The Fall (10 page)

The maid served a light supper of beef soup and sandwiches. Moriarty and I took it in his study, next to the fireplace. His posture was stiff, his shoulders slightly drawn up, and he repeatedly rubbed his eyes and neck. I avoided looking directly into his face.

‘Mr Goff reported on your success with the isolation of glanders germs. Congratulations, Dr Kronberg.’ His voice was monotonous and strained.
 

The isolation of glanders had been simple enough, not too great a leap for a bacteriologist. I wondered whether he still regretted the loss of his battle for the Plague, but then wiped the thought away. Surely this defeat had not brought about his foul mood. So then, what had?

‘Thank you,’ I answered in the same neutral tone.

‘The next thing I want you to do is test the germs’ storage tolerance. How long can we keep them, and how does the duration of storage influence the infection rate?’

I had already planned on testing storage conditions. His background knowledge and how he placed the puzzle pieces of bacteriology and warfare together impressed me every time. It scared me, too. My room to manoeuvre was very limited.

‘I will let Goff procure more mice and an array of cages. It will be difficult, though, to study the spread of disease in such a small room.’ I thought about space, air circulation, and isolation of infected individuals. None of it made sense. The risk of transmission was too high. ‘It will not be possible,’ I said finally.

‘Why?’

‘The laboratory is too small. If we want to study transmission, animals in control groups should be isolated from one another. We want to test the spreading of disease through wind, food, and water. But if the test subjects are all in one small room, sooner or later they will all be infected and we won’t know what exactly was the most efficient or the least controllable vector. Besides, if hospital staff suddenly contract anthrax, the project will be over before it begins.’ How curious that I could make it sound as though it bothered me to ruin our germ warfare project.

He pressed his fingertips together and shut his eyes. His hunch worsened. ‘Would a warehouse be suitable?’

‘If it’s dry and its walls and ceiling are intact, yes. Can we guard it?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Some renovations might be necessary. We will probably need to pull up walls to separate rooms or seal doors,’ I added.

‘That won’t be a problem,’ he said in a strained voice as he rose to his feet. ‘To the smoking room,’ he squeezed through his teeth and walked ahead. I followed, wondering at how casual he appeared over financial issues. And then it hit me. So stupid of me! Who else would pay for research into novel warfare technologies if not the government and the military?
 

How odd. Although one essential puzzle piece seemed to have been found, the whole picture had just grown so vast that I could barely see its outlines.

Once there, Moriarty sat down on the ottoman. His hand shook slightly as he opened a tin the size of his palm, revealing a brownish cake. He took a knife and pried a piece off, struck a match and lit a lump of charcoal on a platter, occasionally blowing onto it. The brown substance stuck to the knife’s tip, was held half an inch from the red heat. I could hear it sizzling. Uncertain whether he wished me to stay or to leave, I remained and observed.
 

Pungent smoke started to fill the room, and its odour felt strangely familiar. Much like the fireflies I had caught as a child.

He used a slender pipe to blow air onto the brown lump, which I guessed to be opium. Then he sucked on the mouthpiece, blew at the drug, inhaled again. And so it went on, inhaling and blowing, until a minute or two later, he closed his eyes and leaned back, holding his breath.

After a long moment, a thin sliver of fume exited his nostrils, curling upwards to disappear. The thought of a dragon brushed my mind.

‘Sit, please,’ he said softly, gesturing towards the ottoman’s end. I approached, my silk dress rustling a cautious whisper. He smiled and the change that came upon him shocked me. His expression was soft and friendly. His hand stroked his waistcoat as though this simple gesture gave him great satisfaction. Yet his mind seemed sharp and observant; he had noticed my slight hesitation.

‘You assume I am addicted? Well, maybe I am. Rheumatism creates the need for chemical relief.’

‘I doubt that.’

‘Excuse me?’ There it was again — the coldness in his voice that could cut through any conversation.

‘I doubt your physician made the correct diagnosis.’

‘Intriguing,’ he replied, appearing genuinely interested. ‘What is your diagnosis, Dr Kronberg?’ The lack of derisiveness in his voice confused me. I gazed at him, a little afraid of this new side of him, a little surprised and even relieved to see a part that I did not despise and fear at once.

‘It is not rheumatism that causes your pain, I believe. It is not aggravated by cold weather, for example. From what I was able to observe, it is brought on solely by disappointment. The instant you want something badly but cannot have it, your strong will bends your body. Your neck and shoulders clench, you hunch and develop a severe headache that causes you to be oversensitive to light and sound.’

‘Interesting,’ he replied and I could hear warning in his voice. ‘And very observant. How did this escape my notice?’ he mused. ‘If you were correct, it would mean there is no cure. Only alleviation.’

I found myself smiling at him to conceal the confusion. Did he mean he should have noticed that I was observant, or that his symptoms had not been diagnosed correctly?

‘How could that possibly amuse you?’ His voice gradually regained the familiar coldness, but he still caressed his waistcoat slowly. How curious! Opium seemed to make him revel in his own touch. Or was it touch in general?

‘The fact that you are in pain should amuse me, should it not?’

‘One would think so. But I don’t believe you could ever leave your compassion behind. Even if it is for a man who abducts, imprisons, and blackmails you. And that empathy, I fancy, is your greatest weakness.’

‘You are wrong,’ I said. ‘It is my greatest strength. I might be the only person who is trying to detect a human being behind your facade.’

He cackled and I felt my blood rise.

‘What a waste of your time, my dear.’

‘I am not your dear.’

