"Wait a moment," I say, catching up, keeping one eye on Miss McCleethy as she nears the corner."I don't know if that's wise."
Ann takes Felicity's side, of course. "You wanted to know. This is the way to find out."
There is no fighting the both of them. Miss McCleethy stops, turns. With a collective gasp, we congregate in front of a knife sharpener. In a moment, she continues on her way.
"Well?" Felicity asks. It is less a question than a dare.
The knife sharpener's cries--"Knives! Made well sharp!"-- rise above the street noise. Miss McCleethy is nearly gone from sight.
"Let's go," I say.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
WE FOLLOW MISS MCCLEETHY FOR SOME TIME, PAST shopkeepers in shirtsleeves rushing parcels out to waiting carriages and a woman in severe black who implores us to remember the unfortunate during this Christmas season. We pay them no mind; only our quarry matters.
At Charing Cross, Miss McCleethy surprises us, entering the Underground station.
"What do we do now?" Felicity says.
I take a deep breath."I suppose we travel by Underground."
"I've never been on the Underground before," Ann says uncertainly.
"Nor have I,"Felicity says.
"No time like the present," I say, though the thought of it makes my breath hang to the bony rungs of my ribs. The Metropolitan District Railway. Right. It's just a train underground, Gemma. This is an adventure, and I'm an adventurous girl. Simon said so.
"Here, don't be frightened, Ann. Give me your hand," I say.
"I'm not frightened," she states, pushing past me, taking the stairs that lead down into the tunnels that run beneath London's busy streets as if it were no trouble at all. There is nothing to do but follow. I take a solid, deep breath and charge ahead. Halfway down, I turn to see Felicity standing at the top of the steps looking doubtful. She stares at me as if I am Eurydice being pulled back into the Underworld.
"Gemma--wait!" she cries, rushing to join me.
At the bottom of the stairs, a room opens. We're standing on a gaslit platform. The great curved wooden ceiling of the tunnel soars above us. Down the platform, Miss McCleethy waits. We stay out of sight until the train shooshes into the station. Miss McCleethy enters, and we walk quickly to the car adjacent to hers. It is difficult to know what is more exciting: the possibility of being discovered by Miss McCleethy or our first journey on the Underground. We take turns sticking our heads out into the aisle in a very unladylike fashion so that we might spy on Miss McCleethy in the next compartment. For her part, Miss McCleethy is contentedly reading Miss Wyatt's book about secret societies. I am desperate to know what she has discovered but don't dare look at our copy lest we lose sight of our teacher.
The conductor announces our departure. With a sharp pull, the train lurches into the tunnel. Felicity grips my hand. It is a strange sensation to find ourselves moving through this darkened passageway, the low glimmer of the gaslights trailing across our astonished faces like falling stars.
A conductor stands near, ready to call each stop from its platform. Miss McCleethy does not look up from her book. When the conductor announces Westminster Bridge, however, she closes her book and gets off the train with the three of us trailing at a safe distance. We come out onto the streets, blinking in the sudden light.
"She's taking that horse tram!" Felicity says.
"We're done for, then," I say. "We can't very well follow her onto it. She'll see us."
Ann grabs my hand. "We can do it. Look, there's a crowd. We'll fall in. If she should see us, we'll simply say we are sightseeing."
It's a very daring plan. Miss McCleethy moves to the back of the crowded tram. We stand near the front, keeping as many people between us as possible. At Westminster Bridge Road, Miss McCleethy alights, and we nearly trample one another trying to follow her. I know where we are. I've been here recently. We're in Lambeth, very near Bethiem Royal Hospital. Indeed, Miss McCleethy walks briskly in that direction. Within minutes, we are watching her as she strides through the iron gates and up the curved walk to the entrance's grand portico. We hide ourselves in some hedges along the walk, crouching low.
"What does she want at Bedlam?" Felicity says ominously. A chill passes through me."Nell Hawkins is there."
"You don't suppose Miss McCleethy would harm her, do you?" Ann asks in that inappropriately excited way that suggests she doesn't find the idea entirely distasteful if it makes the afternoon into a good story. "I don't know." I say. "But it certainly makes me think they are known to each other, most likely from Saint Victoria's."
