Gloria smiled. “No. A woman in a man’s body who dresses as a woman.”
Maria raised an eyebrow. “Is that allowed, then? To be one thing and just decide to be another?”
“Ah, Maria, anything is allowed.” Gloria laughed. “But I did not just choose to be what I am, on a whim. I chose to not be what I wasn’t. Does that make sense?”
Maria shook her head. Gloria cupped her mug in her hands and gazed into the depths. “Almost as soon as I could think for myself, I knew I had been the victim of some divine joke, or perhaps hellish prank. With every fiber of my being I knew that I was a girl, with every single instinct. I would dream I was a girl, and be ever so disappointed when I awoke and found my soul was still imprisoned in the body of a boy.” Gloria took a sip of the coffee. “School was hell. I was constantly in love with all the handsome boys. My father thought I was … distressingly unmanly, let us say.… When I was fifteen he found in my room women’s clothing I had stolen from my mother, my sister, even from washing lines in the streets. He beat me until I was barely conscious and threw me bodily from the family home.”
Maria looked curiously at Gloria. “And could that not have been it? What your father said? I know that it is, strictly speaking, against the law, two men loving each other, but … well. I knew Captain … I knew a man who loved another with as much vigor as any courting couple. There is no shame in it, whatever the courts say.”
“That there isn’t, Maria. But this wasn’t really about sex, about loving other men. It was about loving me; about me loving me. Being happy with what I am.” Gloria cocked her head, the curls falling over one shoulder. “Do you cook, Maria?”
“A little.”
“You know the difference between scrambled eggs and an omelet? It is simply a matter of stirring. Leave your beaten eggs in the pan, and you have an omelet. Stir them, and you have scrambled eggs. It’s the same with living things. Ten years ago, a German by the name of Boveri found this out with sea urchins. Chromosomes, they call it. Boys and girls are so close together, before they’re born, Maria. There’s nothing different about them for most of the time they’re in the womb. Then, a stir here, you get a baby boy. No stirring, a baby girl.” A sad, faraway look entered Gloria’s eye. “My eggs got scrambled by mistake, Maria. I should have been an omelet.”
“You are very well informed on such matters,” said Maria.
Gloria laughed. “Such journals as I subscribe to do not make for very exciting reading, I admit, Maria. But when you are convinced God—or the devil—has played a trick on you … I searched out as much scientific evidence as I could find, to prove to myself, at least, that I was right.”
Maria reached out and put a hand on Gloria’s. “But your body, it is still…?”
Gloria grinned. “Meat and two veg all present and correct below.” She dipped into the front of her frock and pulled out a half-sphere of stuffed cotton. “And these things won’t sag, no matter how old I get. But … there’s a doctor in Zurich I heard of. He can perform an operation … actually make a man into a woman. But it doesn’t come cheap. That’s why I do two shows a day here, to raise the money. That’s why I parade myself in front of idiots and sing music hall songs, and try not to mind when they jeer and throw cabbages.”
“Then you’ll be happier? After this … operation?”
Gloria considered. “I think so, yes. I’ll look like what I feel.” She dropped her voice. “And … I have a sweetheart. A more unlikely match you couldn’t imagine. I can’t tell you his name, but he’s a copper. Loves me to high heaven. It would ruin him, if the top brass found out about us, but he doesn’t care. I sneak into the police station to see him sometimes.”
“Then you want to have the operation for him?”
“I cannot deny that I long for the day when we can have a proper tumble, for when I have my own pussy he can touch and kiss. But I am not doing it for him. I am doing it for me. He loves me just for what I am.”
Maria smiled sadly and sighed. “Loves you for what you are.”
“Because he knows as well as I do,” said Gloria, pointing at the table, “what makes us what we are isn’t down there, what we’ve got between our legs.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on Maria’s breast. “It’s here, in our hearts.” She tapped Maria’s forehead. “And here, in our heads.”
“You would be very surprised what I have in my heart and my head, Gloria.” Maria felt wetness on her cheek and blinked away the tears. “I am sorry. This happens sometimes.”
“Oh my darling,” said Gloria, handing her a handkerchief. “Whatever is the matter?”
