The Fall (9 page)

— day 19 —
 

T
he day had been long. My legs felt heavy, my mind tired. While the former rested, the latter seemed to run in useless circles: who was in the room next to mine? Had there been others before her? Could I trust the librarian, and how would I approach him? Even if I managed to contact Holmes, how could he possibly find my father? Without information on his whereabouts, the only thing for Holmes to track was the occasional letter. My father was in England, I was certain. My letter had left the house, and four days later I had received an answer. Each letter must have travelled a maximum of two days, most likely fewer to give the translator time to read it and communicate its contents to Moriarty. The probability was high that my father’s response had not been what was expected or allowed and that he had to re-write it. Might he even be in London? So close?

The envelope looked new, without kinks or smudges. Whoever had transported it was not the regular runner boy. But who was the messenger? During my nineteen days of captivity I had yet to see or even hear a guest. Every evening seemed to be identical to the ones before: I arrived, ate and often had a meeting with Moriarty. And if not, I went straight to my room. The housekeeper bustled in the scullery. My room and clothes were taken care of while I was at the laboratory, and a good fire awaited me when I returned. Before nine at night, the maid hauled coals up the stairs and stoked the fire one last time. She did this for every inhabited room. That left her with five hours of sleep at the most before starting another day of hard work. She had her own prison, and every day I was grateful to not be living the life of a servant.
 

Gooding shared the room below mine with both cooks. Their conversations circled mostly around the coachman. The maid seemed to be secretly in love with him; the other women pitied her. Apparently, Garrow had a prominent scar across his left cheek that everyone deemed unattractive, while Gooding did not care about it. Garrow always wore his muffler to protect him from the cold weather. Hence, all I had ever seen of him was a strip of nose and eyes. He, however, seemed either utterly ignorant of Gooding’s feelings or afraid of losing his occupation if seen flirting with the maid.

A noise brought my thoughts to a full stop. I pressed the glass harder against the wall. Someone had just entered the house. The entrance door slammed; the strong wind must have torn it from Hingston’s hand. Then I heard the clacking of heels, soon cut off. Whoever it was must have entered one of the rooms just off the main hall. Anxious to identify the guest and the reason for the visit, I listened until my ears felt hollow from the strain. Complete silence filled the house. Durham didn’t even shuffle his feet. What made him tense?

After more than three hours, I heard movement on the ground floor. I opened my door. ‘I need to use the water closet.’ Durham gave a nod and walked stiffly around the corner.

Moriarty’s voice echoed in the hall. The other voice I recognised with a shiver — Moran. I could not hear what was being said. Only an occasional word made it up to the second floor. Among them was
Ragpicker’s
— so they were discussing anthrax. We were still lacking a diseased animal with clear symptoms of an anthrax infection. One could easily isolate the wrong germ if weakened animals contracted more than one disease. The two men were silent now; possibly they had heard our footsteps.

I went into the water closet, bolted the door, sat on the bowl, and tried to rub the chill off my skin. Moran’s hard face, icy blue eyes, his obsession with guns. I pulled the chain, opened the door, and stepped out into the corridor. It was empty.

Why had Durham disappeared? I noticed the faint odour of tobacco as I walked back to my room. It wasn’t like what Moriarty smoked in my presence. I opened the door and was certain I had switched the lights on before leaving, but had no time to finish the thought. A hand came down on my mouth and nose, cutting all air off. Only a grunt escaped through the nonexistent gap between my lips and Moran’s coarse palm.

I had no time to wonder what he wanted. In one swift move he curled his other arm around my waist and hoisted me into the air and onto my bed. I tried to scream, but nothing would get past his hand. Kicking did not seem to bother him. All I could do was squirm, and that seemed to increase his excitement. His knee was pressed onto my lower back. A fist in my hair pushed my face into the mattress, muffling my protests. With my breath trapped between the sheets and my mouth, lights began to flicker on the insides of my eyelids. All of a sudden, Moran stopped dead. I heard the click of a revolver being cocked and Moriarty’s snarl, ‘Control yourself!’

Moran let go of me as though I were dirt and mumbled, ‘You should be grateful for any man showing interest.’ Then he stalked out of the room.
 

My tongue probed the inside of my mouth; I had bitten my cheek. The metallic taste of blood switched my brain back on. A hand was placed on my head, then moved away again. My senses were wide open. This scene felt wrong, the undertone of lies screeching like claws across glass.

‘My apologies,’ Moriarty said. ‘I should have known better than to let him out of my sight.’
 

I pushed myself up. He did not move. What was he waiting for?

I got to my feet and gazed up at him. His right hand was compacted to a fist. The other clutched the revolver. The half of his face lit by the lamp in the hallway showed tension.

