Lying on the cold floor, I felt like the eye of a tornado. Sherlock was the storm and I the centre, waiting for destruction to surround me. I closed my eyes again and listened into my own dark and to the soft click click of blood dripping down onto the stone tiles.
After a few minutes, the tempest began with a rap on the door. I remained silent and the knocks became more urgent, then turned into shouts. ‘Dr Kronberg? What is going on? I demand you open the door immediately!’ It was Stark’s voice.
Then I heard him fumble the lock and try to force it. Several minutes passed until they found a spare key and finally opened the door. He stuck his head through the gap and shouted, ‘An escape! Guards! Hurry!’ on his way back through the hall.
The blood had drawn a tiny black pond on the floor, and I let my thoughts tiptoe back to the night at the bog lake.
After a while, Nicholson walked in. I saw him through my half-closed eyes. Methodically, he planted one foot on the ground and then the next. A quiet tap tap. I pictured him flicking a forked tongue in and out of the slit of his mouth like a great anaconda tasting the air, trying to detect the next meal.
Then he stuck the tip of his shoe into my abdomen. This, too, he did slowly and deliberately. I had to suppress an angry growl, feeling the urge to eat him alive. Only a quiet groan escaped my lips and he stopped, put his foot back to the floor, and left me alone.
Then I heard a great hustle in the hall — people shouting, several gunshots, and Sherlock’s commanding voice. It spread a very warm feeling through my chest.
Two policemen walked in. One jerked me up to my feet, slapped my face to wake me, while the other cuffed my hands behind my back. I let my head hang low so as not to show the triumphant grin I couldn’t wipe off my face. They walked me out of the room with a firm grip on the scruff of my neck. The other men were handled the same way — Stark, Nicholson, Bowden, several guards, and the Broadmoor staff. Among them was Sherlock, looking pleased. We avoided each other’s eyes.
They loaded us criminals into a dog cart with two officers pointing guns into our faces. The other policemen and Sherlock were behind us in a hansom and Bowden’s brougham. It looked as though Sherlock had engaged the entire local police force.
On the way to the police station, we passed over a particularly bumpy section of the cobblestone road. I stood up halfway and protested against this inhumane treatment of a medical doctor who had only wanted to save mankind — I did that rather loudly — and then head-butted Nicholson while falling on top of him.
The crack I heard as my forehead made contact with his nose was very satisfactory indeed! The man protested with zest — spitting saliva, blood, and insults at me.
The cart came to a halt and one of the two policemen slammed me back on to my seat. Nicholson was bleeding copiously, his eyes full of hate, and I was certain that he would have wrung my neck here and now if he could only have freed his hands. My lips twitched to a smile and I let Nicholson see it. Naturally, it did nothing to improve his mood.
Feeling like a queen on her throne, I rode along. The time of the Club was over.
***
We arrived at the local police station after a twenty-minute drive.
‘Put this man into a separate cell, Inspector. He was the head of the gang, and I must interview him at once,’ said Sherlock with a most convincing coldness in his voice. Even the small hair on the back of my neck believed it and bristled.
An inspector lead me into a small interrogation room and pressed me down on a stool. He left and locked the heavy iron door; only a moment later, it was opened again. I heard ruffling, the door being locked, and two swift steps being taken. Then, Sherlock’s face appeared in front of mine.
Exceedingly careful, he inspected my head. The cut he had made was irrelevant. The bruise on my forehead did hurt, but it would heal soon enough. He was so focused on examining my superficial wounds with gentle fingers that he didn’t notice my gaze.
And, without thinking, I closed my eyes and pressed my face into his palm. He froze, as did time and our surroundings. All that was audible was the rumbling of my heart and the slow hiss of breaths being taken. He moved closer then. For a moment, I believed he would pull me into an embrace. His hands went behind my back, the manacles clicked and fell to the floor.
He cleared his throat. ‘You broke Nicholson’s nose.’
‘I identified his footprint.’
He straightened up then, about to speak, when someone knocked and called, ‘The brougham is ready, Mr Holmes.’
‘Come,’ he said, picking up the manacles again. ‘I’ll have to put them back on for the time being. I’m to transfer you to London, Yard’s main quarters.’
I nodded and placed my hands behind my back.