Maria looked down at herself. “I wish I were half of the woman you are. A hundredth of the woman.”
Gloria laughed. “I would kill for tits like yours, love. And skin so smooth.”
“I’m not real.”
“You have a pretty mean right hook for a phantom.”
Maria looked around. They were sheltered in the booth, and no one was looking their way. Swiftly she unlaced her bodice and opened her dress, baring her breasts. Gloria whistled softly. “Not real? You’re beautiful, girl.”
Wordlessly, Maria pressed her breastbone just so and a hairline crack appeared down the length of her chest and stomach. Gloria swore as the two halves of Maria’s torso split and opened, revealing the array of pumps, pistons, gears, and pipes that powered her mechanical body.
“No, not real at all,” said Maria, closing up her torso and rapidly lacing her corset. “I am an automaton. I have a human brain, true, but…”
Gloria continued to stare, then reached over and clasped Maria’s hands in hers. “You’re a miracle,” she whispered.
“I’d rather be a woman.”
“And do you feel like a woman? Do you know you’re a woman, despite all this?”
“I sometimes forget I’m not,” said Maria, her eyes overflowing with tears. “Then days like today happen, and I am somewhat brutally reminded.”
Gloria smiled and squeezed her hands. “Look at us. A fine pair of…”
“What was it that boy said? Freaks?” said Maria.
“I was going to say ‘women.’” Gloria raised her mug. “Here’s to us.”
Maria bit her lip and said, “I have a sweetheart, too.”
“And he knows about all this? And he loves you for what you are?”
Maria nodded uncertainly. “He knows. And, yes, I think he does. I thought what I was stood between us, but I didn’t realize until now that if that were the case, it was down to me, not him.”
“Then you should go to him, girl. Now!”
“I was here to find him. Gloria … do you think you could get me inside the theater? I rather urgently need a word with Markus Mesmer.”
* * *
The Britannia had just opened for business and to sell tickets, and crowds were already forming at the doors. Gloria took Maria’s hand and pushed through, taking her past the rope barriers and nodding to the ushers. “She’s with me.”
Gloria led Maria up two flights of stairs to a dim corridor. “Artistes’ dressing rooms. Mesmer is at the end. What do you want with him, anyway?”
“I think he can help me find Gideon.”
“Your beau?”
“After a fashion.”
Gloria scribbled an address in Soho on a scrap of paper and pushed it into Maria’s hands. “Any time you wish to talk, or need any help, come and find me.” She smiled, and the two embraced. “Us girls have to stick together.”
Gloria let herself into her dressing room, and Maria padded softly along the corridor until she came to the door at the end. She paused, not knowing what she was meant to do. If Markus Mesmer was innocent, then she could not burst in and begin flinging around accusations. On the other hand, if he had indeed caused harm to Gideon … she would be walking into the lion’s den.
Still, she had not come all this way for nothing. She rapped on the wooden door, and within seconds it was opened a crack, a suspicious pair of
eyes set into a weather-lined face glaring at her. “Sí?”
She began to speak, then the eyes opened wide. “La puta!”
The man, a hulking beast with a striped, coarsely knitted sweater and a mop of shaggy black hair, flung open the door. Inside Maria could see three other men, attired in what she was sure was maritime dress—loose linen trousers, thick sweaters—and a fourth, slimmer and more groomed than the others, his hair greased and parted, his face angular and cruelly handsome. He wore an immaculately cut gray suit, his shirt collar high and perfectly white. Markus Mesmer, she presumed.
Mesmer glanced up then looked again with interest, placing the device of lenses and lamps he had been scrutinizing onto a desk. “Ah,” he said. “The Elmwood girl. What are you doing here?”
Maria said nothing. She should have anticipated this, after the Elmwoods’ reaction to her. Mesmer said to the man who had opened the door, “Don’t just stand there, bring her in.”
Maria stepped inside and the door was closed and soundly locked behind her. What had Bent told her? Mesmer had hypnotized Charlotte Elmwood into believing she was a common streetwalker. But how should she behave, if she was to maintain the illusion that she was Charlotte? She dredged the recesses of her brain—of Annie Crook’s brain—for memories of Cleveland Street and the folk who lived there. Less demure, she told herself. She put one hand on her hip. More confident. She looked Mesmer dead in his cold, blue eyes. Not so obsequious. She lifted her chin.
