The Fall (18 page)

— day 63 —
 

O
n Christmas morning, the quiet and empty house was filling up with Moriarty’s family. Until that day, I had not wasted a single thought on him having siblings or even parents, let alone that he had hatched from a womb. The children especially, with their bouncing curls, bubbly mouths, glowing faces, chubby hands, and stomping feet, seemed so out of place here. There was a happiness flooding the house that made my months of dread appear unreal.

Quiet ladies went here and there, touching Christmas ornaments,
ooh-ing
and
aah-ing
, and occasionally slapping an overly-wild youngster over the head. Men were gathered in the smoking room, where aromatic tobacco fumes crawled out through the half-open door, to be stirred up by children running past every so often. Why I had been asked to take part in this celebration, I could not fathom. Only the fact that it might be hard to hide me, given all these curious eyes and noses, served as explanation.

Trying to shut out the chattering about the royal family, I leaned my head against the frosted window, and thought of my own childhood Christmases. The tallow candles we had made, the neighbour’s goose in the oven, the talks over hot goat’s milk (for me) and coffee (for my father).
 
The presents we gave each other had been small and useful: a pocket knife he had made for me, or socks I had knitted for him. The quality of my handicraft was an insult to all knitters. My father wore the socks anyway, although not for long, for all died an early death by disintegration.

I coughed to release the tension in my throat, wishing my father were safe already, and then turned back to the merry congregation of spoiled upper-class individuals.

The women had immersed themselves in talk about the weather, the latest news blaring from the front pages of the papers, fashion in London or Paris, or — God forbid — America. Suddenly, all eyes turned towards me.

‘Miss Kronberg, James told us you lived in Boston for two years? Oh please, come and sit with us.’ A hand patted the chaise longue, a large gem wiggling on the index finger.

I obeyed, and two ladies moved aside just a little so I could squeeze in between them.

‘Tell us about women’s fashion in America. Don’t you think it outrageous?’
 

I really had no idea what they were referring to. ‘I could not say.’
 

That caused a little consternation.

‘I never purchased a single dress in Boston,’ I explained, satisfied with the shy gasps that followed.

The woman who had invited me to sit had been introduced to me as Moriarty’s older sister Charlotte. I guessed her age to be close to fifty. Her facial features revealed their shared blood, but the rest of her was probably four times as wide as her brother. And just like James Moriarty, she manipulated the behaviour of her company with ease, made them agree or disagree to her liking, bent them like grass in the wind.

When Charlotte started laughing artificially, everyone else chimed in. ‘What an extraordinary dislike for American fashion you must entertain, my dear.’ Her voice was a little too high-pitched, but the
my dear
sounded exactly like her brother’s. Perhaps it was routinely used in the family to express depreciation. Now, everyone else joined in the polite exhilaration, fingertips half-covering their mouths. Then, silence fell and their big-eyed attention was directed at me.
 

‘Not quite. I had no particular like or dislike for women’s fashion in the States. My lifestyle was such that I could only wear…men’s clothing.’ My chest almost burst with provocative joy, but I forced my face into naiveté and innocence.
 

Shocked silence followed suit; one could have heard a flea hop, if there had been any.

Some faces turned a shade of pink, others pale, and I continued, ‘At the age of sixteen I cut off my hair, put on trousers, and enrolled at the University of Leipzig. I studied medicine and bacteriology, was awarded a fellowship by the Harvard Medical School, and later worked at Guy’s hospital here in London. I masqueraded as a man for twelve years, and I must say doing so was quite refreshing. I almost regret that by now, women can study and practice medicine without criminalising themselves.’
 

I was certain that none of the ladies had ever met a female doctor. As a matter of fact, the only one I had ever seen was my own reflection.

All that was audible besides my audience’s shallow breaths were the children at play, scattered throughout the hallway, the stairwells, and the drawing room. Even the men had ceased their conversations and it was only the tobacco smoke that dared to move.

‘What an adventure,’ Charlotte quipped, dismissing the topic to turn towards her company and chatter about some Lord I had never heard of and his mistress I didn’t know either. The men commenced their discussion on politics and the Kaiser, while the children started making plans on which of them should venture into the kitchen to steal candied fruits.

Hands in my lap, shoulders and waist buried in my neighbours’ fashionably buffed sleeves, I tried to appear somewhat lady-like — indifferent to all the droning about insignificances. Half an hour later, lunch saved me from this brainless torture.
 

A delicate soup and turtle was handed around, eaten, and taken off. A turbot with lobster and sauce, oysters, patés, sweetbread, duckling, green goose, accessories of salad and vegetables were marched in, taken apart, ingested and their remains carried away. The sheer amount of food, how it was stuffed into mouths shining with grease, mouths that ate more than the stomach could take, chewing and talking and stuffing in more, made me feel nauseous. The corset’s grip grew unbearable; my lungs tried to expand in vain. Even eating the little I had managed proved too much for so constricted a space.

The day of useless chatter and natty behaviour went on, until finally — to the children’s delight — the dining room was locked and secret undertakings happened behind the closed door. With red cheeks, still shiny with goose fat, and quivering elbows poking each other’s ribs, the youngsters waited. Every minute seemed to stretch into an hour. Finally, the door was opened by none other than Father Christmas himself, or rather the coachman in disguise. All children fell silent; the man was a threat. He had the power to withhold presents. Seven short people lined up, with the smallest in the front and the taller ones in the back. He beckoned them in and gave each one of them his or her present accompanied by well meant grumbling.
 

