Chapter 12
Molly was well aware from the beginning that leading a double life would not be easy. But she was certainly not the type to be discouraged by first difficulty. It didn't matter how strenuous it was to switch from herself to her brother and back again. She liked being Martin, just as she liked being Molly of course. It was a bit like having a twin to swap identities if need be.
Nonetheless, sometimes, she had found herself seriously pondering how much longer she could continue like that. It was a fleeting consideration though, because really, she couldn't imagine a life other than the one she led even when truly exhausting days presented themselves, just like the one that was coming to an end.
The reversal of identity between her and Martin had occurred several times throughout that day that she assumed she had broken every record she had previously held. And although it was well past sunset and all she wanted most was to crawl under the covers of her comfortable bed, she still had a couple of things to take care of that required her to get out.
And given how the day had unfolded, Molly feared she wouldn't be in hers shoes until the next morning and she would have to assume Martin's identity again. Therefore not wanting to be caught unprepared, she had deemed it wise to put everything needed to disguise herself as Martin in a bag. Then had left her flat around five o'clock.
Rather earlier than the time agreed with Tom to arrive at his goldsmith shop. But since Molly was certain Sherlock Holmes, or whoever in his behalf, was keeping tabs on her comings and goings, she had decided to take a wider and intricate route, if not to outrun him at least to vex him.
As she walked briskly through the streets of London, occasionally glancing warily over her shoulder to see if anyone was actually following her, her thoughts went to Alma. Truthfully Molly hadn't stopped thinking about her young friend for a second since she hadn't shown up at her hideout the previous evening, sending Sally in her stead.
She wasn't worried about her well-being because Molly knew she had entrusted Alma to good hands. Irene Adler was indeed the madam of a brothel and had once also been a harlot, but she was above all a woman of great intelligence and unsuspected good heart. Molly had great respect for her.
No, what worried Molly was something else entirely. First of all, it goes without saying, Sherlock Holmes. His hiring by Alma's parents had forced her to modify the plan initially conceived to distance her young friend from her chauvinist and violent betrothed.
Another type of concern, but still a concern, had to do with the illegal activities of Mr Moriarty, the one she, through Tom, had instructed to forge Alma's identity documents. There were a real possibility Mr Moriarty did more than just forge documents. At least according to what was stated that afternoon by Mr Mycroft Holmes. Mr Government himself had summoned Dr Hooper to his office at three o'clock that afternoon to discuss an urgent matter.
The whole thing had given her an itch. What urgent matter did Mr Holmes need to discuss with a mere pathologist? Was it perhaps something about his younger brother? No, that couldn't be the reason because if there was something to discuss about Sherlock, Mr Holmes would talk about it with Mike Stamford.
To be on the safe side Molly had tried to buy time. In the most polite and kind manner possible she had pointed out to Mr Holmes's envoy, charged with personally delivering the written note to Martin, that her brother was sleeping after working all night at the St. Bart's morgue.
Was it not possible, perhaps, to postpone the meeting to the following day? Sparkling smile on her face.
The expression on the man's face had left no doubt. Her shoulders had slumped.
No, there was no way to postpone that summons, much less avoid it. What a fool she was! How could she have even thought of being able to say 'no, thank you' to such an important government proponent!
So Molly had had no choice but to go upstairs, change into Martin's clothes, go back downstairs and follow the government man.
Mr Holmes was not a man to indulge in idle talk, so the reason for Martin's presence in his office was revealed as soon as the young pathologist had crossed the threshold, "Sara Acker. I want to know everything about her death".
Except Martin had no idea who Sara Acker was.
And the pathologist's look must had shown quite eloquently he did not know who Mr Holmes was talking about, if the fine gentleman had hastened to explain he was referring to the nameless young woman with a disfigured face found in Whitechapel. Wasn't he the one who had performed the autopsy on her the previous night?
Oh dear, it was the one Martin had implied might be Alma Potter. And, prithee, how did the esteemed Mr Holmes know who she really was, given the poor's girl condition?
The question had slipped out of Martin's mouth before he even realised how inappropriate it was. He was a mere pathologist summoned there to answer questions, not to ask them.
But Mr Holmes had not lost his composure and had taken out a small object from one of the drawers of his massive desk which, as soon as it was lit by sunlight filtering through the window, had given off blue reflections. "I assume you've already seen it, Dr Hooper" he had pointed out, turning the spectacular and unconventional ring between his fingers.
An item as that was not easy to forget especially if found hidden in a small pocket sewn into the inside of the long skirt worn by one who, considering the place in which her body had been found, could have been anyone. A thief, a beggar, a harlot…anyone.
Apparently even just any Miss Acker, "She was engaged". It had been a statement, not a question.
Mr Holmes had raised an eyebrow, "Not exactly. It was a feigned engagement " had murmured giving one last look at the ring before making it disappear into his drawer again. "Miss Acker was an agent in the service of Her Majesty" he had said, moving his chair backwards to stand up.