It felt good. All in all, perhaps the common women had it better than those who professed to be ladies. Perhaps Maria had been trying too hard to fit into polite London society. Perhaps there was a lot to be said for being herself.
Mesmer approached and returned her stare. “The hypnotism still holds, then? Have your parents sent you with the five thousand guineas I’d asked for? I confess, I’d quite forgotten all about you.”
Maria sniffed. “I’ve left ’em, ain’t I. Making my own way in the world now.”
Mesmer made a half-amused, half-impressed face. “They were terrible prigs, anyway. You will be better off without them.” He cocked his head and took a pinch of Maria’s hair between his thumb and forefinger. “You are a very pretty thing. Too pretty for the streets of this sewer. Perhaps I should take you with me. How would you like to see the Austrian lakes, Charlotte? And then … French Louisiana!”
Maria pulled her head away, and he dropped her hair. She walked over to the desk and picked up the framework of lenses and wires. “Is this what you do your magic with?”
Mesmer laughed, moving behind her so closely that she could feel his breath on her neck. “No magic, dear Charlotte. Science! Technology! The natural power of man’s mind!” He took the device gingerly from her. “That is my Hypno-Array. It aids me in my work. But the true power is within me.”
“Those people who locked me up, my parents, they said you could turn me back,” she said. “To how I was before. Would you use that to do it?”
He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you want to be ‘turned back’?”
She considered then made a face. “Nah. I like myself just as I am.”
He laughed and moved away from her. Her eyes fell on a leather wallet on the desk, one she had seen before. Gideon’s wallet. Then he had been here. She turned to face Mesmer, leaning back on the desk. He watched her with a cool detachment, but she could discern a certain … hunger in his eyes. She gave him a coquettish look. “Come here.”
He smirked. “It is Markus Mesmer who issues the orders.” But he moved forward anyway, until he was standing right in front of her. “What do you want?”
Maria smiled and her hand darted out, grasping Mesmer by the throat. His eyes bulged, and his pale face reddened. The four sailors reached as one for guns hidden on their person, bringing up pistols to bear on Maria, but she said calmly, “I want to know what you’ve done with Gideon Smith. And if you don’t tell your men to lay down their guns, I’ll break your neck.”
17
MARIA REVEALED
Rachel and the rest of Lizzie Strutter’s girls departed for the theater not long after the residents of the bawdy house on Walden Street had gathered around the long table in the gloomy, candlelit kitchen for a communal meal of stale bread, cheese with a tough, shiny rind, and some thin, heavily salted slices of mottled ham. Although Lizzie had gladly handed over the coins for the show the girls wanted to attend in Hoxton, it didn’t do them any harm to be reminded that their enforced holiday from earning their keep on their backs also meant that there wasn’t any money coming in. Lizzie wasn’t stupid, of course, and had salted away a few guineas here and there for when times were tougher than usual. And, she knew full well, the strike was all her doing, and while the girls might be enjoying some time off, if it dragged on for too long Lizzie would find the tide turning against her.
Still, it was early days, and she was confident it wouldn’t come to that. Things were going her way for now, and she’d heard not too long before that Salty Sylvia had indeed finally capitulated. Henry had done his job, which meant that he’d shortly be turning up to collect his payment.
The girl, Lottie, was staring wistfully at her diffuse reflection in the dark, grimy window over the cracked sink. “Couldn’t I have gone with them, Mrs. Strutter?”
“It’s Mum, love. My girls call me Mum.” Lizzie cocked her head, looking at Lottie for a long moment. She was a mystery, this girl, no mistake. Talked the talk and walked the walk of a common whore, but she was clean as a whistle and had all her own teeth. And, strangest of all, her maidenhead was intact. Either the girl was some medical miracle whose hymen grew back every night, or for reasons best known to herself she was some posh girl playing a part. Whatever the truth, she was Lizzie Strutter’s now, body and soul, fallen like manna from heaven.
“Couldn’t I have gone with them, then, Mum?”
