European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

Book 2: The Extraordinary Adventures of the Athena Club

by Theodora Goss

Genres: Fantasy; Historical Fiction; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

In the sequel to the critically acclaimed The Strange Case of the Alchemist's Daughter, Mary Jekyll and the rest of the daughters of literature's mad scientists embark on a madcap adventure across Europe to rescue another monstrous girl and stop the Alchemical Society's nefarious plans once and for all.

Mary Jekyll's life has been peaceful since she helped Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson solve the Whitechapel Murders. Beatrice Rappaccini, Catherine Moreau, Justine Frankenstein, and Mary's sister Diana Hyde have settled into the Jekyll household in London, and although they sometimes quarrel, the members of the Athena Club get along as well as any five young women with very different personalities. At least they can always rely on Mrs. Poole.

But when Mary receives a telegram that Lucinda Van Helsing has been kidnapped, the Athena Club must travel to the Austro-Hungarian Empire to rescue yet another young woman who has been subjected to horrific experimentation. Where is Lucinda, and what has Professor Van Helsing been doing to his daughter? Can Mary, Diana, Beatrice, and Justine reach her in time?

Racing against the clock to save Lucinda from certain doom, the Athena Club embarks on a madcap journey across Europe. From Paris to Vienna to Budapest, Mary and her friends must make new allies, face old enemies, and finally confront the fearsome, secretive Alchemical Society. It's time for these monstrous gentlewomen to overcome the past and create their own destinies.

Publisher: Gallery / Saga Press

Print pages: 720

Sample

European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman

CHAPTER I

The Telegram from Budapest

Lucinda Van Helsing looked out the window. They were coming for her, she knew they were coming for her. She walked back and forth over the carpet, rubbing her hands together, occasionally putting one to her lips. She could feel the sharpness of her teeth, which no longer felt like hers. Yesterday, she had inadvertently bitten her own mouth.

The clock on the mantle chimed. It was almost time for her afternoon coffee. Helga would bring it as usual, and she would stare at the coffeepot, the selection of little cakes. She could no longer eat. She had not eaten for three days.

There . . . what was that, out beyond the linden tree, against the line of privets? A flicker of something black. For the last few days she had seen them, lurking. Frau Müller, the housekeeper, had said there was no one there, but she knew—she could sense them. Yes, they were coming for her, and soon she would be in that place, where no one could find her or know what had become of her ever again.

When Helga, the parlormaid, entered five minutes later, the parlor was empty. A chair had fallen over, but otherwise the parlor looked as it always did. Lucinda was gone.

DIANA: I don’t think you should start with Lucinda. You should start with us.

CATHERINE: Why are you telling me how to write this book?

JUSTINE: I think she’s right, Catherine. Forgive me, I know you’re the author, but I think Diana is right. You should start with us.

CATHERINE: Fine. Whatever.

The Athena Club was meeting, with all members present.

The parlor windows were open to let in the morning air. It was late summer, and for once, miraculously, London was warm. Beatrice sat on one of the window seats, reveling in the sunlight like a happy poisonous plant. “This weather reminds me of Italy!” she said. How London can remind anyone of Italy, I don’t know.

Mary and Diana were sitting together on the sofa, although officially they were quarreling. Yesterday, Diana had cut the feathers off Mary’s favorite hat with the sewing scissors.

“Why can’t I go?” she asked, petulant as a child.

“First, because I can’t trust you,” said Mary, imperturbable. Our Mary is always imperturbable. She had already retrimmed the hat. “And second, because you’re my sister, and I want you safe, here. I’m going, because I’m the only one who knows Miss Murray. Justine is going, because she speaks French and German.”

“But only a little German,” said Justine.

“And Catherine is going because it will be useful to have someone along who can bite people.”

“I can bite people!” Diana showed her teeth, as though prepared to demonstrate.

“And third, because you need to focus on your studies. You don’t even know where Vienna is, so how can you go there?”

DIANA: I wasn’t petulant! I’m never petulant. What does that mean, anyway? I think you made that word up. Are writers allowed to do that?

MARY: I am certainly perturbable! Catherine, you’re describing me as though I were some sort of female Sherlock Holmes, which I am not, thank you very much.

