Chapter 9

Molly took a few steps back to better observe the result of her effort in the mirror.

She found herself running a finger over the harsh bristle of her fake moustache which usually, as soon as she put it on, caused a slight itch on her upper lip. She knew well, however, that it would be a matter of few moments before she no longer felt it.

Of her entire disguise, moustache was the only detail really bothered her. But, on the other hand, she hadn't been able to disregard it, both because moustache was necessary to hide her true identity, and because it was how Molly had always imagined Martin would be at that age.

Actually, that's how he imagined himself, "When I grow up I'll grow a moustache like Grandpa Edmund" was what he always said when as youngsters, lying on the lawn behind their house, the two of them talked about what they would be like when they grew up.

But Martin never had the chance to become an adult. He had thrown himself into the raging waters of River Derwent to save her during that damned storm so many years ago and had died at just seventeen.

Molly looked down at her left hand. It was shaking, "Drat!" she huffed as she closed it in a fist and lifted it to her chest. In her mind's eye, it was still clutched to her brother's in a desperate attempt to pull him to the bank with her, "Let me go, Margaret! I'll do it myself!" he had shouted at her.

But Martin hadn't succeeded. The river's flow was truly remarkable and the effort made to get her out of the water had been too much even for a growing boy like him. Molly would never forget how his hand slipped out of hers and how the water took him away.

It was her mother who held her back by force, her primary instinct to dive after Martin and it was her mother who had held her in her arms all night, keeping her warm by the fireplace while her father and other neighbours were looking for Martin.

And it had always been her who listened to Molly silent but steady cry, and cradled her like when she was a child and had a bad dream. She wished it were, but that wasn't a bad dream. Martin would not be brought home alive, Molly felt it in her gut. And the more hours passed, the more certain she was of it. And she had felt heart-wrenching.

All things considered, if she hadn't gone to Meena that afternoon, if she hadn't stayed longer than expected, if when the storm broke out she hadn't taken the shortcut and hadn't tried to cross that old bridge, Martin would have been home, safe and sound. But that wasn't the case. And it was entirely her fault.

Regrettably, Molly's fear turned out to be well-founded and Martin's lifeless body was found the afternoon of the following day several miles downstream. As soon as the news spread, relatives, friends and several fellow villagers flocked to their home to offer their condolences to Henry and Adelaide Hopper, but also to offer them support and unconditional affection in a moment of such profound pain.

Molly had taken advantage of the relentless coming and going to lock herself in her bedchamber. All she wanted was to become invisible to everyone. She was so tremendously guilt-ridden that she really didn't have the strength to stay in a living room full of people drinking tea, eating biscuits and remembering how good and intelligent Martin was.

She wanted to mourn her brother on her own. And so she had done, letting herself slip in a state of total numbness.

She would stand for hours by the window, leaning her shoulder against the frame, looking out without actually seeing anything. From time to time her cheeks were flooded with tears, but she cried without sobs or sighs.

When it got dark outside she went to lie down in bed, but she didn't rest. Her gaze still alert and fixed on the ceiling. If it hadn't been for Cecilia, her lady's maid, lighting a candle on her night table, Molly would have remained easily in the dark.

Surprisingly enough, no one in the rest of the house, apart from Cecilia, seemed to have noticed her absence. Or maybe they all had pretended not to notice. Molly couldn't speak for relatives and friends, but her parents certainly understood how guilty she felt for Martin's death, just as they understood she needed to be alone for a while.

The unknown was, for how long? If they had asked her, Molly wouldn't have been able to answer. Maybe forever. How can you lean the pain of losing a brother who was a mere year younger than you, with whom you had lived almost in symbiosis?

It was no consolation to her to hear from Cecilia that Martin's life wasn't the only life lost during that storm. It had also proved fatal for several animals and for a farmer who had tried to preserve his farm from the elements. The entire Milford community was united by a common pain.

Molly had comprehended what the maid was trying to do, but her mind had refused to accept Martin's death as a mere accident during an exceptionally intense storm. She needed to blame someone. And that someone was her. Period.

She had spent two whole days like this, isolated from everything and everyone. And she would have spent the third day, that of Martin's funeral, in the same way, if Mrs Isabel Stamford, née Bennet, had not arrived. Molly's mother's cousin actually had rushed from London as soon as she had been given notice of the dreadful tragedy.

The knock on the door had been short and firm, but Molly hadn't bothered to respond with the expected "Come in", her attention entirely focused on the verdant lawn her bedchamber overlooked and on the rising sun which forecast that as a warm and bright day.

It couldn't have been anyone else but Cecilia. The poor girl had never stopped bringing Molly trays and trays full of all sorts of goodies in the hope that sooner or later she would give up her intention of not having breakfast, lunch or dinner, "Margaret, darling".

Except that wasn't her lady's maid's voice. It was Isabel's. And just hearing it, had lifted Molly's spirits. A deep, immediate sense of relief had washed over her. Magically, the sense of guilt and oppression for her brother's death had eased, and she was able to breathe again.

