Chapter 5

Isabel Stamford saw Mr Holmes and Margaret to the door of her office and watched them until they vanished from her sight. She hurried to the window from which she just had time to see Margaret board the carriage with the detective. It was impossible for her to hold back a long sigh. Why on earth had Margaret decided to putting herself, metaphorically speaking, directly into the wolf's mouth, Isabel just couldn't figure it out.

She trembled at the thought of what Mr Holmes with his brilliant talents might discover and what might happen to Margaret as a result. And keeping telling herself that her sweet little girl was a tough young woman, and it couldn't be otherwise given what she had gone through and endured to become what she had become, didn't help calm her nerves.

Isabel looked down at her right hand and noticed it was curled into a tight fist, Margaret's note totally crumpled. This was not the time to dawdle, she told herself, almost lunging for her desk. Spasmodically she smoothed the piece of paper out on the tabletop as she sat down. Absentmindedly she arranged the oil lamp in such a way as to make reading less straining on her eyes.

Isabel dear,

I know you're worried about me, but don't be. I know what I'm doing. Mr Holmes has some suspicions about me. I understood it from the sharpness with which he looks at me. For this reason I felt it was prudent to accept his offer to escort me. It was too risky to go through what I planned to do. And my priority, as you well know, is to keep Alma safe. I am willing to sacrifice what matters most to me rather than allow that monster to lay his hands on her again.

I'll tell Mr Holmes to take me home. I'm sure his intent is to take a look inside my flat and see if Alma is there. I trust Mrs Cowper not to let him go beyond the front door. You know her. The old lady is exceedingly prudish. If Martin isn't at home, no man can go up to the flat. And Martin isn't home at the moment, so…Mr Holmes will end up empty-handed. At least for tonight.

It is vital, however, someone goes to Alma in my stead. Please, follow everything I say to the letter.

Tell Sally to bring the dark leather bag from the study room to Irene Adler. At her house, not the brothel. Inside there's everything she needs to change Alma's dressing. There is also some laudanum in case she is still in pain. Be kind enough to drop Irene a line about why I had not been able to go myself, so she can reassure Alma that everything is proceeding as planned.

And last but not least, Isabel, sends young Archie after Tom. He will probably find him in his workshop. If he's not there, tell Archie to try the pub on the corner. But he must absolutely find Tom. I need his help. I will wait for him at the usual place.

Isabel read the final part of the missive, the one including Margaret's instructions, a second time. Without second thoughts she threw it in the fireplace and watched it shrivel and curl in the crackling flames until she was certain it was totally burned. Then she strode steadily into the nursery.

There she would certainly find Sally Donovan, the black untiring housekeeper who had been employed by her at the Refuge for a year now. It was no mystery for anyone that of the whole house this was her favourite room. And there she was indeed. Intent on helping a young girl who had been staying with them for just over two days, to breastfeed her baby.

Sally was immediately aware of Mrs Stamford's grave expression but did not move away from the unwed mother until she was certain the girl had put her advice into practice. Only then she walked over to her mistress whom explained exactly what Margaret wanted her to do. And in little more than five minutes Sally was on her way.

Once the heavy oak door was closed behind her, Isabel went down to the kitchen looking for the cook's ten-years-old son, Archie. Usually the little boy helped his mother with some kitchen chores, but more often he could be found perched on a stool by the window with an alphabet book and a slate to practice arithmetic. He had a not-so secret childish crush on Margaret and whenever he saw her, Archie was eager to impress her by reading something or doing some sums.

And Margaret, for her part, adored him as if he were her own son. Maybe because, according to Isabel, Margaret had long since shelved the idea of marrying and having a family of her own if she could not achieve it according to her convictions.

"Archie where are you? Please, show yourself" Isabel said taking small steps and checking if he was hiding under the massive table in the centre of the room, "I have an errand for you from Miss Marg…", her name was not even pronounced in full that from behind the pantry curtain the boy's curly brown head peeped out.