DIANA: That’s not such a bad comparison, actually. You’re as annoying as he is.

Justine was sitting on the carpet. All our chairs, she said, made her feel as though she were folding up like an accordion. And Catherine, your author, was standing next to the fireplace, leaning on the mantle, looking particularly jaunty in a man’s suit.

MARY: If she does say so herself.

That day, Catherine was going to Purfleet to meet with Joe Abernathy. She went once a fortnight, to see if he had any information on the doings of the Alchemical Society or the movements of the sinister Dr. Seward, director of the Purfleet Asylum. After our previous adventures, Joe had agreed to spy for our heroines. And if those heroines keep interrupting me, this story will never get started.

My readers may remember that in the previous adventures of the Athena Club, Mary Jekyll learned about the existence of her sister, Diana Hyde, and the secret society to which their father belonged: the Société des Alchimistes. Certain members of the society had been conducting experiments in transmutation, as they called it: experiments that involved transforming girl subjects in various ways, for their brains were the most malleable, as Dr. Moreau insisted. Female flesh was the easiest to transform. If you looked around the parlor that day, you would see the results.

Beatrice Rappaccini, wearing one of those shapeless liberty dresses she insists are more healthful for the female figure, sat leaning forward, with a ceramic mug in her hand. The window was open not only to let in air, but also to let out the poisonous fumes she could not help emitting. As a girl, she had tended the garden of poisonous plants created by her father, Dr. Rappaccini, until their toxic essences became a part of her. If you stood too close to Beatrice, you would begin to feel faint, and her touch burned.

BEATRICE: You make me sound so dramatic, Catherine!

CATHERINE: Well, you are dramatic, with your long black hair and the clear olive complexion that marks you a daughter of the sunny south, of Italy, land of poetry and brigands. You would be the perfect romantic heroine, if only you weren’t so contrary about it.

BEATRICE: But I have no desire to be a romantic heroine.

MARY: Brigands? Seriously, Cat, this isn’t the eighteenth century. Nowadays Italy is perfectly civilized.

Beatrice took a sip of the noxious green sludge she called breakfast, which smelled like Thames water. Because of her unique constitution, she had no need of food. She lived off sunlight and water in which organic matter had been steeped. In other words, weed soup.

Mary Jekyll had finished her breakfast some time ago. She was already dressed in her walking suit; after our meeting, she would walk across Regent’s Park to 221B Baker Street, where she was employed by the famous and insufferable Sherlock Holmes as a sort of assistant-secretary-Girl Friday, for which she did not receive enough credit, although she insisted that she was quite well compensated at two pounds a week.

Diana, who had not yet had her breakfast, lounged beside her in disarray—as usual. She had been pulled out of bed just before our meeting, and was still in her nightgown, with an Indian shawl thrown over it. She was whispering to Alpha, one of the two kittens, who was not supposed to be up on the parlor sofa, according to Mrs. Poole. But there she was, snuggled into a corner of Diana’s shawl. You would not have thought they were sisters, Mary with her hair neatly pinned at the back of her neck, Diana with her freckled face and the mass of red curls she had inherited from her Irish mother. And yet sisters they were, born of the same father in different phases of his being—Mary of the respectable chemist Dr. Jekyll, and Diana of the despicable Mr. Hyde, murderer and fugitive.

DIANA: Oy! That’s my dad you’re taking about.

By the fireplace, as I have mentioned, stood Catherine Moreau, created by Dr. Moreau out of a puma on his island in the South Seas, where through a long, cruel process of vivisection, he turned beasts into men. There was something foreign about her, with her yellow eyes, the faint tracery of scars on her brown skin. In her respectable suit, she appears to be a civilized Englishman, but at any moment she might be at your throat, white fangs bared.

MARY: Oh, for goodness’ sake. Do all writers romanticize themselves?

And finally, on the carpet at her feet sat Justine Frankenstein, already in her painting smock. Taller than most men, pale and fair like the Swiss maiden from which she had been created by Victor Frankenstein after being hanged for a murder she did not commit, she was the quietest of us, the gentlest and most delicate, although she could lift a costermonger’s cart without assistance. She had a spot of paint on the side of her nose.

JUSTINE: Did I really?

