smell of sewage, but it’s our sewage.
CATHERINE: Well, I can’t possibly think of a higher recommendation than that!
DIANA: That’s sarcasm, right?
By the time they were approaching the Gare du Nord, Mary had sunk into the state of lethargy common after extended train travel. The movement of a train is quite different from that of a carriage, as our readers have no doubt noticed if they have experienced both. In a carriage, one is constantly jostled. The motion of the horses, combined with the condition of the roads, makes movement abrupt, unexpected—one never knows when a wheel will fall into a rut or hit a stone. But a train rides on its rails smoothly, evenly. One can even fall asleep to the click-clack of its wheels, as Diana was so effectively demonstrating.
It surprised Mary when Justine nudged her and said, “We’re almost there.”
She looked out the window. Now she could see the city itself, or at least its apartment buildings, with shops on the ground floors. It looked rather like London, only more French, although she could not specify in what its particular Frenchness lay. Mary shook Diana. “Sit up. We’re almost there.”
“Then tell me when we’re there,” said Diana without opening her eyes.
“No, sit up now. You’ve put my leg to sleep and it’s going to be all pins and needles. Come on, sit or I’ll stand up and dump you on the floor.”
Diana sat up and rubbed her eyes, sleepily.
Slowly, feeling returned to Mary’s leg. Why did something that caused no actual harm have to be so painful? It felt as though she were being pricked by very large pins and exceptionally sharp needles.
European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman (The Extraordinary Adventures of the Athena Club Book 2) Page 9