‘Well,’ I choked, ‘you can’t see him now. Maybe he is trying his luck in the next room.’

‘He wouldn’t, for she is mine.’

‘I understand. No one claimed me, so he can. You disgust me.’

Angry, he lifted his hand, pointing the weapon at my chest. I took a step forward — a stupid, pleading reflex. He misunderstood and jerked the gun farther up. Its mouth rested between my eyes. All I could think of was how awkward it was to gaze along each side of the barrel, how relaxed his hand seemed, how quiet the room was.

Without a word, he turned and left the room. The door was slammed shut, the bolt snapped into place, and a key turned.

My knees had grown too soft to keep me upright for much longer. I sat down on the bed, slowly unbuttoning my dress. I closed my eyes, recounting facts, one button at a time.

Moriarty and Moran had still been in the entrance hall when Durham and I walked to the water closet. Only two minutes later, Moran had sneaked into my room. Durham, the man who followed me like a shadow, had disappeared. I had heard no protest from the manservant. He must have been ordered to leave. Moran had caught me in my room and thrown me onto my bed, apparently to violate me. What had I heard during these short moments? Nothing. No running through the corridor, no footfall, no commotion at all. Moriarty must have been in my room, enjoying the show for a minute before stepping in and pretending to save me. Moran would not step over the limits set by Moriarty. The Colonel would obey his superior.

If Moriarty’s aim was for me to trust him, I’d certainly do him the favour.

I pulled my nightgown over my head. The soft cotton brushed my face and all of a sudden, I felt as though a blindfold had been lifted. Why had he not let Moran go any further than simply pressing me onto the bed? Wouldn’t the impact be much more impressive if Moriarty had saved me half-naked, half-raped, and out of my senses?

If this was an attempt to make me sympathise with Moriarty, why was it done so hastily? Why had he been waiting in my room, risking discovery? Did he think me so blind? Or was it his intention to taint my senses with my own arrogance? If I were arrogant enough to believe I saw more than he could conceal, I would stop questioning my own observations. Doing so would certainly render me half-blind.

How could I be so naive as to believe myself able to see behind Moriarty’s facade, analyse him, or even put my finger on his weak spots? He played with me while concealing the lie with another lie.

Moran’s final sentence kept ringing in my ears.
You should be grateful for any man showing interest.

— day 40 —
 

G
off stood behind me, hands clasped behind his back, feet on tiptoe, peeking over my shoulder. Even if we had been working together for twenty years, a woman for a superior would still shock him, I was certain.

The petri dish in my hand contained golden-brown beef broth gelatin adorned with wrinkly white splotches — colonies of the glanders germ. I held a fine metal lancet in the blue of the Bunsen burner’s flame. As soon as it glowed bright red, I drove it into the gelatin. A hiss and the lancet was cooled down. I picked off a small piece from one of the colonies, spread it onto fresh media, then took another bit from the exact same dot and released it into a test tube with water. The white clump fell from the lance’s tip and sank to the bottom. I stoppered the tube and flicked it until the germs were homogeneously mixed with the liquid, then rose to my feet.

Goff stepped aside, and I made for the six cages, sealed inside a glass cabinet. The mice within served as test subjects to ascertain that my pure cultures were indeed glanders germs and not contaminants. I drew the deadly liquid into a glass pipette, opened the hatch, and measured exactly two millilitres into each of the troughs. Once finished, I placed the contaminated equipment into a container filled with grain alcohol.

‘Can we expect the usual incubation time?’ asked Goff.

‘This is a fairly high dose. I believe the mice will display first symptoms much sooner, possibly within a few days instead of two weeks.’

Bacteriology laboratory, early 1900s. (5)

The germs had been obtained from the liver of a horse with glanders in its final stage. After testing various pure cultures on mice, I had found two that caused the typical symptoms. Now, it was only a matter of being certain, identifying glanders germs by the colour and shape of their colonies, and keeping them contaminant-free and alive. Meanwhile, we kept our ears open for any sheep or cattle infected with anthrax. We could then isolate bacteria from their spleens.

Soon, my laboratory would be the most dangerous in the British Empire. One of the workbenches was lined with twenty pear-shaped glass vessels stoppered with cotton wads, waiting to be used as storage containers for large amounts of fatal bacteria. With the gaslight reflecting off them, they resembled Christmas tree decorations.

Around the room were other, much larger flasks, all tightly sealed so as not to let the alcohol escape into air. I had explained to Goff that large amounts of grain alcohol were needed as a safety measure. If we contaminated ourselves accidentally, we could disinfect our hands with it, or even soak and burn our clothes if necessary. Although I had told him the truth, I had certainly not revealed the most interesting part.