CATHERINE: I don’t remember, but it makes for a better description. Anyway, you probably did. You usually do.

“I do too know where Vienna is,” said Diana in response to Mary’s question.

Just then, Alice poked her head through the doorway. “Is it all right if I clear away the breakfast dishes, miss?” The question was directed toward Mary. Although we all lived together at 11 Park Terrace, she was still indisputably the mistress of the house.

“Of course it is,” said Mary. “You know if you want to, you can always chase us out of the breakfast room—or join us for breakfast.” As though Alice would have! I’m just a kitchen maid, she kept insisting, despite her role in our previous adventures. I don’t want to be involved in your investigation of this Alchemical Society or whatever it may be, not after almost getting killed last time, thank you very much. Now she disappeared behind the door, like a mouse.

“Is it all right that I’m staying in London rather than going to Vienna?” asked Beatrice. “I know I could be useful to you.”

“Of course you could.” Mary stood and smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt. “But we need you here, to protect Alice and Mrs. Poole, and make sure Diana doesn’t do anything stupid. If you do,” she looked at her sister, “Beatrice will poison you. So don’t!”

“I haven’t even had breakfast yet, and you told Alice she could clear away,” said Diana.

“It’s your own fault for lazing in bed until all hours. Ask Mrs. Poole for something, but don’t let her see that you sneaked Alpha up here. And for goodness’ sake get dressed!”

Diana kicked Mary on the shin, but not hard—almost affectionately. If Diana had meant to kick hard, it would have hurt.

DIANA: You bet it would!

“Well, I think it’s time you told Mr. Holmes,” said Catherine. “We’ve calculated how much the trip will cost, we’ve decided who’s going, we know the train routes. We should leave as soon as possible.”

“I know,” said Mary. “I’m planning on telling him today. He may be able to give us some advice on how to rescue Lucinda Van Helsing. Anyway, I need to ask for a holiday. We don’t even know how long we’ll be gone.”

And now I think it’s time I returned to telling the story in a more traditional way, focusing on one character at a time. However, a story about monsters can never be entirely traditional. And anyway, the nineteenth century is drawing to a close. I believe the new century will bring new ways of writing, new ways of perceiving the world. . . .

MARY: I doubt our readers want a lecture on modernity!

CATHERINE: You’re probably right.

Mary smoothed her skirt again, although Diana’s foot had scarcely disarranged it, then leaned over to kiss her sister on the head, quickly to avoid being hit.

“All right, I’m off,” she said. “Be careful in Purfleet, Cat.”

“I’m taking Charlie with me,” said Catherine. “I want him to look around the asylum, to see if there’s anything going on. We’ve heard almost nothing for three months—why has the society been so quiet? What can Dr. Seward and Professor Van Helsing be doing?”

Mary shook her head. She did not understand it either.

In the front hall, Mrs. Poole was waiting for her, holding a hat and gloves, with Mary’s purse hanging on her arm. Mary wondered again what in the world she would do without Mrs. Poole. The housekeeper had been there all her life. When Mary was a child, Mrs. Poole had been her nursemaid, and as she grew older the housekeeper had taught her how to manage the servants, keep the household accounts, care for her mother as Mrs. Jekyll had slowly descended into madness. Mrs. Poole had been the solid rock upon which Mary could lean in times of trouble.

MRS. POOLE: Oh, please. Miss Mary can certainly take care of herself.

MARY: Catherine may have a habit of exaggerating—or, you know, lying for effect—but that at least is completely and entirely true. I really don’t know what I would do without you, Mrs. Poole.

“You did a wonderful job on this, miss,” said the housekeeper, looking at the hat. “I can scarcely tell that devilish child snipped all the feathers off.”

“Well, to be honest, I think it looks better without them, and I like this black ribbon,” said Mary. “It contrasts with the gray felt. Maybe now Beatrice will stop going on and on about the decimation of bird populations for women’s vanity.” She looked at the hat with satisfaction—she really had done a good job, and saved a few shillings into the bargain. Then, she frowned, worried. “Will you be all right here with Diana, while I’m abroad? You can always threaten her with Beatrice, you know.”

“Oh, I can handle Diana, don’t you worry,” said Mrs. Poole, handing Mary the retrimmed hat.

