Chapter 2

"Come in!".

Only after hearing Mrs Stamford's mild voice in response to her knock did Molly gently open the door. The middle-aged woman was sitting at her writing-table intent, in all probability, on making ends meet. Those were difficult times for everyone, and even more so for those who ran a charitable institution such as the Bennet Women's Refuge.

Initially Mrs Stamford had welcomed all sorts of girls or women in difficulty, but over time, reluctantly, she had found herself forced to sort through all those poor beings who turned to her for help.

The Women's Refuge supported itself financially mainly through the generosity of London's wealthiest families. Adding to their donations were the small charities of shopkeepers and artisans who gave away what they could, sometimes clothes or linen, most often food.

So within five years, the 'Golden heart lady' as Mrs Stamford was called, had been able to hire a couple of maids to help both with the housework and single mothers with their babies, and a couple of teachers so the women could learn to read, write, do arithmetic or sew and embroider. She tried to give them hope for a better future.

Molly herself had Mrs Stamford to thank.

In her teenage years she had been the despair of her parents. She was not interested in balls, small talks, fashionable dresses and rouge. Much less young gentlemen. Her greatest ambition was certainly not that of the vast majority of young ladies of her age.

The mere idea of marrying a handsome young man, without necessarily loving him furthermore, with a decent income and take care of him, of the house and of the children the Lord would have given them, just because society dictated that was the only role a woman could fill, made her sick.

After Molly had firmly rebuffed her third suitor in a row, her parents, Henry and Adelaide Hooper, albeit reluctantly, had made the drastic decision to remove their eldest daughter from their small Derbyshire village.

Mrs Hooper had a distant relation, Isabel Bennet, who had moved to London with her family several years earlier. The two cousins had remained in contact, they wrote to each other assiduously and when Mrs Hooper had confided in her that she no longer knew which way to turn with her daughter, it was Isabel herself, who in the meantime had become Mrs Stamford, wife of an esteemed doctor, who had offered to take the young girl with them.

There, in the ever-buzzing London, no one would have cared whether she was married or not, whether she wanted to become a waitress or a teacher. She could have pursued her aspirations without worrying about bringing shame on her family.

And if Mr and Mrs Hooper would have felt more reassured by the presence of a close family member, Mrs Stamford had suggested that her younger brother, Martin, join her as soon as he was old enough to enter the medical school, furthering both his dream and his duty as a son to watch over his sister.

So Isabel Stamford and her husband, Mike, had welcomed Molly into their home as if she were their own daughter. They had educated her and made her study, respecting her nature and inclination. Molly had grown up, as well as her younger brother, fascinated by science. She could spend hours and hours studying subjects such as biology, chemistry, medicine.

She had nurtured particular respect for all those women who had managed to make their way into fields of study or job strictly reserved for men. Her hope was she might have the same determination and courage to, one day, match their achievements.

For the moment Molly was more than happy and satisfied with those achieved so far. Certainly hers was a somewhat complicated life split as it was between the occupation that in the eyes of many was the one and only she held, namely giving basic English lessons three times a week to the female residents of the Refuge, and her other job. The real one. The one she had always had an aptitude for.

The Stamfords had gotten it for her. It had been risky. They had had to go through a not-so-legal expedient for her to be entrusted with that task. And it was still a risk, two years later, for her and the Stamfords. Every single day Molly walked through the door of that dank, cold, windowless room, she was afraid of finding someone telling her that she had no right to be there. But she didn't care. It was a risk worth taking.

She was finally financially independent. This had enabled her to contribute to the payment of the rent of a small apartment and buy food and clothing without having to depend on the Stamfords or anyone else in the world.

"Oh, Margaret dear, it's you! Is your teaching hour already over?" the lady asked, rousing Molly from her reveries. She nodded but remained still in the doorway, "It's Miss Lloyd's turn. Sewing lesson" she told softly. "I'd stopped by to see if you still needed me. If not, with your permission, I'd go home, Isabel".

"Come, come along! Stay a few moments longer" she said smiling amiably as she waved her to enter. It was not unusual for her to ask Molly to stay for tea once the young woman had finished her classes. But that day, her invitation to stay rang in Molly's ears full of…anxiety.

She knew Mrs Stamford well enough not to be deceived by the polite and quite façade she was putting on at the moment. Whether it was the strange glint she caught in her eyes, or the imperceptible quivering of her lip, that made her sense that the usually lively and good-humoured benefactress had some concerns, Molly couldn't tell. Fact is that, instinctively, her gaze became more attentive and her manners more prudent.

Molly took a few timid steps heading, as she used to do, towards the solid mahogany chair opposite Isabel's writing-table. "Come, Margaret dear! We've a guest" she said in her common tender way meeting her halfway, "So today we'll sit in the parlour for tea" she added.

