Chapter 18
Molly knew what to expect from Sherlock Holmes. In the guise of Martin Hooper, she had seen him in action several times. He used to inspect the crime scene personally, interview witnesses, family members of the victim and anyone who could provide useful information to solve the puzzle that had been presented to him.
All in all this situation wasn't that different. Which is why Molly was more than certain that he would request to speak to Dr Hooper face to face. If not to ascertain the reason why his sister had come to visit the brothel, but to reproach him once again for not keeping her under sufficient control.
So, as she secretly watched Hanna escort Sherlock upstairs, Molly felt there was no point to procrastinate the inevitable. She had to assume Martin's appearance without waiting for Irene to send for her.
But first she had to make sure that someone kept Alma company and prevented her from wandering around the house, at least until Sherlock had left. Once that was done Molly had retreated to the library downstairs, changed into Martin's clothes, and waited for Hanna to knock on the door and tell Dr Hooper to join Mr Holmes and Irene in the madam's private sitting room.
The first five minutes after the camouflage were spent as usual in mild agitation. It didn't matter how long she had been carrying out this charade, every time she took on her brother's semblance, Molly felt the need to double check every detail, so that everything was perfect and nothing gave away her deception.
She could not have said how many times she had looked at her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece to make sure her wig and moustache were perfectly in place. Over and over again she had cleared her throat until her voice was low enough to sound like a man's.
When she had deemed the result satisfactory, Molly absentmindedly had taken a book from one of the shelves and had gone to sit in the armchair opposite the library door. Hanna would certainly cross that threshold soon.
Instead several more minutes of waiting had followed. And then some more. And more and more.
Starting to wonder what was keeping Irene from summoning Martin, she had pulled the timepiece out of her vest pocket. Forty minutes. Such was the time that had passed since she had gone downstairs and Irene had headed to her private flat.
There was a distinct possibility that Holmes had been satisfied with Irene's explanation of Molly's presence in the whorehouse. After all, the brunette's charm was such that she could make him buy any lie without him suspecting a thing.
And if this was the case, it was understandable that Martin was still confined to the library. But it did not explain why Holmes had not yet left.
What was keeping him in Irene's parlour? What else were they supposed to talk about? But most importantly, were they actually engaged in a conversation?
Being Irene and knowing how much she took pleasure in teasing, charming and seducing any man who got in her way, Molly would not have been surprised if the mistress of Les Petites Plaisir had put some infallible seduction plan of her own into action and was now entertaining the aloof detective in her bedchamber rather than her cosy sitting room adjacent to it.
Hadn't she once said she would have a lot of fun luring the Virgin, as someone had nicknamed Holmes in London's criminal circles, into her bed?
Suddenly the thought of Sherlock locked up with the most sought-after courtesan in London, in her love nest to boot, had been unusually bothersome to Molly.
It was definitely time to go upstairs and find out what was going on.
Without thinking much about it, Molly grab the Gladstone bag and, rather than using the main staircase to access Irene's flat, she took the secret one. The one her friend had just recently suggested she use to leave the brothel unnoticed. The one that led directly from the library to her bedchamber.
But once Molly reached the wooden door, all her resolve seemed to vanish. She found herself staring at the small golden handle, unsure what to do. Should she pry it open and enter the room, or knock politely and wait for someone inside to invite her in?
Had Irene succeeded in seducing Sherlock, what should she have expected to find beyond it? Surely the two of them lying in a graceless tangle of limbs. The result of one of the many oriental-inspired love positions Irene loved to experiment with.
Would she have been able to bear such a sight?
As her mind conjured up images of bare skin on bare skin, lips on lips, exploring hands, sweat and moan, she realized her heart was pounding hard in her chest. Damn. It couldn't be, Molly told herself shaking her head again and again. And yet there was no doubt that the emotion twisting in her belly was jealousy.
So Tom had been right. She, Molly Hooper, had feelings for Sherlock Holmes.
Instinctively she took a step back. She couldn't let this happen. She couldn't afford to love any men. Least of all Sherlock Holmes. Her whole world would fall apart if she allowed him to get any closer to her life than necessary. She knew that.
Molly had to avoid crossing paths with him, not the other way around. So the best and wisest thing to do at that moment was to leave.
If Hanna had handed Irene a note in Martin's name, stating he had an unpostponable commitment at St Bart's and could not stay any longer, who would have found it strange?
Surely not Holmes. Irene had certainly told him that Martin was there to visit one of the girls who had complained of feeling unwell. There was therefore no reason, once he had completed his medical task, to remain in the brothel.
Irene was a different kettle of fish. She would have sensed something was up. But before she had a chance to speak to her again, Molly would have had time and opportunity to compose herself and think of something plausible for having scrammed like that.
But there was one thing, or rather one person, that prevented her from doing what she thought was the best thing to do. Alma.
Molly had made her a promise. She would protect her and prevent her from being found, forced to return home and to her abusive fiancé. So, she nibbled her bottom lip, squared her shoulders and knocked.
No response. She didn't know whether to feel relieved or worried that no noise or sound whatsoever seemed to come from inside.
No voices, no sighs, no moans. No footsteps. Nothing at all.
Perhaps it was too perfunctory a knock, she mused to herself, and knocked harder. Again nothing.
Molly then took a deep breath to gather her courage and turned the handle. She eased the door open a crack and cautiously stuck her head inside. The room was empty. Unconsciously a sigh of relief escaped her lips and some tension left her body.