Yes, she liked it better this way: simple and modern in style. She regarded herself in the hall mirror: pale face, middling brown hair pulled neatly back, middling gray eyes looking solemn, as they almost always did—not an unattractive face, but not a noticeable one either. Gray walking suit, showing the white collar of her shirtwaist. She put on her hat, then pulled on the black gloves Mrs. Poole handed her. “I look like a governess,” she said, almost to herself.

“You look like a lady,” said Mrs. Poole approvingly. She handed Mary the purse. “If you don’t mind, miss, I’ve put in a recipe for Mrs. Hudson, behind that envelope. She asked about my quince jam, and I promised to give her my recipe, what came with my mother from Yorkshire when Mrs. Jekyll was a bride. I’ve written it down for her.”

“Of course, Mrs. Poole,” said Mary. “I’ll be back for tea, and I expect Cat will be as well.” She checked her purse: yes, the letter from Lucinda Van Helsing was there, beside Mrs. Poole’s recipe.

“Bread and butter and cold meats it will be today, miss, on account of it being laundry day,” said Mrs. Poole. “I hope that’s all right.”

“That will do quite nicely, thank you.” Mary made sure she had her latchkey—a custom she had introduced that scandalized Mrs. Poole, but how much easier when they each had their own keys to the house! Then she hung the purse over her arm and walked out into the sunshine of Park Terrace.

On the doorframe, above the doorbell, was a small brass plaque: THE ATHENA CLUB. For a moment, she stopped to wipe a smudge off the brass with her gloved finger. Was it really only three months ago that her mother had died, and she had found Diana, Beatrice, Catherine, and Justine?

She turned left down Park Terrace. How peaceful and quiet the old brick houses looked! Until three months ago, this was the only part of London she had truly known. Since then, she had been to Whitechapel, and Battersea Park, and the London docks. She had seen sights that would shock the respectable Mrs. Poole.

Should she go around by Marylebone Road? But her feet were already taking her the accustomed way: through Regent’s Park, where Mrs. Poole had taken her to play as a child, and later she had walked with her governess, Miss Murray, reciting the dates of the English kings. The park had been a constant part of her life. Even on days when her mother had been particularly ill, when Nurse Adams had grumbled and Enid the parlormaid had sniffled, and she had not dared leave the house in case her mother had one of her fits, she had been able to see the green tops of its trees over the houses across Park Terrace, waving in the wind. Now she walked along the paths beneath those trees, remembering the day, three months ago, when she had walked from 11 Park Terrace to 221B Baker Street for the first time.

Then, as now, she had been carrying important documents. Three months ago, they had been the documents she had received after her mother’s death—her father’s laboratory notebook, his letters and receipts, and an account book detailing payments for “the care and keeping of Hyde.” She had been convinced those payments would lead her to the notorious Mr. Hyde, her father’s former laboratory assistant, who was wanted for the murder of Sir Danvers Carew, a member of Parliament and prominent supporter of Irish Home Rule. But no, they had led her to Diana, Hyde’s child, who had been raised in the Society of St. Mary Magdalen, a home for magdalenes—fallen women who were trying to reform amid the corruption and vice of London. Such women deserve much better than the opprobrium they are met with in society, and in the halls of power! No, Mary, I’m not turning this into a political tract. But you know perfectly well how women like Diana’s mother are treated. And remember those poor dead women whose murders we solved, but whose lives we could not save. Remember Molly Keane, lying on the pavement with blood pooling around her head . . . The image still haunted Mary at night.

BEATRICE: Did it really?

MARY: Yes. Even now, it still gives me nightmares.

Her father’s papers had revealed that the respectable Dr. Jekyll was Hyde, and that his chemical experiments had a deeper, darker purpose. He had been a member of the Société des Alchimistes, a secret society whose adherents continued the research of the medieval alchemists into the transmutation of matter. However, in the nineteenth century they were attempting to transmute, not base metal into gold, but living flesh into—what? Her inquiries had led her to Beatrice, exhibited at the Royal College of Surgeons as a scientific marvel, the Poisonous Girl. Beatrice had told her and Diana about the Alchemical Society and the experiments on young women conducted by certain of its members—Dr. Rappaccini and Dr. Moreau. Then she had led them to Catherine and Justine, who had been working in the sideshow of Lorenzo’s Circus of Marvels and Delights in Battersea Park.