Silence fell. His arm shot forward and grabbed my wrist. Before he could open his mouth I replied, ‘I believe you have a problem with your spine that can be solved with physical therapy.’

Part of me wondered why I offered this to him. Why would I try to help him at all when I wanted him to die on the spot? Was it only because of the terror he caused every time he transformed into rage itself? Or was he correct? Could I not let go of my compassion? The other, calculating part of me leaned back to enjoy the show. One step further into the lion’s den meant getting closer to the exit on the other side.

He watched me with narrowed eyes, waiting for a response.

‘Did you begin hating everyone when they beat the left-handedness out of you?’ I snarled. The coldness in my voice had the desired effect — that of a slap on the cheek. The blood vessel on his temple bulged, his eyes turned black, his hand now painfully clamping down on my wrist. But all I saw was a little boy, once defenceless and now possessing all the weapons of mankind. I turned my head away, thinking how very naive I could sometimes be.

‘I know that bone-setting is not a widely accepted treatment,’ I said quietly and felt his grip loosen. ‘Mostly because bone-setters are more reminiscent of butchers than surgeons. However, I still think that manipulating the vertebrae in your neck will improve your symptoms greatly.’

He exhaled slowly and let go of me, pushed himself farther up, and with a voice straining for control he asked, ‘What drives a bacteriologist into the study of physical therapy?’

It felt like stepping away from a cliff.

‘During my time in Boston, I met Dr Still. He is a physician and a surgeon with great insight into human anatomy. He invented a treatment he later coined
osteopathy
, which is essentially a gentle manipulation of tissues and bones to stimulate the body’s self-healing capabilities.’

‘But you could not have been his pupil,’ he noted, his eyes glazed over and his mind gone to some other place. A second later he returned and said, ‘Because you would have to work in pairs to practice and study. But none of the good doctor’s students had the need to masquerade as a man. Only you.’

‘Indeed,’ I whispered.

‘How much hatred you must feel for us,’ he muttered.

‘For men? You think I hate men?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No. Yes. Sometimes maybe,’ I said, wondering why I had volunteered this information.

‘What a most peculiar situation. Here you sit, next to a man who threatens your life and that of your father. A man you despise. A man you want to kill as soon as the time is right. But you don’t feel threatened now. You even offer your help. This makes you feel guilty. Why?’

‘Isn’t that obvious?’

‘Because you believe you allow yourself a weakness and you don’t understand that reflex of yours,’ he observed.

I offered him a compressed smile.

‘But does it not require, and even add strength, to explore all depths of one’s own character? The dark alleys, the filthy corners, the diseased limb we want to saw off,’
 
he said, his eyes intense.

I held his gaze, trying to see behind the speckled grey of his irises. ‘And you lost yourself in that maze of your dark alleys,’ I replied. ‘You hate ferociously. You desire passionately. You take heedlessly. There is no giving, no loving, no smiling in you. Because you are scared of the susceptibility it may bring.’

More time passed, time of observation and contemplation, until he finally said, ‘Am I correct in assuming that you did find a way to learn osteopathy?’

‘I cannot say I learned it well. I had to practice mostly on myself. But yes, I am able to at least set bones.’

‘Try it then.’ His voice lacked its usual commanding sharpness.

How could he not know he presented me with his most vulnerable part? That fragile connection to his brain. The neck, so easily broken with the correct movement and acceleration, even by a woman. Perhaps, this was the reason — I was but a woman and therefore no threat to his life. At least I wouldn’t be able to take it by force, or so he must think. How very short-sighted.

‘Take off your cravat and loosen your collar, please’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Then turn around and place your head where your feet are. Lie on your back.’ My gut was quivering. If I killed him now, my father would be murdered in return. The risk was too high, but the desire so overwhelming I could barely breathe.

He lay on his back, relaxed and a little expectant. What a curious situation. With him gazing up at me, being at my mercy without his knowledge.
 

I knelt and took his head into my hands. The carotid artery was tapping against the pale skin of his throat. I pictured a quick slash with a sharp blade, the gush of hot blood, the gurgles, the jerking and twisting of a man’s body fighting death, long after his mind had given up. I closed my eyes and pushed my imagination away.

‘It does surprise me, though,’ he said quietly.
 

It did surprise me, too. Although he apparently got what he wanted — my trust — he had to give me a little of his, too. But I had an inkling that even without this game of give and take, I would have treated him nonetheless.

Without reply, I let my hands work around his cervical spine, pressing at numerous small knots. Now and again, he suppressed a wince. His head lay in my palms. I rotated it from left to right and right to left, my fingers probing the sides of his neck. His atlas — the first vertebra supporting the skull — appeared to be severely misaligned. I willed myself not to regard the identity of the man I held in my hands and focused solely on the matter at hand.
 

His shoulders and neck were so stiff that it took me a good deal of time to work some flexibility into them. I felt him relax; his breathing grew regular and deep. It was time. With a quick clock-wise rotation I jerked his skull towards me. Two loud cracks announced the return of the atlas to its natural position. He sucked in air, producing a hiss, obviously realising the dangerous moment that had escaped his control. He stared at me with a mix of terror and amazement.

He was about to push himself into a sitting position when I placed my hand on his brow and said, ‘Remain there for a little longer. Your body is so accustomed to the misalignment of your vertebrae; it will need time to adjust.’

He made no reply, but did as I said. I excused myself and left the room, hoping he might even believe I was grateful that he had saved me from Moran. Hoping we would repeat this scene.