The scene that followed resembled a battlefield. Children sat on the floor, trying to pry open packages, at first tentatively, but then more and more impatiently. Then, the loot was ripped open and gutted, innards spilled and greeted with happy squeals. Despite my dizziness, I couldn’t help but smile. I stopped the instant I spotted Moriarty on the other side of the room. He was observing me, wearing an oddly satisfied expression.
 

Lightheaded, I ached for fresh air, went up to my room, tore the windows wide open, and rang for Cecile. She helped me loosen the corset, we sat down on the bed together, and she extracted an envelope from her apron pocket.

‘I will give it to him tomorrow,’ I said. Her eyes shone with excitement as I placed her letter under my pillow. ‘Now let me rest a little, for the merry company downstairs has left my brain quite wrung out.’

A giggled
thank you
and Cecile left me alone. My throbbing head was happy to lie on the cool pillow. Just a few minutes, I thought as I closed my eyes.

A rap on the door woke me. The room was dark. I coughed, which must have been interpreted as an inviting
yes.
The door opened and the slender shadow of a man walked in. My stomach clenched and I was suddenly wide awake. My feet propelled me out of bed in an instant. He stopped, looked around in the room, stepped towards the candle on the chest of drawers and lit it with a match. He was thoughtful enough not to switch on the electric light.

‘My apologies. Are you not feeling well?’ His voice was friendly and soft. I wondered whether he had smoked opium. But the odour was missing. Did he eat it, too?

‘I felt nauseous and decided to rest,’ I said defiantly. There was no reason for him to be offended over my disappearance. My company had not been welcome during the evening hours; dinner was a family business.

‘Would you take a late supper with me?’

All muscles in my body reacted in unison — they tensed, ready to jump. ‘Your guests left?’ I asked, feeling the unavoidable pull onto the dreadful path I had planned to walk.

‘Yes. It is past nine in the evening. The children became quite unbearable.’

I wondered about the woman next door. He must have seen my gaze flicker to the wall and back again. ‘She is gone,’ he said and walked to the open door, waiting for me to follow.

The table was set for two, with neither Durham nor any other servant in sight. Unspeaking, I sat down, thinking about my father. He should have reached his home by now.
 

A cough. I looked up. Moriarty pointed to my food, the fork stuck in it, nothing eaten. I dropped my gaze to my plate, just now noticing it was cold goose, cut into thin slices. There was fresh bread on the table, next to a piece of butter that had begun to melt, a bottle of red wine shining in the candlelight. Romantic, almost.

‘Would you care to join me in a game tonight?’

‘What game?’

‘Mine of course. There is only one rule,’ he said calmly. ‘You and I put our cards on the table.’

‘I already told you how I had planned to kill you.’ I said, spreading butter on the steaming bread, watching it melt into a puddle of warm gold.

‘Very well,’ he said, seemingly dissatisfied with my scant reply.

I took a bite of bread and cringed. The cooks had been too generous with garlic in the butter.

Silently, he poured wine and I drank it fast. My tongue felt heavy and almost furry. He refilled my glass without asking, then left the table and walked over to a dark corner of the room. A cranking noise, then music. I tipped the second glass of wine down my throat.

‘Humour me,’ he said, holding out his hand.

I reached out and he pulled me to my feet that felt as though they weren’t mine. Instead of the feared dance, he led me to the ottoman. I noticed the long pipe on the small table next to it.

‘What was in the butter?’ I asked, feeling curiously lightheaded. The thought of having been given a drug almost caused me to panic.

‘The same substance you will find in the pipe.’

I sat down on the ottoman, paralysed like a rabbit in a wolf’s jaws. I knew well enough where this was heading. It tied my tongue, while my mind blared a thousand warnings.

‘You’ll find it more comfortable if you lie down. Hold the pipe and inhale when I say so. Keep the smoke in your lungs as long as possible.’

It did not sound like an order. More like an invitation. I leaned back and watched him cut a small piece off the brownish lump, the familiar smell oozing off it. My knees shook, and I pressed my legs together, fearful that he would throw himself upon me the instant the drug took effect.

He noticed my reaction and pulled up an eyebrow. ‘If I wished to violate you, I could have done so a long time ago.’

‘I am terrified of the drug,’ I said.

‘Why? You have seen its effects.’

‘But I have not experienced it. Besides, you use opium as a shortcut — you want me to give myself to you. You manipulate. You don’t force physically, you coerce.’

The pipe sank into his lap as he looked at me. ‘Our fears are our own and we must learn to control them. Leave them behind where they belong. Only then can you see what is and what isn’t.’ Then, he performed the same elaborate procedure of heating the coal and melting the drug.
 

He held out the pipe to me. ‘Opium will not make you do things you don’t want to do. It will, instead, show you what your mind is capable of. Trust me this once.’

I swallowed my fear and took the pipe from his hand, blew air onto the melting lump, sucked the smoke in and was hit by surprise — instead of the expected scorching sensation, a pleasant caress went down my airways and bronchi.