“Bring me a glass and come and sit down,” said Lizzie. A fat cockroach was tentatively scurrying over the remains of the cheese; Lizzie flicked her handkerchief at it, and it sped into a cave of hollowed-out loaf. Lottie perched on the edge of a rickety chair and handed the cracked, oily shot glass to Lizzie, who filled it with gin and refilled her own glass.
“Do you drink, Lottie?” asked Lizzie, pushing the glass across the table.
The girl regarded the drink with a frown. “Gin, is it, Mum? I’m not rightly sure.…”
“Get it down your neck, girl, and then have a couple more. You’re going to need ’em.”
Lottie looked at her quizzically, and Lizzie felt suddenly almost sorry for her. “Look, Lottie, remember Henry?”
Her face darkened. “The man in the square? Who you saved me from?”
“That’s the one. Thing is, Henry and me go way back. We’re friends. We have an understanding. He looks out for me, and my girls, and in return … well, in return I let him avail himself of certain services.”
Lottie looked blankly at her, and Lizzie sighed. “I want you to finish this gin and go up to the room. Henry will be up directly. Thing is, girl, he’s done me something of a good turn, and that sort of thing don’t come for free in Whitechapel. I’ve said Henry can have you.”
Lottie said nothing but paled considerably. “Will—will he hurt me, Mum?”
Lizzie put her gnarled hand over the girl’s soft one. “He might, love. I want to keep what you’ve got in your bloomers special, so I’ve said he can go up the Windward Passage.”
Lottie’s mouth wobbled, and tears filled her eyes. “You understand, girl? He’s going to come knocking at the back door. He’s a big man, but he never lasts long.” Lizzie looked curiously at Lottie. “Have you any idea what I’m talking about?”
Lottie shook her head. Lizzie patted her hand. “Just as well, love. Now you go up to the room, make yourself comfortable. Henry will be here soon. Oh, and Lottie?”
The girl paused at the door, her cheeks shining in the flickering candlelight. “Yes, Mum?”
“Henry likes his girls to sc
ream a bit. Thinks if he hears that, it makes him more of a man. Just think on it, eh?”
* * *
“I mean it,” said Maria, tightening her grip on Mesmer’s throat until his pale face reddened to the follicles of his blond hair and his eyes bulged. “Drop your guns, or I will throttle him.”
Mesmer waved his hand frantically and gasped, “Do it, you idiots.”
Begrudgingly, the four henchmen slowly bent and laid their weapons on the rug, never taking their eyes from Maria.
“Good,” she said, relaxing her grip enough for Mesmer to take a ragged breath. “Now, where is Gideon Smith?”
Part of Maria couldn’t believe she had done this, marched into the lion’s den and taken the villain by the throat. That part of her, that voice, was appalled, but a louder and ever-growing voice was drowning it out. She had rarely felt so exhilarated, save for when she took Apep into the wild blue, rarely felt so in control. It was as though Gloria Monday had thrown invisible switches and jabbed at unseen buttons, as though she had loosened bonds that Maria hadn’t even known were suffocating her.
It was as though she had finally been given permission to be herself, whatever wondrous, fabulous collision of impossibilities that might be. Maria was Maria. She was a woman, though perhaps not the sort of woman the society she had blundered into considered acceptable. But she was a woman nevertheless. A woman who flew a dragon. No more would she climb into the backseat to be driven by over-opinionated men who thought they knew best.
“He came here, looking for you,” said Mesmer. “I sent him away.”
Maria squeezed again. Mesmer’s bulging eyes met hers. “I hypnotized him. Made him forget who he was. He went out into the night, and I never saw him again. But … Charlotte … I do not understand … from where do you get this strength…?”
Maria brought Mesmer closer to her. His breath smelled of mint. Without taking her eyes from his, she whispered, “I am not Charlotte Elmwood.”
“Yes … yes, of course.… I can remove the hypnotism, I can fix it.…”
Maria smiled. “No. I mean I am not Charlotte Elmwood and have never been Charlotte Elmwood.” For what seemed the first time, she was assured of her own identity. “I am Maria.”
Gideon Smith and the Mask of the Ripper Page 19