She then entered the room, closing the door behind her. Her eyes immediately noticed that on the four-poster mahogany bed lay several dresses, more or less skimpy, indicating that Irene had carefully selected her attire, wanting to impress the consulting detective. How typical of her!
At that Molly had no choice but to head towards the connecting door to the lounge. This time she knocked more decisively. And when she still got no immediate response, with a quick tweaking of the handle she flung open the door. Her heart missed a beat and she froze in shock.
They were kissing.
Or at least they were lips on lips. One of Irene's hands was on the back of Holmes's neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. His hands were around Irene's slim waist. It wasn't clear whether he was pushing her away or pulling her closer.
If it had been other circumstances or other people, Molly might have found the sight of a woman cladded in nothing but a flimsy negligee, knickers and stockings, in the arms of a man dressed from head to toe, arousing.
But that wasn't the case. She felt sick. A sudden twinge of nausea rose in her throat. She was about to turn and walk away when her eyes met those of the dishevelled detective.
And she blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Missed something, did I?".
Holmes immediately put some distance between himself and Irene. "Hooper" he stammered, visibly embarrassed, as his hand went up to where only moments before Irene's hand had tousled his hair.
It was a good thing he addressed her by her last name. It helped remind her that it was not Molly who was standing before him, but Martin.
"Whatever you're thinking, I can explain" Holmes rattled out, and turned a look of unabashed reproach on Irene, whose shrug seemingly showed she was more bored than annoyed by his silent rebuke.
"No need, Holmes. I was just dropping by to update Miss Adler on Miss Garrison's health" Hooper's brown eyes sharpened on Irene.
She obviously could not be blamed for coming on to Holmes. It was her nature. But Molly couldn't be blamed for feeling the way she felt either. Try as she might, she couldn't control the twinge of jealousy gnawing at her stomach.
A clear discomfort was brewing in the depths of Irene's gaze. Yet, under Hooper's scrutiny, she stood still, like a rabbit unexpectedly caught. The ensuing silence was deafening. Neither Irene nor Holmes said anything, nor seemed inclined to do so.
"Very well, then" Hooper said decisively, fingers tightening around the Gladstone bag's handle. "I can only apologize for the untimely intrusion and let you get back to… whatever this is".
Silently, deliberately, Hooper perused them both. And waited. Waited for Irene to ease the tension filling the room. One of her jokes or one of her sensual throaty laugh would have helped, but she seemed to have lost her natural swagger.
"Regarding Miss Garrison's therapy…I'll talk about it with Hanna" Hooper said blandly and turned on his heel. He was at the door when Irene's voice came, "Martin! Wait!". He stopped, facing the doorjamb.
"Martin, please. Don't go". It was the slightest tremor in her voice that made him turn back.
Irene had drawn closer and Hooper realized at once that her wounded puppy eyes, as well as her next words, were directed at Molly, not Martin. "I'm a beastly friend" she murmured in a whisper and clasped the doctor's free hand in hers. "I simply could not help myself. I got carried away", she sighed, gave her hand a squeeze and fell silent. Presumably waiting for some sort of response on Hooper's part.
But all Molly could do was frown. Irene's way of reacting was quite peculiar. What had gotten into her? Where this visceral need to justify her attempted seduction of Holmes come from? A lighter attitude was more like her.
Hooper, whether Molly or Martin it didn't matter, really couldn't find any reason for this tangle of emotions that moistened her eyes and made her voice tremble. What had happened between Holmes and Irene in that parlour?
With a suspicious eye, Hooper glanced over Irene's shoulders. He was fidgeting with his leather gloves. He looked annoyed. Certainly not guilty.
"There's nothing to explain", Hooper whispered very low and gave Irene's hand a squeeze in turn. Whatever it was, the account could wait. There was really no point in discussing it with Holmes in the room.
Out of the blue, Irene said, "Chase Morgan". Molly's eyes widened. What did the one man for whom Irene had almost completely lost her mind have to do with all this?
Irene smiled without humour and leaned toward Hooper's ear, "The man you know today as Sherlock Holmes, I once knew as Chase Morgan".
Molly's face darkened and her eyes naturally fell on Holmes. Good Lord!
It was he, then, the one Irene had described as the most attentive and passionate lover she had ever had? The one with a mind as sharp and skilled as his tongue and mouth and fingers?
Good Lord! She felt her face getting flustered and flushed as intimate details Irene had shared about Mr Morgan floated through her mind. It was no wonder that her friend didn't look like her old self at the moment. If she didn't shake those images from her head, Hooper was in danger of not seeming like herself either.
"Are you quite well?" she finally managed to ask her friend. Molly knew how much Irene had suffered from her lover's rejection and she understood that now, with reason, she could be affected by the memory of that rejection.
Irene nodded, "I am. Revenge is always satisfying". A mischievous glint in her eyes told Hooper she was planning something in that adorable little mind of hers. "Mr Holmes" she then said without turning to him, "Do you still need to speak to Dr Hooper?".
"If it's not too much trouble I'd like to have a word with him, yes" came the detective reply.
Still with her back to him, Irene smiled slyly, "Very well" she agreed. Then she gently took the Gladstone bag from the doctor's hand, "I'll take care of this, darling". Irene winked at Hooper before turning her head, "I ask only one favour of you, Mr Holmes".
"Anything you wish, Miss Adler".
"Skip the small talk and come straight to the point" she said softly curving her free hand around the back of Hooper's head, "I want him in my bed in ten minutes at most".
Irene's mouth was on Hooper's.