The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter

by Theodora Goss

  “How did you recognize me?” asked Beatrice.

  “By your smell,” said Catherine. “You don’t smell entirely human.” She looked curiously at Mary and Diana, as though trying to determine who they might be.

  “And so you spoke to me,” said Beatrice. “I understand. Are you—Dr. Moreau’s daughter? If so, I offer my condolences on your father’s death.”

  “His daughter! I suppose you could call me that. He did, and gave me his surname himself. But I am, more accurately, one of his—creations. Perhaps we should talk of this after you’ve introduced your friends?” Without her cat suit, Catherine looked like an ordinary woman, but her yellow eyes still had something wild in their depths.

  MARY: Oh please! You’re turning yourself into one of your own heroines. Something wild in their depths, indeed!

  Mary quailed a bit at the sight of her.

  MARY: I certainly did not!

  “These are Mary Jekyll and Diana Hyde,” said Beatrice. “They rescued me from the man who was holding me captive, and we can rescue you as well.”

  “I’m not being held captive,” said Catherine. “This is the way I earn my living. It may not be the most dignified way, but it’s better than selling myself under some bridge.” She looked more closely at Mary. “Jekyll—I remember that name. Wasn’t he also a member—”

  “Of the Société des Alchimistes? Yes,” said Mary. “We’re trying to find out as much about the society as we can. If there’s any information you could give us . . .”

  Catherine threw back her head and laughed. Mary had expected it to sound animalistic, but her laughter was entirely human. “Information! Oh yes, we could give you information about our fathers’ precious society!”

  “Who’s we?” asked Diana.

  Catherine looked at each of them, as though assessing them individually. Then she said, “It’s all right,” not to them but to the curtain dividing the tent. “It’s all right to come out.”

  Mary braced herself. Was this some sort of deception? Were they about to be attacked?

  A pale hand reached around and drew back the curtain. Mary saw the tallest woman she had ever seen, taller than most men, but thin and stooping. She had a long, gentle face and sad eyes. “Hello,” said the woman, hesitantly. She had an accent Mary could not place.

  “That’s impossible,” said Beatrice. She stared at the tall woman as though looking at a ghost.

  “What’s impossible?” said Diana. “Is this the Giantess?”

  “This is the Giantess,” said Catherine. “Also known as Justine Frankenstein.”

  “But you were disassembled,” said Beatrice. “The parts of your body were thrown into the sea. That is what my father told me, and it’s described in Mrs. Shelley’s book. Frankenstein refused to create a female counterpart of his monster for fear that she would have children. Forgive me, I’m being terribly rude,” she added, for she could see tears welling in Justine’s eyes.

  “Frankenstein was a liar,” said Catherine. “He and that brother of his . . .” She paused, and sniffed. “Miss Jekyll, are you sure you weren’t followed?”

  “No, I’m not sure,” said Mary. “We changed omnibuses several times, but this morning, there was a man outside my house. . . . I don’t know why, but he gave me the shivers. I thought it was my imagination. Why, do you see something?”

  “No, I smell something,” said Catherine. “Something like a man, but not like a man. I think we’re in danger. Is there someplace safe we could go?”

  “My house is as safe as anywhere, I suppose,” said Mary. “If we were followed, he’ll know where it is, but there is a strong door with a lock, and if need be, I can ask Mr. Holmes for protection.”

  “Then we’ll go there. Justine and I always knew we’d have to leave, someday. This is that day. But we can’t leave looking like this, all together. We would be spotted at once. I have an idea. You, monkey-girl,” she said to Diana. “You can move silently, can’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Diana scornfully.

  “Then come with me.” Catherine parted the curtain dividing the tent and stepped through to the other side. After a moment, Diana followed.

  “Wait, where are you going?” Mary called after them. Could she trust Catherine Moreau? She was starting to learn that Diana could take care of herself. Nevertheless, that was her sister disappearing under the tent flap—she could not help feeling concerned. Catherine should at least have told her where they were going. “You must trust Catherine,” said Justine, as though sensing Mary’s thoughts. “This tent, on that side it is close to the others. I do not know where she is going, but you will see—she is to be trusted. She saved my life.”

