“Thank you,” she said. “And you don’t need to call me miss. Just Catherine.”
“Yes, miss,” said Alice. She started on the buttons up the back. “I was in service, you see. Before I came down in the world. When my mistress died, there was no money left to keep servants, so we were all dismissed. It’s not so easy to find a job nowadays. I swept a crossing for a while, and then a gentleman offered me money for other kinds of services, but I said no. And a kind lady, seeing as he was importuning me, gave me a card with this address on it. It’s not so bad, if you can get used to the food and sermons.” She started on the buttons on the cuffs. “This dress now, it reminds me of one my old mistress used to have. Might I ask where you got it, if I’m not being too bold?”
“What?” said Catherine. She had not been paying attention. How was she to sneak out of the bed, and then the room, without Alice waking up?
“The dress, miss. Might I ask where you got it?” Alice folded it neatly, then put it on the chair. Sister Margaret would no doubt come for it in the morning.
“Oh, I have no idea.” She briefly considered eating Alice, but she rather liked Alice. And the girl had been so helpful with the buttons.
ALICE: You did not!
CATHERINE: Oh, didn’t I? I would have eaten Mrs. Raymond herself, after that vegetable mess! Although I’m pretty sure she would have been tough. . . .
“I think one of the other girls gave it to me, when I started on the streets. She didn’t need it anymore, and she told me it would be attractive to gentlemen. You know, make me look like a lady. They like us to look like ladies, until they don’t.” Catherine put her undergarments away in the drawer Alice pulled out for her, then put on her nightgown. She lay down and pulled the thin, rough wool blanket over her. “You’re too young to know about such things.”
“The gentleman didn’t think so,” said Alice, getting into bed beside her.
“Ah, gentlemen. Best avoid them,” said Catherine. “I haven’t known a single one of them that didn’t want to ruin a girl, in one way or another. Good night . . .”
The sky was darkening to dusk. Of course, they had not been issued candles. Such an extravagance would not have occurred to Mrs. Raymond or Sister Margaret. Catherine lay with her eyes closed. It would be several hours until she could sneak out of the room, through the long stone corridor, and down the stairs to Mrs. Raymond’s office. There would be no light, but that would not bother her. A cat can see in the dark.
She waited, motionless, like a cat that feigns sleep before a mouse hole. Slowly, she heard Alice’s breath slow, heard the sounds in the other rooms cease, except for gentle snoring. Slowly, a half-moon climbed the sky. There would be some light after all, but not too much. She didn’t want anyone to see her.
By moonlight, she silently rose, careful not to wake Alice, and slipped out of the room. Through the window at the end of the hallway, she could see the moon, floating in the sky like a boat on the ocean. She passed the rooms of sleeping girls, then made her way down a flight of stairs to the second floor. Although she had been to Mrs. Raymond’s office earlier that day, the stone hallways and wooden doors of the Magdalen Society looked so much alike that it was difficult to remember where it was located. Thank goodness Diana had described the building so thoroughly, even drawing her a map on a corner of Watson’s paper. If Diana’s instructions were to be trusted, Mrs. Raymond’s office should be right at the end of this hall. . . .
DIANA: Of course my instructions were to be trusted! I lived in that bloody house for seven years. I should know where her office was—Sister Margaret caned me enough in it. Never Mrs. Raymond: it was always something she left to Sister Margaret. Until one day I turned on her and broke the cane. After that, she never did it again.
CATHERINE: I’m building suspense. If the reader isn’t sure whether to trust you, it builds suspense, don’t you see. Anyway, I wasn’t sure whether to trust you, then. Sometimes I’m not sure whether to trust you now!
The office was exactly where Diana had described. It was not locked. Catherine pulled the door closed behind her and looked around. The brocade curtains had been drawn for the night; there was just enough light for her to avoid the armchairs, so much more comfortable than anything in the bare workroom, where girls sewed on wooden benches. She walked over thick carpet, soft under her bare feet and welcome after the chill of the stone floors, to Mrs. Raymond’s desk. Yes, the book was still there. She pulled open one of the curtains so moonlight would fall on the book. She opened it to the page where she had signed, then began to scan the list of names. Nothing. She turned back to the previous page. There, a name she recognized:
Molly Keane
Several weeks ago, she had entered the Magdalen Society. Why had she left? Catherine flipped back, page by page. And there were the others, scattered randomly among the list of names:
Pauline Delacroix
Susanna Moore
Sally Jane Hayward
Anna Pettingill
More than a month ago, each of them. Even Pauline Delacroix, whom Holmes had not been able to trace, had been an inmate (that was the most appropriate word) of the Magdalen Society. What did it mean? There must be more information, perhaps letters. In the desk? She was about to open the top drawer when she heard footsteps coming down the hallway. Three sets of footsteps: one sharp and decisive, one irregular, one shambling. Who could it be? But there was no time to speculate now. Where could she hide? Quickly, she closed the book, moved it back to its place on the desk, and slipped into the window recess, drawing the curtain closed in front of her. The walls of the building were thick, the windows deeply set. There was plenty of space for her in the recess.
The door opened, and the gas was lit: she could hear the striking of a match and suddenly, the curtains were edged with light. Catherine could not see them, but she could smell them: two human, one a beast.
“I suggest that you moderate your tone with me,” said Mrs. Raymond. “I allowed Diana to be taken because I was heartily sick of her. And because you owe me, Mr. Hyde. When should I expect to be paid for the information I’m providing?”
Hyde! This was Hyde? So he was alive after all. . . . Mary had been wrong, then.
“We have always been on good terms, Mrs. Raymond.” The voice was hoarse, almost a whisper, as though the speaker were consumptive. He spoke in the cultivated accent of a gentleman, but something about that voice sent a shiver up Catherine’s spine.
MARY: Did it really? Or are you exaggerating for effect?
CATHERINE: It did! Really, there was something about his voice. . . . It set my teeth on edge. But there was a kind of desperation in it that made me pity him too.