The Fall (13 page)

— day 54 —
 

T
he night was perfect — moonless, overcast, and foggy as pea soup. I could barely see the ground beneath my window. The ice had melted the day before, leaving the ivy less brittle. The wind had settled. My scent wouldn’t be carried far.

Dressed in my darkest walking clothes, I opened the window, placed my foot on the sill, and pushed myself up. With my shoes left behind in the room, my toes began to freeze as soon as I held them out into the cold and humid night air. Soon enough, the chill crawled in between my garments, seeking out all the small cracks and fissures. I had to move quickly now.

The first thick vine was far to the right. I held onto the window frame and leaned far out. The fingertips of my right hand barely reached it. The heat of my own blood licked at my skin, prickling me all over as I hauled myself out to catch the vine. Both my feet lost their support and I reeled down and to the side until I found another ivy branch to catch. I hugged it hard, not daring to breathe and not daring to weigh a single ounce more. The vines had started to come off the wall just above my head. The slamming of my heart and the hiss of blood rushing through my head was deafening.
 

I pressed my brow into the cold evergreen leaves, calmed myself, and listened intently. The noise I had made while colliding with the wall must have appeared much louder to me that it had really been. The night grew dead quiet again. Nothing stirred below me or in the house.

Puffs of frosted breath clouded my view as I climbed further. Only two more yards to go. The vines underneath the other window were thicker, and I reached the sill soon enough. The ivy that had grown into the reveal was painted yellow by the flickering firelight. My hand prickled as I slipped it into the brightness and slowly pushed up to peek through the window.

I don’t know what I had been expecting, but it was certainly not what revealed itself to me: a large room with heavy carpets, expensive furniture, and a lit fireplace that threw light onto my hand and part of my face. There was a bed, which looked much like mine, and that fact made my stomach clench. A woman with a stunning red mane sat in front of the vanity and brushed her hair with a silver brush. My head jerked back. She could possibly see me through the reflection in the looking glass.

Something was wrong, but what precisely? I closed my eyes and scrutinised the picture in my head, but could not find what it was that had disturbed me. Ever so carefully, I peeked through the window again. She was still brushing her hair. Still the same movement, over and over again. Her face in the glass was strangely unmoving, her eyes without depth. It appeared as though she saw neither herself nor her surroundings. She kept brushing the same strand of copper hair, lightly and without interest.
 

I began to wonder why I had risked two lives with this excursion. Learning what Moriarty was doing to this woman had seemed important to me. Finding that there was nothing to see, that she had not been bound and tortured, made me doubt my decision. One last look through the room and I turned away. Or rather, I meant to. I heard a shriek and saw her face turned towards me. There was terror in her eyes and mine probably reflected it.

As fast as I could, but without throwing myself off the wall, I climbed back towards my window. The thick vine that had seemed close enough the last time I clung to it, now seemed too far off. It was loose. If it came off the wall, my excursion would be revealed. I had no other choice but to climb all the way to the ground, trying to tread only on the few solid ice patches.

Then I heard the dogs barking. Panic stricken, I ran the few yards to the next vine that would lead me back up to my room. I scaled it, repeatedly stepping on the hem of my stupid skirt. The dogs were very close now and their baying would soon wake the entire household. Desperately, I flung myself through my window, tore one stocking off, rolled it into a ball and threw it as far as I could. The dogs saw the thing flying and ran after it, tearing it to pieces as soon as it hit the ground. Now I knew how well trained they were.

Quickly, I yanked off my clothes, threw them into a far corner and pulled my nightgown over my head.

The bang on my door did not come as a surprise. Neither did the low growl as he entered the room without permission. Moriarty froze in the door frame. I saw the tension in his shoulders. It pushed me two steps backwards. He stepped out of the light and snapped the door shut. Both of us in the darkness, he snatched my right hand. It was ice cold.

‘You attempted an escape. I’d have never expected such mindlessness from you,’ he shot at me, together with a few flecks of saliva. ‘Let us hope your father will not contract tetanus after his hand has been hacked off.’

‘Why would you want to break our agreement?’ I cried.
 

‘You cannot fool me.’

‘You expect what you fear,’ I quoted him and the smirk was wiped off in an instant. ‘The dogs were chasing after something and I watched them.’ I forced my voice into monotony. ‘The fog was thick and they seemed to be having problems finding it. My window was open for at least half an hour while I leaned out, trying to break off some of the vine and throw it at the dogs to distract them. It did not work. Then, I saw them cornering a hare not far from my window. I rolled up one of the stockings I wore today and cast it into the bushes. The dogs went after it and tore it apart. You can go and look, the shreds should still be there. You can also look for footprints, but you will find none.’

We stared at each other. His jaws were working. He straightened up and said, ‘As you wish,’ and pushed past me towards the window. My heart was hammering. Each thud seemed to crack my ribcage. He leaned out, inspecting the vines below the sill, then picked at the leaves and whistled. The dogs approached, yapping excitedly. ‘Fetch,’ he commanded. I did not dare move while the dogs’ yapping and the tapping of their paws moved further away, then returned.