  “Your life—,” said Beatrice. “How is it that you are alive? If what you say is true, you were made almost a century ago. . . .”

  “Yes,” said Justine, simply. “I had lost track, but you are correct. If it is correct to say that I am alive at all. For seventeen years, I was alive, as you are—a servant in the Frankenstein household. But then I was accused of a terrible crime. Although I was completely innocent, I was hanged . . . And my father, Victor Frankenstein, took my body. He made me as I am, larger and stronger than most women. He brought me back to life, or to a semblance of it. Am I alive? I have not aged like an ordinary woman. I do not know when I will die. So perhaps I am not alive after all. . . .”

  Listening to Justine, Mary felt as though she had stepped into a story she did not understand. Everyone—well, at least Catherine and Beatrice—seemed to know so much more about what was happening than she did. And everything was happening so quickly. If only the world could be ordered and comprehensible again, just for a moment.

  JUSTINE: I felt that too. The circus had been my home, and now suddenly I was about to leave it, at a moment’s notice.

  CATHERINE: Monsters don’t have homes, not permanent ones. You should know that.

  JUSTINE: Then what is this, Catherine? You do not believe in such sentiments, I know. But this is a home, for all of us.

  MRS. POOLE: And if it’s not, I’d like to know what I do all the housekeeping for. Not a home, indeed!

  Suddenly, the curtain was drawn back. There were Catherine and Diana, carrying a stack of blankets—no, clothes. Men’s clothes.

  “Put these on,” said Catherine. “I found them in the tent of the Flying Kaminski Brothers. There are five of them, and the tallest is almost as tall as Justine. The youngest is fourteen, and perhaps his clothes will fit Diana. We’ll have to wear our own boots. Ill-fitting boots would be a danger when trying to evade pursuit on the streets of London. At least you had the sense to wear low-heeled ones.”

  Mary looked at the clothes doubtfully. How did one put on men’s clothes? “Well, at least they won’t be expecting five men!” she said, lifting a shirt from the pile. It was a strange experience, dressing as a man. Everything felt different, everything buttoned a different way. But when she had put on the shirt and trousers, she realized what freedom they would give her. How easily she could move, without petticoats swishing around her legs! No wonder men did not want women to wear bloomers. What could women accomplish if they did not have to continually mind their skirts, keep them from dragging in the mud or getting trampled on the steps of an omnibus? If they had pockets! With pockets, women could conquer the world! And yet she felt, too, as though in putting off her women’s clothes, she had lost a part of herself. It was a confusing sensation.

  She looked at the others. Diana was clearly in her element, although her pants were too long and needed to be rolled up. As soon as Catherine had put the pile of men’s clothes on the bed, Diana had said, “Give me some scissors.” Snip snip, and off had come all her red curls before Mary could object, although she gasped when she saw them lying on the floor of the tent. “I’ve wanted to do that forever!” said Diana triumphantly. Now she stood there, hands in her pockets, with short, curling hair in a halo around her head. She looked exactly like one of the London newsboys, or one of Mr.
Holmes’s Baker Street Irregulars. Beatrice seemed uncomfortable, as though she did not know what to do with her hands. A man’s suit could not disguise her femininity. She looked askance at the scissors, clearly reluctant to undergo the same shearing. “Let me do your hair,” said Mary. “I think one cropped head is quite enough, thank you!” She unpinned Beatrice’s elaborate chignon and pinned her hair up in a simple coil so it would be hidden by a bowler hat Catherine had brought with the clothes. Beatrice would be showing her face now, but at least it would be shielded by the hat brim. Mary’s own hair was already as simply dressed as possible.

  Justine looked as awkward in her suit as she had in women’s clothes, and Mary suspected that she would look just as awkward in anything she wore. But Catherine looked perfectly natural. Once she was wearing a sack suit with a four-in-hand tie, she could have passed for any of the clerks who worked in the city, hurrying to their offices or home from them. She put a cloth cap on her head and pulled it low over her eyes.

