The girl’s eyes popped open. She looked like a startled doll, then confusion and resentment and fear battled for the upper hand in her expression.
“We’re here to help you,” I said quickly. “Tell me, would you like to come away from here?”
“Dear God,” she cried fervently. “Yes!”
“Alcinda!” barked the Mrs.-Smurl-in-charge. “Dormite!”
Although my sisters and I were not allowed to study Latin, because of some notion that dead languages might damage the weaker female brain, we heard odds and ends of it from my father while we were growing up, and that particular command was one he’d often directed at one or another of us at the end of a long and tiring day.
She froze, as in a game of statues, but the utter blankness of Alcinda’s expression had nothing playful about it.
“Violet,” I said sharply, and when I was rewarded by a look of surprise from the pale, wan creature in beige, I said, “Dormite.” It worked. Unfortunately, I knew no one else’s name.
“I suppose you think you’re very clever,” said Mrs. Smurl.
“Not really. You wake her, we wake Alcinda, and so on, and so forth. What a waste of time. I’m sure you wouldn’t like Mr. Smurl to find us here …”
“You would like it even less, I think,” she said with a malicious smile.
I felt a quiver of apprehension, wondering if she might actually want to keep us here until he returned.
Jesperson, meanwhile, had roused Alcinda, and, his manner cool, informed Mrs. Smurl that we were taking her away. “And if either of you ladies would care to join us?” With a charming smile, he looked at the two women flanking Mrs. Smurl. They responded as if to a lewd suggestion, shrinking back, shaking their heads; the slightly plumper one in grey even shut her eyes.
“We are happy as we are,” said Mrs. Smurl, putting an arm around the waist of the trembling lady in grey.
“Not all of you,” I said, offering my hand to Alcinda, who gripped it hard.
“Ungrateful minx!” Mrs. Smurl glared, and her anger gleamed a moment like a razor blade catching the light, then vanished into the darkness of her shrug, as she seemed to relax. “Very well. You may go, if you wish, Alcinda, but you can never return. There will be no forgiveness. And if you should even think of betraying us—”
Beside me, I felt her shudder as she shook her head.
The woman continued: “But if you should try, Mr. Smurl will have his revenge. There is no escaping him, you know, no matter how far you go, no matter what happens to him in this life, his power over you will not be diminished.”
“I won’t say anything, Martha. I promised him I would not, and I keep my promises, even though he did not keep his. I’ve told him so many times: I do not love him. I do not want to be married to him.”
“He has done nothing wrong. Albert is a good man. He has never forced you, has he? You admit it? Yes, I see you do; you must bow before the truth. I know, you know, you were a mistake, his little weakness, but it wasn’t the end of the world, was it? It was not. You would soon learn how to be happy. And it could still be all right, you know, if only …”
Although I did not realize, the dull repetition of her voice was having an effect. Fortunately, Jesperson was alert to the danger, and quick to pick up the key Alcinda had provided.
“Martha, dormite!” he cried, and his voice felt like a splash of water, shocking me awake.
Martha Smurl flinched; but after a brief flash of anger, her eyes were as guarded, and alert, as ever. The magic words did not work on her. “How dare you?” She drew herself up, looking daggers. “How dare you break into my home, intrude upon my peace and quiet, refuse to give your name, and then take liberties with mine? You presume to give orders that a woman should accept only from her husband.
“Get out of here,” she said, in a low and dangerous voice. “Go now.”
I was halfway to the door with Alcinda before I realized that Jesperson had not budged.
“One more thing, before I go,” he said. “I want to make it clear, if anyone else wishes to leave, she has my promise of protection.”
“Our protection,” I put in, so no one would think she must trade one master for another.
“It is not wanted,” replied Mrs. Smurl.
“With respect, madam, I should prefer to hear from each individual lady, however well qualified you may feel to speak for her.”
There was a brief, silent struggle between them, but then she gave in and woke her sisters. It turned out to be as unnecessary as she had implied: except for the old woman, Mary, who was too bewildered to understand, each of the others proclaimed her love for Mr. Smurl and expressed her desire to stay there. However the wide world might judge them, they all felt themselves to be his loving wives. While Violet was still passionately declaring that she could never leave her beloved Albert, no matter what might happen, the old woman stood up and wandered away and out of the room.
Martha Smurl gave a hiss of annoyance. “She’ll never settle now, and I shall have to spend all my time chasing after her, and Mr. Smurl will be so cross if dinner is late—”
“Never mind, dear,” said Violet, sounding anxious. “I’ll go and tend to Mother Mary—you can get on with the cooking.”
So we left them. What else could we do? We would have to be content with the rescue of Alcinda for our happy ending. After all, we had not been asked to do more.
The house where Alcinda had grown up and her family still lived was scarcely two miles away, on the other side of the cemetery, but she would not go there. Pressing her about it only made her more anxious, so we suggested that she come back to Gower Street with us. At least for the time being, it seemed wise to remove her from the chance of another encounter with Mr. Smurl.
We made our way to the train station and were soon comfortably settled with the whole of a carriage to ourselves. With no need to worry about being overheard, I raised the subject of a visit to Scotland Yard.
Her eyes widened. “Why?”
“As Mr. Smurl is so well regarded in his neighborhood, it might be better to avoid the local police. And considering the seriousness of his crimes—”
Tears filled her eyes, threatened to spill. “Crimes?” she whispered. “Oh, no, no, never!”
Although I thought she might be frightened of the revenge Mrs. Smurl had suggested, I had little patience. “He kidnapped you,” I pointed out. “That is a very serious crime.”
“But I agreed to it!”
“You agreed to become his prisoner? I think not. If you were happy there, we can take you back.” I regretted my cruel words when I saw her shudder.
“No. Please. I don’t want that. And I am grateful—oh! How grateful you may never know! It’s true—he betrayed my trust. He had his own reason for wanting me dead to the world; I was so caught up in my own plans, I did not realize. I expected to go home again a day or two after I was buried, and—” She stopped, as I was unable to repress a cry of horror. “What?”
“Do you mean to say … you knew you would be buried alive? You agreed to it?”
“Of course. Mr. Smurl explained the operation of his safety coffins to me and—well—as I was so determined to have the experience of death, how could I be satisfied unless I was pronounced dead and buried? Anything less would be hardly more than sleep. I wanted to be dead to the world, to know the quiet of the grave—it was the only way.” She spoke with simple conviction, but it was like hearing a hymn of praise to some ancient and long-forgotten god. I had found the notes in her sketchbook peculiar enough, but I was struck now even more forcibly by the distance between her way of thinking and my own. We might have belonged to two different races, indoctrinated into different belief systems. It seemed to me there was something almost inhuman about her.