Neither of them, however, made a move in that direction, "It's about Alma. He is here to ask you a few questions" Isabel told her, looking straight into her eyes, "She seems to have disappeared into thin air and her parents and fiancé are in a state of profound distress" she continued encircling protectively Molly's shoulders with an arm.

The comfortable parlour was partially hidden from view by a finely decorated partition so Molly could not see who this guest was, but by the tone used by Mrs Stamford she easily sensed that he was no mere police officer.

As Isabel Stamford patted the small of her back in a comforting, motherly gesture, and guided her towards the parlour, Molly's eyes fell on the back of one of the two armchairs hitherto barely visible behind the partition. Neatly folded lay a dark men's overcoat. Equally neatly folded and resting on it was a deerstalker's hat.

She knew who he was even before Mrs Stamford said "Margaret, do let me introduce Mr Sherlock Holmes to you".

Although in her heart Molly had cradled the hope that the day would never come when she, Margaret Mary Hooper, found herself in the presence of the illustrious detective, she was somewhat aware that it was a vain hope considering the fellowship of mutual acquaintances.

And now that he was only a few feet away from her, Molly was left with no choice but deal with him. And pray. Pray that he didn't feel the need to astonish her or Mrs Stamford with his magic tricks. One deduction from him and she could be ruined.

Molly exchanged one last knowing look with Mrs Stamford, before taking a deep breath to gather her courage and turn her look to him.

The man, whose tall figure stood out against the window, slowly turned around, scrutinizing her intently. And she, bravely, held his gaze although she felt a faint blush spread on her cheeks as she did so.

"So, you are Miss Hooper. Margaret Mary, if I've not misunderstood" he said, greeting her with a slight bow of his head. "Just Molly will do, Mr Holmes" she replied smiling softly and when his eyebrows furrowed in a silent question, she hastened to explain that, first, she didn't like being addressed by any title, so no Miss or anything like that. And second, that since she'd arrived in London almost no one called her Margaret anymore, only her relations.

"And how is that?" he asked in amazement, his arms behind his back, "Margaret is undoubtedly a beautiful name" he observed not taking his eyes off hers. "It certainly is, Mr Holmes. I thank my parents for giving me one that wasn't unpronounceable or bizarre…" she said unable to refrain from giving him a meaningful look, a subtle allusion to his uncommon name.

"Nevertheless, I prefer to be called by the short of my middle name. I am no longer the simple-minded young maiden I was in Derbyshire. A new me, a name of my choosing" Molly concluded lifting her chin as if to dare him to argue with her.

She was ready to counter the biting comment that would surely come out of him. Instead he remained silent for a moment and then his lips curled up in a little smirk, "Seems fair. And Molly it is. As long as you call me Sherlock, and not Mr Holmes".

Molly arched an eyebrow, clearly amused, and couldn't hold back a giggle, "Deal. And Sherlock it is" she state reaching out her hand to seal that pact. But rather than shake her hand, as she had expected he would, Sherlock held it for an instant in his and then brought it to his lips for a true gentleman's hand-kissing.

It was against her will that Mrs Stamford found herself looking at the two in front of her as if she were watching a match in that new sport called lawn-tennis where spectators follow the ball from one end of the court to the other.

She was utterly flabbergasted. Were they really flirting with each other or was her silly imagination playing such a trick on her?

Margaret, who often felt uncomfortable in the presence of gentlemen and ladies of good society and kept her gaze down, had impudently held that of Mr Holmes when he had looked her straight in the eye.

Within minutes they had thrown their good manners out the window and agreed to address each other by first name and he had even kissed her hand!

To top it off, she had teased him about the eccentricity of his name and he hadn't bitten back. Well, for a man who always replied to everything and who, as his best friend Dr Watson often said, would outlive God trying to have the last word, was a truly unordinary behaviour.

Mrs Stamford, through her husband, had known Mr Holmes for several years. And in all those years of acquaintance, she could state with absolute certainty that Sherlock Holmes had never shown interest in the fairer sex.

Except for a brief engagement to a Miss Janine Hawkins, niece of the founder of the Dusk Tales newspaper, Charles Augustus Magnussen, which later had turned out to be bogus. Mr Holmes had used the poor girl as a ploy to get close to her uncle during the performance of his detective duties.

They did not cry scandal because, according to rumours, the young woman had received a large sum of money as compensation and, it seemed, that with it she had bought a cottage with an attached bee farm in Sussex.

So, what prompted him now to take such an attitude to her beloved Margaret, Isabel Stamford could not tell. But she was certain she had to put an end to it before it got out of hand. Mr Holmes' presence was in itself dangerous for Margaret, there really was no need to risk beyond due.

"Please, take a sit, Mr Holmes" she said peremptorily as she sat on the sofa indicating to Sherlock the armchair on which his overcoat and hat lay. "Margaret" she added, gesturing with her head to the armchair opposite Mr Holmes.