The Devil's Grin - a Crime Novel Featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes (24 page)

I opened my eyes and determination vibrated in every fibre of my body.

~~~

Anton and Bowden crossed Broadmoor’s
courtyard and aimed for the high security blocks. ‘We chose a set of twenty subjects,’ Bowden said, ‘as you correctly noticed.’

Anton remembered the place, the fear, and the night spent under a tree. With haste, he wiped the memory away.

The two men walked through a large hall. The
cold stone walls echoed their footsteps. They passed twenty small cots, each equipped with four fetters. Interweaved with the sharp clack-clack of their heels was a quiet murmur. It seeped from the back of the hall and announced the final arrival of horror.

Anton made for the noise and
Bowden
followed. They passed through an arched doorway and a narrow corridor that forked like a snake’s tongue. At the end of each tip was an iron door with a small barred window.

Anton aimed
towards the left and stood on tiptoe to look through the square opening. Ten women, aged between fifteen and forty were squeezed together in a small cell. A bucket served as a privy and was full to the brim. The fear was palpable.

With foreboding so heavy he could barely walk, he made for the door to the right. The room harboured ten men of approximately the same range of age. With a jolt
, Anton recognised the tall man.

He felt his armour peel off him like a skin too small for her wearer. It
fell off in shreds and would never be worn again.

Somewhere in the Berkshire, an Oriole male
cried his melodic call and the raspy answer of the female followed soon thereafter.

Part Three - Sherlock

Clarity of mind means clarity of passion, too;

this is why a great and clear mind loves ardently

and sees distinctly what love is.

B. Pascal

Chapter
Twenty

There he stood - one of ten starved and tattered looking prisoners. The thought of
the dying rabbits and mice behind my lab at London Medical School snuck into my brain, threatening to rip it apart.

Our time had run out.

Someone behind me spoke; it was Bowden. My throat was clenched to a fist, my mouth a desert. He tapped my shoulder and slowly I turned around. I tried to conceal the rage in my eyes. My brain sent an urgent command to my lungs to commence breathing. Not so much for the lack of oxygen, but for the danger of being discovered. I coughed and looked at Bowden. ‘They look too sick already!’ I barked at him.

R
eproachful he took half a step back and retorted: ‘These were the only ones available! Use them.’

This
last sentence was a command.

‘
When do we start?’
I asked, straining to put only curiosity in my voice and not the stampede of angst and hate.

‘
Tomorrow.’

~~~

The next day, a
last health check-up of our human test subjects was due. Only hours later, we would feed them active cholera germs, or inject the heat-killed ones into their veins.

In my doctor
’s bag were two dark brown glass bottles, labelled with
‘active’
and
‘inactive’
, together with syringes, needles, and a rubber band.

Walking through the hall of block five, I asked Stark to examine the women and let him believe I felt an aversion to the female sex. He was noticeably amused.

I entered a small cell and spread my utensils on a table as the first man was shoved in carelessly by the guard, who then remained standing there, watching us. I was shocked - the man was naked with his hands cuffed behind his back. It wasn’t even necessary to force off all his clothes for a comprehensive physical examination. Respect and compassion have obviously left that place long ago, and I wondered why normal people willingly turn into torture machines. It gives them power, I thought and nodded. Immediately I regretted it deeply - the guard had observed me and now frowned, wondering what could be the matter with me.

I examined the
man, and then the next, and the next. They all were copies of the same: undernourished, maltreated, and scared. They all hoped I would help them, show mercy, or tell them what would happen. As if they would like to know! I wouldn’t. Anything but die of cholera while being strapped onto a bunk.

The guard lead in the next man. He looked like the others, starved and dirty with his ribs only too visible above the concave abdomen. He was hunched over and limping, his feet blackened. I knew him so well. Nicholson wouldn’t recognise this wreck of a man, whom he had met once a long time ago.

I placed myself between him and the guard and slowly lifted my head. My heart was racing and my face was hot as if someone had slapped it repeatedly. He appeared controlled and kept his eyes fixed upon a spot somewhere above my head.

I started the routine auscultation. Like the others he had a number of bruises and cuts on his torso. I placed my clammy hand on each mark. One had the shape of a shoe. The thought of the kick made my hands shake.
Then I spotted the freckles on his shoulders. How absurd, I thought, noticing how fragile they made him appear.