  DIANA: Why do women have to wear such rotten clothes? I mean, you’ve got the chemise, and then the corset, and then the corset cover, and that’s before you’ve even put on the shirtwaist. What’s the point?

  BEATRICE: Clothing is one means of enforcing women’s social and political subordination. That is why we must support Rational Dress . . .

  CATHERINE: Are you seriously going to have an argument about this in the middle of my book?

  BEATRICE: Our book, as you keep reminding us. And I know you agree with me, Catherine. You have criticized women’s fashions many times in my hearing.

  CATHERINE: Yes, but I don’t wear those ridiculous Dress Reform outfits either. How are they any better? Women should just wear men’s clothes. They’re easier to move in, more hygienic . . .

  JUSTINE: Men’s clothes aren’t made for a figure like Beatrice’s. It’s different for us, Cat. But even I, who have no claim to beauty, can see the elegance of Beatrice’s gowns. We do not all wish to be masculine, you know.

  DIANA: I do. Anyway, I’m the only one of you who keeps my hair short.

  CATHERINE: Your point being?

  DIANA: That if you really wanted to dress like a man, you’d cut your hair too.

  MARY: What, pray tell, is the point of this argument? Catherine can wear whatever she likes and be a man one day, a woman the next. You all know perfectly well that dressing as a woman can be an effective disguise. It can be useful, being overlooked and underestimated. No one expects a woman to pull a pistol out of her purse. . . . Although I do wish you’d grow your hair back, Diana. It’s so pretty when it’s long.

  DIANA: Sod off, sister.

  When they were all buttoned and hatted and gloved, Catherine consulted a pocket watch she had found in one of the waistcoat pockets. “The circus performance will end in about ten minutes. I suggest we go out through another of the tents and try to blend into the crowd. We’ll follow the customers leaving the circus, through Battersea Park and across the bridge. Then you’ll need to lead us, Mary, since Justine and I don’t know where to go.”

  “But my books!” said Justine. “Must we leave everything, Cat?”

  Catherine looked at her with concern. “You know we can’t take anything, not now. Especially books! It’s impossible, but these men smell like . . . well, maybe I’m wrong. We’ll send for our things later. Lorenzo still owes us for the last fortnight, remember. And Mary, you’d better tell me your address.”

  “11 Park Terrace,” said Mary. “Near Regent’s Park. If anything happens, meet us there.”

  Catherine nodded, then once again parted the curtains to the other side of the tent. They followed her through into what must have been Justine’s side, since it contained a particularly long cot. In contrast to Catherine’s side, it was immaculately neat. Then they passed under the cloth wall of the tent, lifting the cloth and stooping underneath, darting as quickly as they could to the tent next to it, only a foot away. From tent to tent they passed, under and through. All the tents were empty except the Zulu Prince’s. He was sitting on his bed, reading the book Mary had seen on his stool. When Catherine saw him, she said, “Clarence, don’t tell anyone we’ve been here, will you?”

  He nodded and said, “Sure thing, Whiskers,” in what was clearly an American accent.

  Finally, when there were no more tents to pass through, Catherine looked out through the tent flaps. “Any moment now,” she said.

  “I think we would be safer if we split into two groups,” said Mary. “They’re expecting five. What if we’re two and three?”

  “Yes, that’s a good idea,” said Catherine. For the first time, she glanced at Mary with respect. And about time, thought Mary. Catherine could order them around for now, but she had no intention of letting that continue past the immediate situation! “We can meet—where?”

  “Let’s cross the bridge—the Chelsea Bridge, I mean—and meet at the other end, by the embankment. And the groups should be different from the ones we came with.”

  “All right,” said Catherine. “You and Beatrice take Justine. I’ll go with Diana.”

  Diana again! Why did Catherine want Diana with her? For a moment, Mary forgot that she should have been grateful to get rid of Diana for a while. After all, Diana was her sister, wasn’t she?