"Miss Molly" he pointed out scowling at Isabel. The old lady barely held back a giggle at the boy's tender expression of disdain on his face, "She wants to be called Molly, not Margaret" he added in a tone of someone who knew better, "Well, what does she want me to do?".

"You must go to Mr Langdon and tell him that Miss Marg…Miss Molly is waiting for him at their usual place".

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While Molly waited for the driver to open the door for her to get in, she had to make a great effort not to look up at Mrs Stamford's office window. She knew the woman had thought she was mad for agreeing to Sherlock Holmes driving her home, but it was the only thing she could think of in the spur of the moment to keep the detective from sneaking up on her to the place where Alma was hidden.

When Sherlock had also taken his seat, facing her, and the carriage had started moving, Molly leaned towards the little window in a not very ladylike way. Her eyes scanning the dark cloudy sky, "You just don't like storms or do they terrify you?".

"The rain itself doesn't bother me, in fact sometimes I find its patter on the window-panes to be soothing. It's lightning put on top of thunder that makes me restless", Molly said with her eyes still turned up and her nose almost pressed against the glass. Sherlock was silent for a moment, then asked, "How come? Did something happen?".

She slid back as slowly as she could, settling down more appropriately, taking her time to consider how to answer Sherlock's question. Usually none of those who had noticed her reaction during storms had ever bothered to probe further into the explanation she offered. She knew of course that would not be the case with Sherlock Holmes.

But telling him the truth would reveal things that he, as well as anyone else, shouldn't know. On the other hand, blatantly lying was not even an option because in the long run there was a risk she would fall into some contradiction. But there wasn't much time to decide what to do, though. Sherlock was there, waiting for her to say something. So, off the cuff, Molly thought a amended version of the truth was the best thing to saddle him with.

"I almost died on a thunderstorm" she finally replied, "It was summer. I was on vacation at my parent's house. I was out to visit my friend Meena", she closed her eyes and it was like being brought back to that afternoon at the end of June, twelve years earlier.

The memory of clear sky and warm sunbeams on her skin was vivid in her mind as if time had never passed. Equally vivid was the gurgling of the river, its course calm in places and impetuous in others. A light breath of wind made the leaves of the trees sway and rustle.

Molly was happy, she remembered it very well, as she walked to her childhood best friend's house. Meena's lively laughter rang in her ears. "We hadn't seen each other for a long time. I lost track of time", Molly paused.

Sherlock's eyes bore into hers. What a strange feeling it gave to her to be watched so intently by him. She could almost bet her cheeks were flushed, at least that's how she perceived them to be. In fact, it felt like the skin all over her body was hot. Just as she felt a strange tingling in her stomach and her heartbeat faster. Maybe it was her conscience that was bothering her. She had felt the same way in Isabel's office when she had tried to deflect Sherlock's question about Alma.

"If you don't want to talk about it, you don't have to. God forbid my stupid curiosity will bring back unpleasant memories" he said, a small sympathetic smile lighting up his face.

Oh! They weren't just unpleasant! They were deeply painful and excruciating. But he was not meant to know to what extent they were! And now that those memories were being spoken again after at least a decade, Molly found it was too easy to care about her state of mind after asking her the question of what happened. She wanted to yell at him that he and his stupid curiosity might as well go to hell.

But…but Molly simply couldn't. Something in his blue-green eyes held her back. In their depths she read a softness, a compassion of which she didn't believe him capable. She truly could hardly believe that sitting across from her was the notorious, cold, aloof, arrogant, sharp-tongued consulting detective.

"It was late when I headed off home and it started to rain on the way. In the beginning it was a light, summery drizzle" she went on to tell, pushing down the lump that had nestled in her throat, "By the time I was halfway home it was pouring in earnest with lightning and thunder. Then I took a shortcut. All I had to do was cross a short rope bridge and in five minutes I'd be safe".

Molly clasped her hands in her lap as she took a deep, steadying breath. It was a relief she was wearing gloves. She was sure her knuckles would be white from how tightly she held her fingers and at least they hid them from Sherlock's view. She was beginning to doubt, though, that she could hide as well the sense of emptiness, of gloomy and incurable pain that still hovered in her heart.