I
blinked and looked up in his face, examined his mouth, tongue, and eyes, while silently trying to communicate to him that I had a plan, that he could trust me. Although I wasn’t too sure what that plan would be.

But
he looked determined, as if he had his own strategy. Without moving his head, his eyes darted towards the guard and then looked back at me. As his lips twitched to the faintest smile, I stopped breathing. Only a second later he began to cough badly and doubled over, barely able to catch a breath.

I barked at the guard to make haste and take off the cuffs to prevent the man from choking. The confused guard stumbled over to Holmes, but stopped half way, not sure what would be the safest procedure. I took a step towards him and stretched out my hand, ordering him to give me the key. Holmes was now on the floor, feigning weakness. The guard’s eyes flew from my outstretched hand to the heap of coughing man and he seemed unable to decide what to do. I took another step towards him and kicked him hard in his groin. With a long huff, all air left his lungs and his body caved in. Just before he sank to his knees I used all my fury to hit him on the back of his head. His nose cracked as he hit the floor. He was about to get up again as Holmes’s naked heel made contact with his neck. Any other day, the loud snap would have shocked me. Today, it felt like the greatest relief. We had won our first battle without making too much noise and drawing attention.

I fumbled the key from the guard’s clenched fist. ‘Turn around,’ I said and freed Holmes’s wrists, panting.

I took a step back to give
him the necessary space to undress the dead man and put his clothes on himself. While he pocketed the guard’s revolver, he asked casually: ‘How long until they expect you to have another patient?’

I didn’t answer and he finally looked at me. ‘Anna!’ he ordered.

‘
Ten or fifteen minutes at the most,’ I said automatically

‘
That should suffice,’ he noted and gingerly took my right hand and pulled it closer to his face. I hadn’t noticed that the knuckles were bleeding. Before he could examine it further, I whisked my hand away from his.

‘
What is your plan?’ I enquired.

‘
I will break into Nicholson’s office and wire to the local police that Broadmoor is suffering a mass breakout. That should make them come with the artillery,’ he said with a smug smile.

‘
Listen, Sherlock – whatever happens – I must be Anton Kronberg for a little while longer. I’ll explain everything later.’

He nodded
, and I said: ‘Now I should be believably unconscious.’ He made a face and I explained: ‘Knock me out.’

He looked around and picked up a small piece of plaster from the floor.

‘
You want to hit me on the head with that tiny thing?’ I wondered aloud, almost amused now.

‘
All you need is a little blood,’ he said, took as step forward grabbed my neck and drove the pointy little rock into my brow. It was only a small cut but bled sufficiently.

‘
Thanks,’
I noted wryly and bent down to rub some dirt next to the wound.

‘
Perfect!’ said Holmes and unlocked the door with the guard’s latch key. I watched him leave and then lay flat on the ground and pretended to take a nap. My heart was thumping so loud, I got worried someone may hear it through the closed iron door.

Chapter
Twenty One

Lying on the cold floor, I felt like the eye of a tornado. Holmes was the storm and I was 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 lazily dripping onto the stone tiles.

After a few minutes the tempest began with a timid rap on the door. As no answer came the knocks became urgent and 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 had found a spare key and finally opened the door. He stuck his head through the opening and shouted: ‘An escape! Guards! Hurry!’ on his way back through the hall.

The blood drew 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. Slowly and considering 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; I wanted 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 Holmes’s commanding voice. It spread a very warm feeling through my intestines.

Two policemen walked in. One jerked me up onto my feet, and the other cuffed my hands behind my back. I let my head hang low as not to show the triumphant smile I couldn’t wipe off my face. They walked me out 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 Holmes, 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 Holmes were behind us in a hansom and Bowden’s brougham. Holmes had managed to engage the entire local police force, I thought admiringly.

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 the human race - I did that very loudly - and then head-butted Nicholson while falling on top of him.

The crack I heard as my forehead made contact with Nicholson’s nose was very satisfactory indeed! The man protested with zest – spit and blood flew out of his mouth as he threw insults at me.

The cart stopped
, and one of the two policemen jerked me back onto my seat. Nicholson was bleeding copiously and I smiled at him. His eyes were full of hate. I was sure he would have wrung my neck here and now if he could only have freed his hands.