“But for what purpose?” asked Watson. He looked down at the file folder on his lap and rifled, once again, through its contents. “What use is the power of creating illusions? They cannot alter empirical reality.”
“Nevertheless, they can frighten a man to death,” said Mary. “What if the newspaper accounts of men being frightened to death are not mere sensationalism? Imagine if a tiger were coming at you—or a giant serpent, or something even more terrifying. Could that not be what happened in these cases? We cannot know what frightened these gentlemen to death, but surely Mrs. Raymond can produce such an illusion.”
“Poor Alice!” said Justine. “She must be terrified if she is in the power of a woman like Mrs. Raymond. How can we find her? And Mr. Holmes, of course. Does her disappearance have anything to do with Mr. Holmes? I think not—we have found no connection between them.”
“Then we should pursue two lines of inquiry,” said Mary. “We need to find out more about Mrs. Raymond—if we find her, we will also find Alice. We don’t know if Diana has found out anything—the Baker Street boys are resourceful, but this inquiry may be beyond their powers. They are only boys, after all.”
DIANA: Only boys! The Baker Street boys, only boys? Oh, if Wiggins heard you say that…
MARY: That was a long time ago. I have since seen for myself what courageous and resourceful young men they are. Mr. Wiggins knows how much I respect him and his organization.
DIANA: Well, all right then.
“I hate to suggest it,” continued Mary, “but might this be the time to go to Inspector Lestrade? I honestly don’t know if he will agree to answer any of our questions, but Scotland Yard was keeping an eye on Mrs. Raymond because of the Whitechapel Murders. If we tell him she was also Mrs. Herbert, he may be able to tell us something about where she has gone, or is likely to go.”
“And I would like to ask him about Moriarty,” said Watson. “Before his death—well, his supposed death, as we now know—Moriarty was a mastermind of London’s criminal underworld. It seems as though he has resumed his illegitimate activities. I would like to know more about what he’s doing now. However, before we go to Scotland Yard, I suggest trying once more at the Diogenes Club. It may be that Mycroft has returned from wherever he’s been this past week. I would like to consult him—or rather, confront him, because it is clear that he has put Holmes in danger. He should at least be willing to tell us what sort of danger!”
“Well then, let us meet tomorrow morning,” said Mary. “Dr. Watson, could you lend me a coat or jacket of some sort to cover this dress? If I return to Park Terrace looking like this, Mrs. Poole will have a fit.”
MRS. POOLE: When have I ever had fits? You girls dress in all sorts of ways—as ministers of the Lord and circus performers, as women in unfortunate circumstances.… Someday, you’ll go out looking like chimney sweeps, for all I know! I have never once had a fit, no matter what you have looked like.
CATHERINE: You’re right, Mrs. Poole. We don’t give you nearly enough credit.
MARY: We really don’t, Mrs. Poole. If it weren’t for you, the Athena Club could not function—and none of us would ever get our breakfast! We are most grateful, I assure you.
DIANA: Speak for yourself! I think we would get along just fine without Mrs. Busy Body bothering us to take meals and baths and go to bed because it is past our bedtime.… Who invented the idea of bedtime, anyway?
MRS. POOLE: Which it is—past your bedtime, I mean. So off with you! And don’t make that face at me, young lady! Or start with your endless complaining. When have I taken notice of it? Never, that’s when.
CHAPTER VII
The Scarab Necklace
What had Alice been doing all this time? The problem with being imprisoned, she had discovered, was that it was just so boring. Usually, her days were filled with activity from dawn to dinner. There were fires to lay, and breakfast to get, and then the washing up, and a few hours for dusting and general cleaning before lunch, and then she and Mrs. Poole would sit down to do the housekeeping accounts—Mrs. Poole was teaching her how—and plan their afternoon. Trips to the grocer’s, the butcher’s, the baker’s, sometimes the fishmonger’s or fruit seller’s—there was always a great deal to do, things to see and learn. Now all she could do was sit on her bed reading The Water-Babies—could this book be any more dull?—and wait to be summoned. Really, she felt about ready to tear her hair out!
It was another hour before Gitla came, unlocked the door, and mimed something that looked like eating. Finally, she was going to have breakfast! Goodness, it must be nearly ten o’clock. Breakfast at Park Terrace was always served at eight sharp. Everyone in this house must be terribly lazy. She had been up and dressed, in another of the fancy dresses from the wardrobe, this time a green-and-blue plaid one, for hours.
As she followed Gitla down the hall, she reminded herself: You have a plan. Follow the plan, no matter what happens. Don’t be afraid, or at least don’t show you’re afraid. You must help Mr. Holmes. Was he ill, or under the influence of some powerful narcotic? Alice thought the latter. After all, how else would Moriarty be able to imprison a man like the detective? If she could figure out where the drug was kept and how it was administered, perhaps she could do something… although she did not, at this particular moment, know what.
She was worried that she might have to endure a meal with those men again—she no longer thought of them as gentlemen. Perhaps it was not her place to judge—well, it was not the place of a kitchen maid to judge, although Alice knew her own mind of course—but she had found them both rude and frightening, especially Professor Moriarty. Despite Lord Godalming’s handsome countenance, she did not trust him an inch. Mr. Morris had been ridiculous in that American getup. She could tell he was the sort of man who was constantly posturing for others. Dr. Seward had looked like a turnip carved for All Hallows, and Dr. Raymond had reminded her of a dried-up prune. They might have fancy initials after their names, but she knew them for what they were—the sorts of men who imprisoned helpless Beast Men. Colonel Moran had been, quite simply, a bully. She knew the type well from her years at the orphanage, where the headmistress’s son had been exactly the same way. He had been large for his age, and enjoyed lording it over the smallest children. Mr. Harker had been a nonentity—even she could tell that he simply did not matter, that he was there because seven men were needed for whatever ritual they were planning. And Professor Moriarty—thinking of him sent shivers down her spine. There had been a light in his eyes that she had seen before in the eyes of a hellfire and brimstone preacher who had come to the orphanage and told the girls, who had not two pennies to rub together, that most of them were going to Hell. The rows of orphan girls, with holes in their stockings and nothing in their pockets, had watched him in stony silence, until one of the little ones started wailing and had to be taken away by a matron. And his plans for England—she had not entirely understood what he was saying. There were foreign words in his speech—she suspected they were Greek, and she knew only a little Greek. Nevertheless, she knew that they were wrong. Would she have to share another meal with them?