“Yes, that’s exactly right,” said Mary. “We’re considering a donation, but we would like to make certain that your organization is a worthy cause. Could you please tell the director that a Miss Jenks and a Miss Frank would like to see her?”
She had been wondering exactly how they would get in to see Mrs. Raymond. Well, this seemed as good a way as any! She hated lying, of course, but she thought it was justified under the circumstances.
“Follow me,” said the girl, unlocking the gate. “My name is Doris. I’ve been here six months. The society has become like a second home to me. At first I thought it was terribly gloomy, and the food bland though plentiful, but it’s been so much more jolly in the last few weeks.”
Mary looked at Justine and shrugged. How anyone could describe the Magdalen Society as jolly, she did not know!
They crossed the courtyard behind Doris. There was the ivy-covered wall that Diana used to climb when she was a resident—
DIANA: A prisoner, you mean!
—of the Magdalen Society. It was the same wall Catherine had climbed down the night she learned that Hyde was involved with the Whitechapel Murders. That night Alice had been kidnapped for the first time, drugged by Mrs. Raymond, and taken away by Hyde to the warehouse by the Thames.
CATHERINE: You do seem to have a habit of being kidnapped, don’t you?
ALICE: I’ve been kidnapped exactly twice! I would not call that a habit. And the first time was purely a coincidence—I was following you and trying to find out who you were, since you were clearly in disguise. It had nothing to do with me.
CATHERINE: Well, try not to be kidnapped again, if you can help it.
Once again, they stepped through the forbidding doorway of that gothic edifice. When they were inside, Mary was startled to hear… was that laughter?
“What in the world?” she said.
“Oh, them’s just the girls in the workrooms,” said Doris. “You see, miss, we sew linens of all sorts here—bed linens, linens for the kitchen, and even children’s clothes, leastways the simple things like smocks. Come this way. The director’s office is up the stairs, on the second floor.”
“Did you not say the society was very strict?” whispered Justine as they followed Doris up the stairs.
She had, and it had been, the last time Mary was here. But now they passed a group of women sitting on the stairs—just sitting and talking, as though they hadn’t a care in the world. Several of them were wearing the regulation white caps, but the rest had taken theirs off.
“The director will be mad if she sees you sitting here chatting and not working,” said Doris with a frown.
“Then let her High and Mightiness be mad!” said one of them, who threw back her head and laughed. She was still young, with pretty blond ringlets, but was missing several teeth.
Doris shook her head. “They ought to treat her with more respect, they really ought to. After all, someone has to run this place and get donations, and arrange for us to sell our work. She tries to be strict, but the girls ain’t scared of her, as you can see. Though they’re good girls really, and they don’t break too many rules. No sneaking gentlemen visitors in or anything like that, I assure you! Just a bit of gin now and then, and cigarettes, and maybe a card game for pennies—all in fun. I hope I’m not shocking you, miss. Not so as you’ll decide not to donate, anyway. We’re all liable to temptation, and all sinners in our own way, ain’t we? I assure you that we truly repent our old profession, and would much rather be here than out on the streets!”
Mary did not quite know what to say to this, but now they were at the door of the director’s office. She steeled herself to meet Mrs. Raymond once again.
Doris knocked on the door, was answered with a “Come in!,” and pushed it open.
“A Miss Jenks and a Miss Frank here to see you,” she said. “They want to donate to the institution.” She let them through, then closed the door again behind them.
The director rose from her desk, smiled graciously, and walked out from behind the desk toward them. “Miss Jenks and Miss Frank, is it? If you’ll just take a seat—You!” The exclamation sounded like a cork popping from a bottle. “What in blazes—I mean, what in the world are you doing back here?”
The director was dressed like Mrs. Raymond, in a plain gray merino, with a chatelaine at her waist. Her hair was pulled back into a tight and very respectable bun at the back of her head, so tight that it stretched her skin a little. But it was not Mrs. Raymond.
“Sister Margaret!” said Mary. “Are you—”
“You will please address me as Matron McTavish,” said the woman who had been Sister Margaret. “Mrs. Raymond, my predecessor, resigned abruptly almost a month ago, causing no end of trouble and considerable inconvenience to me. The trustees asked me to step into her place temporarily, until a new director can be found. Of course, I told them I would help in any way I could.” Miss McTavish, as we must now call her, looked both aggrieved and gratified, as though the thought of being inconvenienced rather pleased her. “But your name isn’t Jenks,” she said, looking at Mary suspiciously. “What was it now?”
“Doris must have misheard our names,” said Mary. “I’m Mary Jekyll, and this is Justine Frankenstein.” Goodness, she was getting just as bad as Diana, with all these lies! “We most particularly want to speak with Mrs. Raymond. If you have any idea where she might have gone—”
“I haven’t the faintest,” said Miss McTavish coldly. “She left without giving notice or leaving a forwarding address. So you see, I cannot help you at all.” She smiled tightly, with pursed lips, as though not being able to help was the first thing that had given her pleasure all day. “Now, I have a great deal of work to do.”
“Thank you,” said Mary, mentally adding for nothing. “Come on, Justine. I don’t think we need trouble Matron McTavish further.”
As soon as they had left the director’s office, they saw Doris, halfway down the hall, talking to another of the magdalenes—a girl, short and slight—in a gray dress. As Mary approached, the girl turned to her.
“Miss Jekyll? Do you remember me?”
She was not a girl after all—her face was marked by fine lines, and she had obviously once had smallpox. But she had a pair of sharp, clever brown eyes.
“Kate Bright-Eyes!” said Mary. “What in the world are you doing here? This is my friend Justine.” She turned to Justine and continued, “Kate was a friend of Molly Keane’s. You remember, she helped Catherine make herself up to infiltrate—well, this place, when we were investigating the Whitechapel Murders.” Kate looked almost the same as the last time Mary had seen her, except of course for the absence of rouge and whatever it was that certain women—those in Kate’s profession—used to blacken their eyelashes. Her eyes were all the more birdlike without it.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Bright-Eyes,” said Justine, offering her hand.
Kate shook it vigorously. “It’s a pity the Whitechapel Murders were never solved, ain’t it? Though I’m sure you and Mr. Holmes tried hard enough. I’m not blaming you, don’t think I am.”