When Molly spoke again, she tried to control the tremor in her voice, "The ropes gave way under my weight and I fell into the water. I managed to hold on to one of the wooden planks as I tried to make my way towards the river bank. But my clothes were completely soaked and I could not move forward. The flow was getting stronger and stronger. The flash of lightning was blinding and the rumble of thunder was deafening. I…I thought I was going to die" her voice breaking on the word.

"But obviously that didn't happen" Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, "Someone rescued you". She looked up at him, "Indeed" she whispered unable to hold back a small bittersweet smile, "My relatives and neighbours".

The face of one of them drifted through her mind. Tears prickled her eyes. He had died for her. He had pulled her to safety on the river bank, in the arms of her mother, and then had been swept away by the storming flow. His corpse was found only in the afternoon of the following day.

Needless to say, this was the part of the truth Molly wouldn't tell Sherlock. And to avoid his noticing her fragile emotional state, she let out a small cough and turn her attention back to the window, "It seems the storm has passed without striking London". He followed her line of gaze, however, obviously not interested in the weather. After a few seconds Sherlock replied to her observation with a laconic and polite "Hmm".

Molly, though she was turned away, could feel the warmth of his gaze along her cheek and neck. She could almost hear the cogs in his mind creaking as he was probably pondering whether to keep asking questions about her incident in the river or let it go and settle for her explanation.

Fortunately for her, she didn't have to find out because the carriage providentially stopped in front of the two-story building, on the second floor of which her apartment was located.

Sherlock hopped down and held his hand out to her. "Thanks again for escorting me home" Molly said once both her feet were on the curb, "A pleasure, I assure you" he replied with a faint smile before looking up at the building, "Are you on the first floor?".

Before she even had a chance to nod in the affirmative, one of his large hand was on her elbow and he was saying "Let me walk you inside. It'll make me feel better than leaving you here on the footpath at this time of the night!".

Molly could do nothing but allow Sherlock to lead her over to the front door as she search for the key in her pursue. She was just wondering what the hell had happened to her usually omnipresent landlady, when the front door suddenly flew open.

"Mrs Cowper!" she exclaimed in real surprise. By now she had lost hope of seeing her appear in the frame. "Good evening to you, Miss Hooper" said the old lady with her usual gruff tone, striking the step leading inside with the cane she used for walking.

Then the woman directed her undivided attention to Sherlock. Her grey eyes searched him up and down without the slightest discomfort, "Who is he?" she asked turning to Molly but with the corner of her eye still fixed on him.

"Oh he, Mrs Cowper, he is…" Molly began, gesturing at Sherlock with a wave of her hand, "Let me introduce myself, Mrs Cowper" he said leaping on top of Molly's words, "My name is Sherlock Holmes and I'm a detective. I solve homicides, disappearances, thefts and sometimes I even help Scotland Yard".

Molly had to bite her lower lip to hold back a giggle. But how pleased with himself was Mr Holmes! Too bad however, he really had no idea who was in front of him.

Mrs Cowper's eyes narrowed into two small slits, "Young man, you might as well be Prime Minister Gladstone himself, you wouldn't pass through this door anyway" the old lady stated stiffly, tapping her cane again to underline her resolve.

"No man is allowed up to the flat unless Miss Hooper is suitably chaperoned", Mrs Cowper glared at Sherlock in the exact moment he opened his mouth to say something, "And by suitably, I mean her brother, young man, not me".

The grouchy landlady placed both hands on her cane's pommel and gave Sherlock an opinionated look, "I suppose, given how much you flaunt your intelligence, you are able to figure out for yourself what this means, Mr Holmes".

At that point, much to Molly's amusement, Sherlock had no choice but to wish the two ladies good night, promise Molly they would see each other again in a few days and ruefully get back into the carriage.

As she walked up the stairs to her flat, Molly glanced over her shoulders. Mrs Cowper still stood in the doorway. And she wouldn't move from there until Sherlock's carriage came down the street. There was just no hope of him staying around watching her without Mrs Cowper noticing.

Poor, poor Sherlock!