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British universities. That suited me well, because there was no urgent need to hide my sex any longer. But most importantly, I could visit the lady’s lavatories at the medical school without my assistant’s company. That gave me the much needed space for planning an escape. I did wonder, though, how many female medical doctors had found employment at the London Medical School. Possibly none except myself.

    After a too-rich breakfast and a surprising lack of comments on my female outfit, the manservant led me to the waiting brougham. The driver greeted us with a nod, his face hidden behind his cloak’s collar. A stiff wind fingered my ankles and blew cold drizzle down my neck. With a shiver, I climbed into the carriage and Durham shut the door.

    Kensington Gardens, 1890s. (3)

    How curious! No one had blindfolded me or permanently darkened the brougham’s windows. As we left the premises, I understood why — the house I had seen from my window now came into full view: the All Saints Church of Kensington Palace. It was famous enough; I should have recognised it. Moriarty had his home in the most expensive street of the British Empire — Kensington Palace Gardens. I thought of Garret, then, wondering whether he had ever dreamed of burgling this area. I closed my eyes and leaned back, losing myself in memories of my former lover with his flaming orange hair, his rough hands and gentle lovemaking.
    We arrived at London Medical School after a two-mile ride. The driver jumped off and opened the door, offering a helping hand. I took it and gazed up at him. His muffler was pulled up over his mouth, his brown eyes were slightly bloodshot. Black hair stuck out from underneath a wool hat that hid his brow. All I could see was a strip of face that was mostly hair, eyes, and nose.
    I thanked him and the wrinkles around his eyes suggested a smile. Then he turned and waved to a man across the street who had just started towards us.  
    ‘Miss, may I introduce myself? Dylan Goff,’ the man said as he reached us, hand outstretched and expression quizzical. He threw a searching look into the carriage, then gazed at the driver. ‘Where is Dr Kronberg?’
    ‘I am right here.’
    Goff’s eyes snapped back at me and he huffed indignantly. ‘I have no time for such childish games.’
    ‘Me neither. Would you be so forthcoming as to show me to my laboratory?’
    Goff threw a glance at the coachman, who observed our exchange with some amusement. ‘You better do what she says, my friend,’ he said through his muffler.
    Goff blinked twice, as though to wipe away the picture of a female medical doctor not fitting his reality. He pulled himself together soon enough, nodded, and bade me to follow. I turned to the driver. ‘Thank you Mister...’
    ‘Garrow,’ he offered, then flung himself back onto the brougham and flicked the horses. Steam rose where the whip had bit the animals’ skin.  
    Mr Goff started across the street, then turned and looked back at me with impatience. Weary, I gazed up at the five-storey building that contained nothing but dreadful memories. I knew I could expect many more to come.
    Despite knowing our destination, I let Goff lead the way while I thought of adopting a behaviour suitable for upper-class women: to speak little and only if asked, to never show emotion, to pretend to faint once or twice a day, and to seek his company for safety’s sake. As though I were not able to think or decide for myself. As though I would not detect and use any slip in his guard to my advantage.
    We reached the laboratory. It was clean and empty, safe for shelves and workbenches.
    Goff spoke with determination. ‘I need to procure a rather large amount of equipment. Glassware, an incubator, Bunsen burners, an autoclave.’
    I nodded, slightly amused. He did know he was my assistant? Or did he not? Was the simple fact that I was a woman and he a man enough for him to believe we could reverse the hierarchy?
    ‘I also need