CATHERINE: Thank you. I rather like it myself. I may write “cheap popular fiction,” as a reviewer recently called it, but I can do symbolism. . . .
Catherine, who was sitting next to Mary, touched her arm and leaned toward her. “Are you all right?”
“I think so. I’m not sure. Probably not. It’s the first time I’ve had a dead father reappear, you know?” She said it low, so Alice would not hear. The last thing she wanted was Alice worrying about her.
“It’s going to be all right.” Catherine squeezed her arm—the gesture was unexpected, from Catherine. She had been so aloof, so independent, until now. “We’re going to be all right. Adam’s dead, the Beast Men have been destroyed, and we’re going to get Watson to the hospital.”
“Yes, I know.” Mary wished she could sound more convinced. It was the darkness, the motion of the river, the way it mirrored the uncertainty of her life—of all their lives. “But what about you? Prendick . . .”
Catherine looked out at the darkness. “As soon as you told me he was alive, I knew I would see him again.” She was silent for a moment, then added, “He looks different. Older, and his hair’s turned gray. I didn’t get the chance to talk to him. Perhaps I never will, if he died in that fire. Although if he survived the ocean, he can probably survive anything. But Hyde . . . I mean, your father. You’ll have to speak with him, you know. At the very least, you’ll have to ask him about the Société des Alchimistes. You need information, if nothing else.”
“I’m hungry,” said Alice, suddenly. “Begging your pardon, miss. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but I had the thought and then it just came out. Must be almost dying back in that warehouse. That would make anyone hungry, I’m sure.”
Mary laughed, low so as not to disturb the silence. Not that anyone would have cared, but it was so present, the silence of the boat, the sound of the water, that it seemed almost a sacrilege to speak too loudly. She could not help it—here she was worrying about what would happen tomorrow, and the day after that, when there was plenty to worry about tonight. Thank goodness for Alice. At least her problem had a solution.
“I’m sorry, Alice. I don’t have anything, although as soon as we get home, Mrs. Poole—wait, I do have something after all!” The tea cake she had put into the pocket of her mackintosh earlier—could it possibly still be there? “Reach into your pocket—no, the other one. Yes, can you feel something?”
Alice pulled out the tea cake, flattened like a top hat at the opera.
“Well, it will have to do for now, I’m afraid. At least it didn’t fall out along the way!”
Alice ate it in small bites, to make it last. They could hear a murmur from the back of the boat. It was Holmes’s voice—Mary was sure of it. And then a rougher voice that must be the captain’s. What were they talking about?
“I’m sorry I lied to you, miss,” said Alice. “See, the headmistress at the charity school, she weren’t a kind woman, or an educated woman neither, like you and Mrs. Poole. She didn’t like having charity girls—only the Board of Trustees made her take them so the school could get subscriptions. She always said no one would want an orphan. So when I was sent to you, to see if I would do as a scullery maid, I told Mrs. Poole that I had grown up on a farm. My friend had told me so much about it, because she was homesick, that I could talk about milking and gathering eggs and how the hay smelled when it was cut and stacked in the fields. I ain’t never seen a hayfield, really. I’m sorry, miss. I was only ten at the time, and didn’t know better.”
“You don’t need to apologize. I’m just glad you’re safe and coming home with us! But tell me how you ended up at the Magdalen Society.”
“And why were you following me?” asked Catherine. “That’s how she was caught by Hyde. I was in Mrs. Raymond’s office, looking through her desk, when that old witch and Hyde walked in. They started talking about the girls—Mrs. Raymond was the one giving Hyde their names, so Adam could kill them and take their body parts. And they heard a noise—Alice was outside the door. Why were you standing outside that door?”
“Well, it were this way. I hadn’t nowhere to go, when Miss Mary dismissed me. I tried sweeping a crossing for a while, but a big boy took my crossing and the broom I’d bought. The money Miss Mary had given me for my wages was running out. I slept in doorways, but the police would tell me to move on, so I would be walking most of the night. And soon I wouldn’t be able to buy food. So I thought, who can orphans turn to when they can’t turn to anyone else? Why, to God of course, like it says in those books Mrs. Poole never wants me to read because she says they’re so low, but only a penny. So I went into a church, and the minister asked about the state of my soul and whether I was afraid I’d fall into sin if I lived on the streets, and I said yes—although I’d have thrown myself into the Thames first, which I suppose is another kind of sin. The minister gave me a pamphlet and told me about the Magdalen Society. I was careful to tell Mrs. Raymond that a gentleman had importuned me, thinking she might not let me stay if I just said I was hungry, and she told me to sign that big book. I told that lie to you too, miss,” she said to Catherine, “and for that I’m right sorry. I didn’t know you were a friend of Miss Mary’s, then. So there I was for a week, getting fed regular and a bed to sleep in, although terribly bored, when I saw you.”
DIANA: I told you, Our Lady of Dullness . . . and Murder! I guess the murdering part wasn’t that dull.
ALICE: I’d rather the dullness, thank you very much, having almost been murdered myself. I’ll wear scratchy wool, eat overcooked food, and listen to sermons that make you fall asleep in your chair, if it means not being poisoned.
DIANA: Alice, you have no sense of adventure.
ALICE: Quite right, miss.
“You hadn’t yet gotten your Magdalen Society dress when I saw you,” Alice continued. “That terrible gray wool we all had to wear! It was when you were coming out of Mrs. Raymond’s office. I was mopping the floor on my hands and knees, and got a good look at you as you walked past, though you wouldn’t have noticed me then. I thought, I’d know that dress she’s wearing anywhere—it belonged to Mrs. Jekyll, God rest her soul. It was her lavender tea gown, and many’s the time I’ve helped Mrs. Purvis, the laundress, wash it. And I thought, I want to find out why she’s wearing that dress. So when we went into the sewing room, I watched you, and then at dinner I sat next to you. I asked Sister Margaret if you could share my bed, since I was lonely at night, having always slept with another servant. That was another lie, I’m afraid. And then when you got up at night, I followed.”