It had always been like this with Isabel. Ever since Molly was a child and not even her mother was able to instil any sense into her, Isabel had always had this calming clout over her. This was why the Hoopers had turned to her when, according to them, Molly had become unmanageable.

Another knock, "Margaret?".

"Come in" Molly had said. And Mrs Stamford had entered. She looked lovely, even though she was wearing a black mourning dress and her eyes were puffy, "Sweet, sweet child!" were her only words.

And Molly didn't need the woman to say anything else to nestle in her arms, realizing only then how much she needed to be hugged and comforted. Contrary to what she had believed, in fact, distancing herself from those she loved and who cared about her had not helped her cope better with the loss of Martin.

"Mark my words, Margaret" she had softly whispered, lifting her chin so their eyes met, "Martin will always be with you". Isabel's hand had fallen to Molly's chest, where her heart was, "He's in here".

That's how the idea came to her. To bring Martin back to life, that was. Let him live the life he had always wanted. Moving to London, studying at medical school, becoming a pathologist.

Molly's mind immediately had gone into action. How could she ensure Martin was still alive even though he was no longer alive? This thought had become an obsession to her. So much so she had faced the day of the funeral and those that followed it, not with a dejected spirit but with renewed firmness.

By the time she returned to London to stay with the Stamfords, Molly had everything planned.

If she was going to pass herself off as Martin, she needed to dress up as a boy. And for this task, Molly saw no better person to ask for advice and help than a young harlot who, a year earlier, had entrusted Isabel with one of the girls she worked with who had unfortunately become pregnant.

Irene Adler had proven to be reliable and intelligent and Molly had immediately felt at ease with her. Both shared the revolutionary thought that women should not be dependent on men, neither economically nor emotionally. And since then, despite their different lifestyle, they had become friends.

Thanks to her profession, Irene boasted several acquaintances both in well-to-do London and among the upper echelons of the most important institutions. Some of these members, not quite of their own free will, had interceded with the London Hospital Medical Collage so that Molly would enrol Martin without having to produce all the required documentation.

It would have been easier to enrol Martin in the city's other renowned medical school, St Bartholomew's Medical College of which Mike Stamford was head of course, but Molly doubted he would go along with what she had in her mind.

It had taken her time and patience to better organize her attendance at medical lectures under the guise of Martin Hooper, and her commitments as Isabel and Mike Stamford's protégé, but in the end she had succeeded.

Isabel and her husband had been in the dark about what Molly was up to as Martin Hooper for a solid two years. Until one morning when she, who used to sit in the third row in the lecture hall, had occupied a seat at the front. The lesson scheduled that day was particularly interesting and she didn't want to miss a single bit of it.

When her teacher, the eminent Professor Jameson had announced that the highly esteemed Dr Stamford of St Bart's Hospital, would be joining him in lecturing, Molly had considered leaving the hall immediately, but doing so inevitably meant attracting attention. So she sat there with the vain hope Mike wouldn't notice her, and even if he did, wouldn't recognize her given her disguise.

Needless to say, the first thing Stamford did was to look one by one at the students sitting in the front row. And when he narrowed his eyes at her, she was sure she had been discovered. He didn't say anything. Not during class.

But that evening at home, Isabel and Mike had confronted her. They were not angry. They were simply flummoxed at her audacity in carrying out such a plan as much as they understood why she had done it. And they were very worried about the consequences if she were exposed.

Despite their concerns and reservations, the Stamfords had still supported her, occasionally encouraged her, and when the job position of pathologist at St Bart's became vacant, Mike had made sure she, well he, was among the candidates. And she had gotten it. Two years had already passed and although the risk of being exposed still existed, Molly couldn't be happier.

"Doc! Are you in there?" at the sound of DI Lestrade's voice, Molly snapped out of her memories and opened the door, "You better follow me to the morgue before those two come to blows!".

She didn't need him to tell her explicitly who he was referring to. The policeman, with a regretful smile, preceded her down the corridor. Two male voices could be heard arguing, "For the love of God, Anderson, don't you dare touch that body! It's a man's work. Where is he?" one of the two men blurted out.

"I'm on duty!" replied the other angrily, "To be picky, it's only out of respect for Dr Hooper that I tolerate your presence in here!". The first man burst into mocking laughter, "Please!" he said annoyingly, "Who are you trying to kid?".

Lestrade opened the door to the mortuary, rolling his eyes and muttering "Two children, Doc. As usual they're acting like two little children!". She gave the policeman a brief sympathetic smile before stacking her hands in the pockets of her breeches and walked purposefully into the room.

Both men were now turned towards her.

"Anderson" she uttered in a slightly deeper voice than her usual one. "Go back to work", her tone was one that didn't allow any replies. The man nodded nervously and turned away.

Only then did Molly, in the guise of Martin, walked closer and gave the other man her attention. Unexpectedly her insides churned and for a moment it was as if all the air had left her lungs. He was damn handsome.

"Hooper" he greeted, his mesmerizing eyes glued to hers.

"Holmes" she managed to say hoping to hide her inner turmoil well.