  “Good luck with that,” she said, more sarcastically than she had meant to. “We’ll go first. I think I can hear a crowd.” She lifted the tent flap and stepped outside. Beatrice followed right behind her, but Justine still hung back. Mary waved for her to follow. Justine sighed and stepped out of the tent, blinking in the sunlight. Then they were all walking together across the grass of Battersea Park. The circus performance had just ended, and the audience was streaming out into the cold, damp afternoon. Well, this was spring in London, after all. They blended into it as best they could, Mary whispering to Beatrice, “Remember to walk like a man!” It was easy to follow the crowd across the grassy lawns of Battersea Park and onto the Chelsea Bridge. Once, she had to grab Justine’s sleeve to keep them from getting separated, but otherwise their progress was easy. At the other side of the bridge, within sight of Ranelagh Gardens and the Royal Hospital, they strolled as though enjoying the day, then leaned on the embankment.

  “Can you see them?” asked Beatrice.

  “Not yet,” said Mary. But she had not seen anyone following them either, so that was good, wasn’t it? And then she saw them: Catherine and Diana, moving as quickly as they could through the crowd on the bridge, dodging costermongers and mothers with children. “Come on,” she said. “We need to get back to the bridge.” What had happened? Certainly, Catherine wasn’t trying to blend into the crowd any longer.

  “They found us!” said Catherine, panting and out of breath, when they met at the northern end of the bridge. “Look, you can see them. There and there!”

  Mary tried to follow her pointing finger. And then she saw him, the beggar who had been leaning against one of the houses. He was moving through the crowd, still hunched over as he had been that morning, with an oddly stooping gait. She could not see the other.

  “Get Justine to safety as quickly as you can,” said Catherine. “They’re following by scent, not sight. You see, they’re not even looking this way. If you take a cab, they’ll lose your scent and keep following us. Diana and I can lead them on a chase through London.”

  “Why should Diana go with you?” said Mary. “She’s the youngest of us, and my sister. I want her safe as well.”

  “Because I can dodge in and out of crowds as well as Catherine, and the rest of you can’t,” said Diana. “Come on already! They’re getting closer.”

  “I don’t know if I have enough change for cab fare,” said Mary.

  “Justine does,” said Catherine. “She has all our money. Now go!”

  Mary hesitated, then nodded. “Come on,” she said to Justine, who followed with reluctance, clearly worried about being separated from Catherine. Beatrice brought up the rear. Without a backward glance, they j
oined the crowd moving north.

  JUSTINE: I gave a backward glance. I was so nervous! I did not know you then, and I did not know London. There were so many streets. . . .

  BEATRICE: And you see how well it turned out! We are together now, all of us. Like sisters.

  DIANA: Speak for yourself, Poison Breath. As though one sister weren’t enough to deal with!

  On Sloane Street, Mary hailed a cab, and once they were seated inside, she breathed a sigh of relief. They were traveling north, with the verdure of Hyde Park to the left of them, the houses of Mayfair to the right. Soon, they would be home. Suddenly, she realized that she was hungry. After all, it was midafternoon, and she had not eaten lunch. She should have purchased something for herself when she bought Diana the meat pie. Next time she would know better. Not long ago, her days had followed an invariable schedule: each meal at its proper time, served by Enid the parlormaid. And in between, the paying of bills, the arranging of household affairs, the fulfillment of duties. For a moment, she missed her routine. Somehow, she did not think her life would ever be that orderly again. But there was no time for regrets—she had to get Beatrice and Justine safely home.

  Meanwhile, Catherine and Diana were running across Ranelagh Gardens and the grounds of the Royal Hospital. Here they were visible, for the lawns were closely clipped, with shrubs and trees only at their edges, and the tall brick buildings offered no shelter. But they paused behind some convenient hawthorns. They had lost their hats some time ago, and Catherine’s braids had come down. They whipped around her face as she ran. “We need to leave a trail as long as we can,” said Catherine, panting. “I saw one of them a moment ago. He hid behind that—whatever that building is.”

  “What are they?” said Diana. “They don’t look right. Are they deformed?” She was panting as well. She had been able to keep up, although Catherine ran with the speed and grace of a puma.