Salt. She could substitute salt, which should be indistinguishable from the powdered heroin. In water, it would make an ordinary saline solution. And where could she find salt? In the kitchen, of course. She would have to go downstairs and brave the Mandelbaums.
She returned the hypodermic case to the cabinet, exactly as she had found it, and screwed the top securely back onto the bottle of heroin. Then she walked along the hall as quietly and inconspicuously as she had been taught a maid should walk. How useful her training turned out to be in these difficult circumstances!
It was early afternoon. The headquarters of the English branch of the Alchemical Society—and now the Order of the Golden Dawn—was quiet and empty. On the second floor, she heard someone snoring in one of the rooms. On the ground floor, two male voices were quarreling behind a closed door. She put her ear to the keyhole for a moment as she passed, but could not make out what they were quarreling about.
She walked down the back stairs to the kitchen. Mrs. Mandelbaum was at the large black range, while Gitla was seated at a central table, peeling potatoes. Presumably for dinner? Clearly, no one had thought about Alice’s lunch! Well, she was glad to be forgotten for a while. When they saw her, Gitla stood up and curtseyed, and Mrs. Mandelbaum, managing to look both friendly and apologetic at once, waved her in. “Niech Panna usiądzie,” she said, then put a plate of small pastries in front of Alice. They were the same kind that had been served the day before in the common room, when Moriarty had held his ridiculous meeting. The memory of that meeting still frightened Alice—she did not want to think about it. But her mouth began to water as soon as she saw the pastries. She must be hungry after all.
As she ate, she watched the Mandelbaums, mother and daughter, work. It felt strange to be sitting idly and not peeling potatoes herself. She almost offered to help Gitla, then reminded herself that, first, Gitla would not understand her, and second, she was supposed to be Lydia Raymond now, not Alice the kitchen maid. Mrs. Mandelbaum took a pot off the stove and poured a dark brown liquid into a cup—ah, she had made coffee, and Alice had not even noticed! Her attention had been on those potatoes. Surely any minute now she would have the opportunity she was waiting for.…
Mrs. Mandelbaum added milk and sugar, then put the coffee cup on a saucer in front of her. Alice sipped it cautiously. In the Jekyll household, coffee had always been for visitors—she and Mrs. Poole had drunk good English tea. It was better than she expected, although very strong, despite the milk and sugar Mrs. Mandelbaum had added to it.
“Thank you,” she said, not sure if Mrs. Mandelbaum would understand, but the housekeeper smiled and nodded. She seemed relieved not to be bringing Alice dry bread and water in a coal cellar! She still had a frightened look about her—as well she might, living in such a household! But she seemed a little more at ease than the last time Alice had been in this kitchen.
Gitla rinsed the potatoes, then salted them from a large salt shaker—a kitchen salt shaker, not one of the dainty silver shakers that sat on dinner tables. Was it too large? Alice was not sure. She hoped to goodness that her apron pocket would be large enough! It was such a silly apron, useless for any real work. Real aprons had two deep pockets, not this single ornamental one—but it would have to do. This was the moment.… Oh, how she hated to do this! All her training under Mrs. Poole rose up against the thought. But quickly, before she could think twice, she stood with the coffee cup and saucer in her hands, as though about to give them to Mrs. Mandelbaum. Suddenly, she tripped over nothing at all and stumbled forward. The cup and saucer dropped from her hands and crashed on the tiles. Pastry crumbs scattered, and drops of coffee spattered all over the place. Porcelain fragments flew through the air, littering the kitchen floor.
Alice gave a little scream, then raised her hands to her mouth and burst into tears. Truth to tell, she had wanted to cry all morning, although not perhaps as torrentially as the day before. This time, it had nothing to do with being a captive. Could it have to with what had happened at breakfast—when her mother had described leaving her at the orphanage? But what good would crying have done? Mary would not have cried, so she had tried not to, and had succeeded admirably. Now, as though a dam had burst, all those tears spilled out. Now they would serve her well—now she could cry.
Mrs. Mandelbaum said something she could not understand, no doubt telling her that it was all right, that she should not cry over broken dishes. Gitla sprang up and went to fetch a broom and dustpan. As soon as Mrs. Mandelbaum turned around, searching for something or other, Alice slipped the saltcellar into her apron pocket. Yes, the pocket was just large enough. In a moment, Mrs. Mandelbaum had handed her a clean dishcloth to cry into, and Gitla had returned to sweep up the mess. Alice stayed in the kitchen just long enough to finish crying convincingly, then thanked them and, still wiping her eyes, made her way out into the hall. Now to get back upstairs to the bathroom!
But wait, what was that? She could smell tobacco.… It was coming from the window at the end of the hall. Like all the other windows on the basement level, it was set high up in the wall and shaped like a half moon. One of the panes was open. Could that be one of Moriarty’s guards smoking? Through the window, she could see—no, it could not be—but yes, it was. The back of a pair of bare, scrawny, bowed legs. They were covered with dirt.
Quickly and quietly, she walked to the window. “Pssst! Over here!” she whispered. She was taking a chance—but one had to take chances in life, didn’t one? At least that’s what Catherine was always saying.
Suddenly, the legs bent at the knees and knelt down. A startled and very dirty face appeared at the window. It was, as she had guessed, a boy about her own age, smoking a forbidden gasper.
“Cor blimey!” he said. “You nearly scared the life out of me, you did!”
“Be careful,” she said in as low a voice as she could. Mrs. Mandelbaum and Gitla were all the way down the hall in the kitchen, but she did not want them to hear. “There are guards around the house. How did you get past them?”
“Oh, there are only two of them, and they’re playing poker. It’s not them I’m worried about. You’re not going to tell Mum that you saw me smoking, are you? She’ll wallop me if she finds out!”
“Of course not,” said Alice. “I’m not a rat. How would you like some more of those, and better? Gentlemen’s cigarettes. I’ll make sure you get them if you do something for me.”
“And what’s that?” He looked at her suspiciously. As well he might—girls dressed as well as Lydia Raymond did not consort with the likes of him, or offer cigarettes for doing them favors! But I’m not Lydia Raymond, thought Alice. I’m a Londoner born and bred, and I know a thing or two.
“Do you know where to find the Baker Street boys?”
“Of course. Every chap in these parts knows about them! I’d like to be one myself, if Wiggins would take me. But you don’t get to be a Baker Street boy just for the asking. They’re very particular who they associate with, if you know what I mean.”
“Can you get them a message for me? Tell them that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is being held prisoner in this house. He’s being drugged with heroin so he won’t escape. Tell them that Alice, Mary Jekyll’s kitchen maid, sent you. Can you remember all that?” If he could tell the Baker Street boys, they could get a message to Dr. Watson, perhaps even Inspector Lestrade. And they would come to the rescue—or, at least, she hoped they would.