Then he had reached the large window to the left of his desk, with his hands behind his back and his gait stiff. He seemed to be thoughtful and Martin had waited patiently for him to speak again. "She was investigating a forger. That is, her pretended fiancé" he had finally said.
"Is it him you suspect?".
"Oh, no suspicions, Dr Hooper, I'm sure it was Moriarty" his voice was pure steel, "But, unfortunately, he's not the kind of guy to get his hands dirty. Accusing him of murder will be impossible".
Martin couldn't have agreed with him more. Mr Holmes however, or rather thank goodness, had not pursued the subject further but had once again requested that the pathologist explain the causes of Miss Acker's death.
From that point on the conversation had been brief. There wasn't much to say. Miss Acker had been strangled and then beaten in the face, probably with brass knuckles. No bruises other than the obvious one on her neck, no defensive wounds, no strips of skin under her nails, no signs of sexual assault. She had been killed as punishment.
Not a moment had passed since she had taken her leave and she had once again taken on the role of Molly, that she had not thought of Mr Moriarty. That the man was no saint, she had always known, but that he could even be the instigator of such a brutal murder made her skin crawl.
If only she had known beforehand that he was the evil incarnate, she would have turned to someone else to forge Alma's new identity papers. But by then it was too late to back out. Moriarty was just waiting for the money to give his final approval to the printing.
And in any case, for no reason in the world would Molly have broken the promise she made to her younger friend. Mr Phineas Merritt would never lay a finger on her again.
Talking to Alma's parents about what their daughter was going through would have been useless because Mr Merritt was a master manipulator and would surely have found a way to justify the bruises on her body.
If only it had been possible for Alma to break off the engagement it would not have been necessary to retort to the ruse of her disappearance, but unfortunately it was not allowable that a woman could make such a decision. It was against the dictates of Society.
And if Alma had done so, the ones would had paid the consequences would have been above all her parents who would no longer have been able to set foot outside the house without being pointed out. They would have come out destroyed and humiliated.
Alma loved them too much, even though she didn't always share their way of thinking, to inflict such pain on them. But on the other hand now the mere thought of spending time with Phineas filled her with dread. Alma knew all too well she had to expect pinches, slaps, punches, and even belt blows whenever his fiancé considered her behaviour or words inappropriate.
This had been going on for too long. It was time to end it.
With these thoughts in mind Molly found herself in front of the door of Tom's goldsmith's shop. The interior was dark, not even the faint burning flame of a candle could be seen. She tried the knob but it didn't turn. No notice posted on the glass door indicating his whereabouts or if he had had an emergency to attend to.
How very strange he wasn't there! It was he who suggested, that very morning, that they meet at his shop around closing time. Didn't Molly owe him money for fixing her grandmother's necklace? Who would have ever suspected that money was earmarked for something else?
Tom would then personally take it to Mr Moriarty's printing house. And he knew exactly how important it was to get Alma's new papers as soon as possible. So he couldn't have forgotten about their agreement, which begged the question of where the hell he had gone.
Molly was already thinking about what she should do at that point, when suddenly she felt her hand being wrapped in the masculine grip of another hand. A cry escaped her lips, not of panic, but rather of annoyance at being caught by surprise by whoever it was who was holding her hand.
As a consequence, she yanked hard to free herself. Obtaining, however, the result of having the man's body – because it was a man – practically pressed to the length of hers. "Stop wiggling!" whispered the man voice in her ear as his free arm rested firmly on the small of her back, "It's me".
Molly instantly stilled allowing her body to relax against his. Her hand slipped from his, "Tom" she sighed and playfully patted him on his chest, "I was about to kick you down…there!".
"If you had done so" was his prompt response, "The worst would have been for you!". She had expected a jesting retort from him, but this particular teasing lacked the usual cheerfulness. Molly looked up. Tom didn't seem to be his usual self. No charming smile on his lips, no teasing twinkle in his eyes, no levity in his posture.
"Tell me what's wrong" she pleaded giving his hand a tiny squeeze. Tom looked at her, sighing "I'm really so sorry, Molly". He sounded and looked defeated, dejected. "What for?" she asked because she really didn't know what he had to feel so sorry about.
From the moment she had told him about Alma's situation and the plan she had drawn up to rescue her from her fiancé's clutches, Tom had backed her up and was still continuing to do so, unreservedly.
"I think I made a mess…unintentionally, but still a mess" he replied lowering his voice and nodding at the shop's door, "Let's go inside". He took the key out of his coat pocket, turned it twice in the lock. All the while looking warily over his and Molly's shoulders and then, before entering, his cast a last fleeting glance towards the opposite side of the road. It seemed he expected someone to appear at any moment.
"I tried to fix it" he continued as he crossed the room to the counter where he fumbled in a drawer for a candle, "I made up an excuse, plausible enough I think, but I doubt your friend believed me".
Molly frowned "My friend? Which friend?".
"Mr Sherlock Holmes" he said matter-of-factly turning and looking her in the eyes as he sparked a flame, "He came to see me a little while ago".
"He is not my friend" Molly wanted to reply, but instead all she could utter was a simple "Oh!".