Chapter 8
Molly walked as quickly as she could the short distance, barely a mile, between the church of St Bartholomew the Less and the entrance to St Bart's mortuary.
She was late.
Molly had sat on the pew a little longer after Tom left. His words echoing in her mind. She had been going over and over their talk, but she really couldn't figure out on the basis of which gesture, look, word or attitude of hers, Tom had come to the conclusion she had feelings for Sherlock Holmes.
It was a gigantic nonsense. There were no other words for it.
She certainly admired Holmes' intelligence and the wit with which his mind worked. And Molly had no problem admitting his amazing mind made everything about him intriguing. Just as she absolutely couldn't deny Holmes' attractiveness. Tall, slim build, black hair usually combed back probably to keep unruly curls at bay, and eyes of changeable colour, sometime blue, sometime green.
But nothing more than that.
For what she was, and above all for what she wasn't…Molly couldn't afford the luxury of falling in love, and there was no Sherlock Holmes who could prove otherwise. Love was a feeling she had long ago given up.
Her relationship with Tom was proof of that. Any other girl would have fallen at his feet. He was pleasant and good looking. Blessed with a cheeky smile that alone was enough to make a heart flutter. He was polite, kind-hearted, funny. Not least, an attentive and satisfying lover, and not at all averse to marriage.
And yet…Molly felt nothing for him, except a sincere and affectionate friendship. And about her feelings, Molly had always been honest with Tom. Never once had she given him hope that there could be more than what already was between them.
She knew, even though he had never told her aloud, that he was in love with her. Just as she knew that sooner or later, necessarily, she would break his heart. But she never though it could happen over something as far-fetched as Tom's belief that she had feelings for none other than Sherlock Holmes.
Again a truly, gigantic nonsense. Period.
Engrossed in her thoughts, Molly would not have realized she had reached her destination if it hadn't been for the two booted feet of the guard on duty at the entrance to the mortuary, against which she almost tripped.
"Good evening, Miss Molly" the burly man bowed slightly, "Good evening, Willoughby" she replied, pausing to wait for him to open the door.
There was no guard whose name she didn't know. Actually, about some of them she knew whether they were married or not, and whether they had children and how, or not.
Several of them, such as Willoughby, had been employed at Bart's since she was a very young lady and used to accompany Isabel to see her husband for tea.
"Supper and change of clothes for Dr Hooper?" Willoughby asked, pointing with a finger at the bulky black leather bag whose handles Molly almost protectively clutched in her hands.
She nodded with a small smile, "As usual, Willoughby. Have you seen him around?" she then asked as she crossed the threshold without looking the man in the face "No, Miss. Maybe he's already in the autopsy room. Detective Inspector Lestrade has been here before…two corpses he has brought and told Anderson this is going to be a rough night".
Molly moved her head about an inch and pulled down her coat's hood, "Am I allowed to leave the food on the desk if Martin isn't in his study?". The guard placed both hands behind his back assuming an almost military posture, "Of course you can, Miss Molly. The only place you don't have access to, as you well know, is the autopsy room".
The man's gaze appeased and became very similar to that of a father towards a daughter unaware of the ugliness of the world, "That is no place for a lady". The corners of Molly's mouth twitched into a small smile, "Don't worry, Willoughby. Far be it from me to go in there" she said with a quick glance down the corridor, "I'm going to say hello to Dr Stamford, though, if he is still here".
"Yes, he is. But not for much longer. He had requested his carriage in half an hour. If you want to see him, you must hurry". She smiled down at him, "Many thanks, Willoughby" and turned to go, but when the guard cleared loudly his throat, Molly stopped and turned back around.
"If I may, Miss Molly" he murmured politely, and she gave him a little nod "If I were you, I'd have him take me home. It's too cold an evening to walk, especially alone". She nodded again, "In that case I go forthwith, and as I shall not see you when I go away, I wish you good night, Willoughby". He smiled politely and dipped his chin at her in greeting.
This time she actually walked to one of the rooms located at the end of the corridor, not far from the autopsy room, on whose door was a green plaque with a gold inscription reading Dr Martin Hooper – Pathologist.
It was more out of habit than real necessity that Molly knocked discreetly on the door. She knew full well that Martin wasn't in the room, at least not yet. She turned the knob and entered.
Although the room was dark she moved deftly to the right corner of the desk where she knew there was a kerosene lamp. The wick hadn't yet burned completely that Molly had already emptied the black leather bag of its contents and carefully arranged it. The small mess tin with supper, meat and vegetable soup, on the desk blotter, and Martin's men clothes on a chair beside a basin near the window.
Her eyes fell on the small clock that served as a bookend to some medical books on a shelf. It told her that she could dawdle no more. It was time for her to vanish, disappear and make way for Dr Martin Hooper.
Molly quickly approached the door and grabbed the knot casting a wary glance up and down the hall. However, her caution was not aimed at leaving without been seen, but rather at remaining in the room without anyone seeing her do so.
Once she was sure the hallway was empty, she double locked the door behind her and in no time at all Molly stripped herself down to just her unmentionables, neatly folding her clothes and packing them away in the large black leather bag which now lay on the floor next to the desk.
It was with thorough care that she began wearing the clothes intended for Martin, starting with the thick wool socks. Then it was the turn of breeches and shoes.
With trembling fingers she wrapped strips of white cloth around her breasts, then put on a crisp white shirt. The waistcoat followed immediately after, and from one of his pockets Molly produced a pair of well-made but undoubtedly cheap cufflinks with which she fastened the cuffs together.
She settled herself in front of the small oval mirror above the basin taking a silver-backed hairbrush and several hairpins from a blue canvas bag. With quickness and dexterity, like someone who has been doing it for a long time, Molly brushed and arranged her hair in such a way that, thanks also to the use of the spirit gum, nothing was noticeable under the short brown hair wig she was about to wear. The finishing touch was a pair of moustaches.
And here is Dr Martin Hooper, pathologist at St Bart's Hospital.