Read Online The Fall by Annelie Wendeberg - Free Book Online

there been others before her? Could I trust the librarian, and how would I approach him? Even if I managed to contact Holmes, how could he possibly find my father? Without information on his whereabouts, the only thing for Holmes to track was the occasional letter. My father was in England, I was certain. My letter had left the house, and four days later I had received an answer. Each letter must have travelled a maximum of two days, most likely fewer to give the translator time to read it and communicate its contents to Moriarty. The probability was high that my father’s response had not been what was expected or allowed and that he had to re-write it. Might he even be in London? So close?
    The envelope looked new, without kinks or smudges. Whoever had transported it was not the regular runner boy. But who was the messenger? During my nineteen days of captivity I had yet to see or even hear a guest. Every evening seemed to be identical to the ones before: I arrived, ate and often had a meeting with Moriarty. And if not, I went straight to my room. The housekeeper bustled in the scullery. My room and clothes were taken care of while I was at the laboratory, and a good fire awaited me when I returned. Before nine at night, the maid hauled coals up the stairs and stoked the fire one last time. She did this for every inhabited room. That left her with five hours of sleep at the most before starting another day of hard work. She had her own prison, and every day I was grateful to not be living the life of a servant.  
    Gooding shared the room below mine with both cooks. Their conversations circled mostly around the coachman. The maid seemed to be secretly in love with him; the other women pitied her. Apparently, Garrow had a prominent scar across his left cheek that everyone deemed unattractive, while Gooding did not care about it. Garrow always wore his muffler to protect him from the cold weather. Hence, all I had ever seen of him was a strip of nose and eyes. He, however, seemed either utterly ignorant of Gooding’s feelings or afraid of losing his occupation if seen flirting with the maid.
    A noise brought my thoughts to a full stop. I pressed the glass harder against the wall. Someone had just entered the house. The entrance door slammed; the strong wind must have torn it from Hingston’s hand. Then I heard the clacking of heels, soon cut off. Whoever it was must have entered one of the rooms just off the main hall. Anxious to identify the guest and the reason for the visit, I listened until my ears felt hollow from the strain. Complete silence filled the house. Durham didn’t even shuffle his feet. What made him tense?
    After more than three hours, I heard movement on the ground floor. I opened my door. ‘I need to use the water closet.’ Durham gave a nod and walked stiffly around the corner.
    Moriarty’s voice echoed in the hall. The other voice I recognised with a shiver — Moran. I could not hear what was being said. Only an occasional word made it up to the second floor. Among them was Ragpicker’s — so they were discussing anthrax. We were still lacking a diseased animal with clear symptoms of an anthrax infection. One could easily isolate the wrong germ if weakened animals contracted more than one disease. The two men were silent now; possibly they had heard our footsteps.
    I went into the water closet, bolted the door, sat on the bowl, and tried to rub the chill off my skin. Moran’s hard face, icy blue eyes, his obsession with guns. I pulled the chain, opened the door, and stepped out into the corridor. It was empty.
    Why had Durham disappeared? I noticed the faint odour of tobacco as I walked back to my room. It wasn’t like what Moriarty smoked in my presence. I opened the door and was certain I had switched the lights on before leaving, but had no time to finish the thought. A hand came down on my mouth and nose, cutting all air off. Only a grunt escaped through the nonexistent gap between my lips