‘It appears to be a wool stocking,’ I heard Durham call from outside. My breathing stopped as I heard Moriarty laugh softly. He turned away from the window and walked back to the door. Cold wind pressed against my back as he opened it.

‘Have a good night,’ he said.

‘If you do my father any harm, I will kill you and I know it will be the last thing I’ll do.’

‘Not tonight,’ he answered and shut my door.

Rooted to the spot, I desperately hoped the woman next door would not mention this odd appearance of a female head in her window past midnight.

— day 55 —
 

H
air hung into her face — white wisps on pale and wrinkled skin. Her back was bent, her hands were… slender? She winked at me and I smiled back at him.

I bolted the lavatory door, painfully aware of Goff only inches away on the other side of the wall.
 

 
‘I did not recognise you at first,’ I said, a little ashamed. The corners of his mouth twitched. Something seemed to make him hesitate.

‘You said you have been on Moriarty’s heels for months now,’ I began. He shook his head, about to open his mouth to protest. I held up my hand and said, ‘It is our best option under these circumstances. If you freed my father now and I made my escape, your efforts in catching Moriarty’s men would be in vain.’

‘You are not made for such a feat.’ A simple statement. And it split me in two. One part longed to kick his shin for underestimating me, and the other part wished to agree, fall into his arms to be taken away from misery. At that moment, only the thought of my imprisoned father held me where I was.

‘Let that be my concern. If I stay longer I might even gain Moriarty’s trust and gather information that might help you find and arrest him and his men.’
 

From what I had seen of his mistress, I knew this was the best course. She had not been tied to the bed and she looked unharmed.

His voice was cold as he said, ‘I will find your father and only then will we decide how to proceed.’

I nodded, hoping desperately he would find him in good health.
 

‘I’m aware that I represent an obstacle for you and your plan of arresting Moriarty’s gang. I am also aware that, despite the small chance of being an asset to your endeavour, I could just as well cause its downfall. But I am here and you will have to accept that fact.’

Holmes gave me a measuring stare. ‘You are aware of the danger,’ he said. Did I see a mix of relief and concern in his face? Or was it hope that I would soon abandon the idea?

‘Of course I am,’ I replied. ‘Find my father, but then we wait. When the danger for him is too great, or when you have everything you need to press charges on Moriarty and his men, you rescue my father. I know how to make my escape.’

‘As I already said, we will decide once I find him.’ Holmes’ hand curled around the sink’s edge, his knuckles whitened. ‘We need to communicate on a regular basis. I have searched this room for nooks to hide messages in and found that certain corners were unusually clean.’

‘This room has been searched?’

He nodded. ‘Regularly.’

‘Actually, I was thinking of something else. It is rather disgusting and only a one-way communication route, but it will be safe. Moriarty has water closets installed in his house—’

‘Brilliant!’ he interrupted. ‘Place your notes in a small glass vial, then seal it with red wax. It will float and strike the eye. We need to agree on a specific time. What would be most suitable for you?’

I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Sherlock Holmes happily crawling through the sewage system, trying to find a message in a bottle.

‘Between six and eight o’clock at night I would think. When I drop a glove, a handkerchief, or the like in the morning when getting out of the brougham, a message will be sent to you that same evening.’

He nodded, excitement shining in his eyes.
 

How odd. The disquietude our sudden interdependency seemed to have caused him was flicked away in an instant.

Then, his face hardened. ‘I read your will. I do understand your intentions, but why would you leave your cottage to me?’

‘My father wouldn’t want it,’ I said defiantly.

He gazed at the door as though Goff could march in any moment. With a nod he readied himself to depart while his face collapsed into a wrinkled landscape, his shoulders hunched, knees bent slightly. Within seconds, Holmes transformed himself back to the old and tired woman I had encountered upon entering the lavatory.

‘One more thing,’ I said before taking my leave. ‘The torso case last year; I remember you investigated it. Did you have any suspicions?’

‘No. Why would you ask?’

‘Just answer me, please. Tell me what you know.’

He replied in a quiet, machine-like
rat tat tat
, ‘It was a woman’s torso, a red-head judging from her pubic hair. Her skin was without blemishes and smelled faintly of patchouli. She had had intercourse. There was still sperm in her uterus, indicating that she had been murdered soon thereafter. I found one bite mark on her hip. It was a dog’s.’

Upon his words, the blood sang in my ears. I was glad my back was towards Holmes.

Once I had swallowed the nausea, left the lavatory, and walked through the corridors with Goff in my wake, I wondered whether I had just sold my father’s life. But for what? For the mere possibility of saving others with a great chance of saving no one at all?

Why was it that Holmes caused such an imbalance in me? His words and actions could hit my sorest spots. How would I deal with that weakness next time we met? By shutting him out completely? But hadn’t I already tried that for a year?

— day 57 —
 

T
he brougham flew along the streets. The rattling of wheels was accompanied by the clacking and screeching of spiked horseshoes on ice-covered cobblestones. One week before Christmas, the winter had begun in earnest and sent snow and ice all over Britain. The woollen blanket covering my legs was of little help. The only warm part of me, too warm in fact, was my head inside a velvet bag.