Here Mary stopped to touch a rose, still blooming although it was late August. She bent down to smell it—but it was one of the new hybrids, lacking the old rose scent. No wonder it was blooming out of season. She drew her head back quickly—at its center was a black beetle that had already eaten through some of the petals, leaving the heart of the flower ragged. How could life be so beautiful and yet contain such evil in it? She did not know. Regent’s Park basked peacefully under the sun, yet out there, in London itself, were horrors enough for any number of penny dreadfuls.

She was grateful that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson had helped them, as the members of the Athena Club had helped the famous detective solve the Whitechapel Murders. A series of fallen women had been murdered in the vicinity of Whitechapel, each missing a part of her body: legs, arms, head. Following the clues to their logical conclusion, they had learned that Hyde was still alive and involved in the murders, acting at the behest of that monster—Adam. Mary shuddered to think of Victor Frankenstein’s original creation, who had loved Justine with such a cruel, sick love that he had attempted to recreate her with parts of other women—and then attempted to replace her brain with one that might love him in return. How thankful she was that he had met a fiery death!

But Hyde—she could not acknowledge him as her father—had escaped from Newgate Prison itself, and Mrs. Raymond, the corrupt director of the Magdalen Society, remained beyond the reach of the law. These adventures, and more, are detailed in The Strange Case of the Alchemist’s Daughter, the first of these adventures of the Athena Club, only two shillings at all the best booksellers.

MARY: That’s rather clever of you, inserting an advertisement. But you haven’t mentioned Mr. Prendick, who was also working for Adam, creating Beast Men.

CATHERINE: I don’t want to think about him.

And now she had arrived once again at Baker Street, with the cries of the costermongers in her ears—Onions! Lovely onions!—Apples! Ha’penny a lot, apples!—Old shoes, patched as good as new!—Once again, she wanted Mr. Holmes’s advice.

She crossed Baker Street and rang the bell at 221B. The door was opened almost immediately by Mrs. Hudson.

“Oh, Miss Jekyll, good morning! Do come in. They’ve been uncommonly quiet up there, which means they’re working on something, although goodness knows what.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” said Mary. “Mrs. Poole sends her best regards and a recipe for quince jam that I’m told is a sort of state secret.” She pulled it out of her purse—no, that was the letter. Behind the letter . . . there it was, a folded slip of paper with Mrs. Poole’s handwriting on it. She handed the recipe to Mrs. Hudson. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” She rather liked exchanging pleasantries with Mrs. Hudson, but this morning she was in a hurry.

“And how is Alice? I knitted a pair of stockings for her, if you wouldn’t mind taking them over, miss—”

“Not at all, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll get them from you later!” Mary hurried up the stairs to the second floor.

She knocked on the door of the flat, then entered. It was always left unlocked for her on weekday mornings, whether Holmes and Watson were there or not. Usually they were, just finishing their breakfast, but occasionally they would be away on one of Mr. Holmes’s cases. She had participated in a few of them herself—not as many as she would have liked, and Watson had not mentioned her in any of his accounts except occasionally as “a lady” who had done one thing or another. A lady whose chance remark had reminded Holmes of a clue (no mention that at the time, she had been pointing a revolver at the baronet who committed the murder), or who had collided with the absconding clerk at an opportune moment (although the collision was of course deliberate). She did not mind . . . much. What would Mrs. Poole think if she were featured in a Sherlock Holmes case in The Strand?

MRS. POOLE: What indeed! Your poor mother would be spinning in her grave. Not that Miss Moreau writing these books is any better. Gallivanting around Europe is one thing, but writing about it . . . It’s not ladylike, is all I say.

BEATRICE: Neither is agitating for the vote, Mrs. Poole, yet you accompanied me to that suffrage rally and almost got yourself arrested!

MRS. POOLE: Well, men have been running this country for the last thousand years, and where has it gotten us? It’s time women had a say in what goes on.

The parlor looked as it always did—an organized shambles, more organized since she had taken over keeping the records of Mr. Holmes’s cases, the notes for his monographs, his files on famous crimes . . . The shelves were filled with books that overflowed onto the floor. On one side of the room was a long table covered with the scientific instruments necessary for Holmes’s investigations, including a Bunsen burner and microscope. On the shelves behind it were specimen jars with parts of bodies swimming in them—mostly ears. By the window stood a camera on a tripod. On the other side of the room, on the mantelpiece, were skulls of various physiognomic types, all human except the last, which was that of an ape. This morning it sported Holmes’s deerstalker cap.

Lying on the sofa was the man himself, Sherlock Holmes, smoking a pipe. Dr. Watson sat in one of the armchairs, reading The Times.

“Ah, good morning, Miss Jekyll,” said Holmes. “We had some excitement over the weekend and missed your assistance. It was the case of Mr. Lydgate, the Hounslow butcher accused of murdering his daughter and cutting her up like one of his carcasses. Watson did his best, but I could have used a lady’s hand to retrieve the murder weapon from a drainpipe into which the murderer had jammed it. Instead, we had to use a pair of fireplace tongs, and even then we almost lost it down the drain.”

“And of course your insights, Miss Jekyll,” said Watson. “I assure you, we do not value you solely for the smallness of your hand. You cannot be replaced with fireplace tongs.”

“You are both in very good humor this morning,” said Mary. “I deduce, following the precepts of Mr. Holmes himself, that you solved the case of poor Mr. Lydgate and delivered your murderer to Inspector Lestrade. Probably with a ribbon tied around him, like a Christmas present.”

“Ha! She’s got us,” said Holmes, sitting up and giving one of his rare smiles. Mary had long ago told them not to stand when she entered the room, any more than they would have stood for Charlie or another one of the Baker Street boys. She could not work with them if they were continually bobbing up and down like apples in a bucket. “We wrapped him up in red ribbon and drove him to Scotland Yard ourselves. And it was not Lydgate, as you have no doubt guessed, but the local Reverend, who had gone completely mad by the time we got to him, insisting that he had been sent to divide the sheep from the goats, and poor Amelia Lydgate was a goat, ready for slaughter. Evidently he had seen her with one of his curates in a compromising position, and decided he had been divinely appointed as an instrument of the Almighty. I have no doubt that he would have gone on to commit another murder—the mania had taken hold.”

“The man will be sent to Broadmoor, no doubt,” said Watson.

“But for the present, we have no pressing cases on hand. There is something—but no, it’s not worth discussing yet. So today we might work on that disquisition on ears I hope to present at the meeting of the Anthropological Institute. Ears, as you know, are my fascination.”

“Indeed, how can one not be fascinated by ears?” said Mary, trying not to smile. She could not quite tell whether he was joking—he did it so rarely. Now was the time to show him the letter and ask for his advice . . . as well as time off. After all, she would be leaving for Vienna in little more than a week.

“What is it, Miss Jekyll? Out with it. There’s something you mean to say.” Holmes looked at her expectantly. It always bothered her, just a little, that he seemed able to tell when something was on her mind. Was it her expression?

“And do sit,” said Watson. “Wait, let me move that pile of books. You haven’t even taken off your hat, and already Holmes has started on one of his hobbyhorses.”

Mary took off her hat and placed it atop one of the skulls on the mantelpiece—the one representing the highest intellectual type. She put her gloves on the mantle, with her purse beside them, taking out the envelope with Lucinda Van Helsing’s letter. Then, she sat in the armchair Watson had cleared for her, uncertain how to start. Ah, of course Mr. Holmes could tell something was different today—usually she took off her jacket and got right to work. Even Dr. Watson had noticed. How to begin? At the beginning, as the King of Hearts said in Alice in Wonderland.

Holmes looked at her keenly, like a hawk sighting its prey.

DIANA: Oh please!

BEATRICE: He does look like that, actually. It’s rather frightening, until you realize what a gentle man he is.

DIANA: When he’s not shooting someone.

“When I was a child,” she began, “I had a governess named Miss Wilhelmina Murray. She came shortly after my father’s death and left just before my fourteenth birthday. As my mother’s illness progressed and she required the constant presence of a nurse, I could no longer afford a governess, and anyway Miss Murray had been offered a position at a prestigious girls’ school up north, w