The Devil's Grin - a Crime Novel Featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes (3 page)

‘
Could be correct,’ I answer.
Mr Holmes had obviously based his judgment on the man’s clothes, boots, and hands.

‘
But the man could have had any other physically demanding occupation, Mr Holmes. He could as well have been a coal mine worker. The clothes are not necessarily his.’

Mr Holmes
sat erect and pulled one eyebrow up. ‘I think we can safely assume that he had owned these boots for at least ten years,’ said he while extracting a foot and holding the shoe next to it. The sole, worn down to a thin layer of rubber containing a major hole where the man’s heel used to be, showed a perfect imprint of the shape of the man’s foot and toes.

‘
You examined him before I arrived?’

‘
Superficially only; I found it more pressing to investigate how he had entered the trench.’

I nod
ded, only slightly relieved. ‘Mr Holmes, you have put your hands to your face at least twice, even scratched your chin very close to your lips. This is rather reckless considering that you have touched a cholera victim.’

He looked
at me surprised and I passed him a handkerchief soaked in creosote. He wiped himself off with care. Then, without touching the corpse, he bent down low over it and pointed. ‘What is this?’ The genuine interest in his voice was bare of indignation, as if he had not taken offence. I was surprised and wondered whether he did not mind the correction or whether he was so focussed on the examination that he had no time to spend on feeling resentful.

I pick
ed at the smudge he had indicated. It was a small green feather that had been tucked into a small tear just underneath the coat’s topmost buttonhole. I smoothed it and rubbed off the muck, which had almost completely hidden it.

‘
An Oriole female. How unusual! I haven't heard their call for many years.’

‘
A rare bird?’ asked
Mr Holmes.

I looked up at him,
‘Yes, but I can't tell where this feather would come from here in England. I never heard the bird’s call here. The man may have found the feather anywhere and could have been carrying it around for quite a while.’ I trailed off, gazing at the small white quill and the light grey down.

‘
The quill is still somewhat soft,’ I mumbled, ‘and the down is not worn. This feather wasn't plucked by a bird of prey or a fox or the like, it was moulted. He would have had it for a few weeks only and must have found it just before he became ill.’

Mr Holmes looked
surprised, and I felt the need to explain myself: ‘In my childhood I spent rather too much time in treetops and learned a lot about birds. The quill tip shows that the feather has been pushed out by a newly emerging one; birds start moulting in spring. The further north they live, the later they start. The bird shed this feather in late spring or mid-summer this year. Wherever the man had been is home to an Oriole pair.’

‘
Where do these birds li
ve?’ he enquired.

‘
Large and old forests with dense foliage and water – such as a lake or a stream, an adjacent wetland would do, too.’

‘
The Thames?’

‘
Possibly,’ I mused.

The brick in my stomach had become unbearable. ‘Mr Holmes, are you planning to give me away?’

‘
Pshaw!’ He wave
d his hand impatiently. ‘Although I gather it is quite a complicated issue. You don’t fancy going to India, I presume.’ The latter wasn’t as much a question as a statement.

‘
Obviously I don’t.’

He probably did not know that obtaining a medical degree in Germany was still forbidden for women. If my true identity were revealed, I would lose my occupation and my British residency, would be deported and end up in a German jail. My alternative, although I did not consider it one, would be to go to India. The few British women who had recently managed to get a medical degree had eventually given in to the mounting social pressure and had left for India, out of the way of the exclusively male medical establishment. To the best of my knowledge I was representing the only exception.

‘
I had hoped it would not be as evident,’ I answered quietly.

‘
It is evident only to me. I fancy myself as rather observant.’

‘
So I’ve noticed. Yet, you are still here, despite the fact that this case appears to bore you. I wonder why that is.’

‘
I haven’t formed an opinion, yet. But it does indeed seem to be a rather dull case. I wonder…’ Thoughtfully, he gazed at me and I realised that he stayed to analyse me
. I was representing a curiosity!

‘
What made you change your identity?’ he enquired and his face lighted up with great interest.

‘
That’s none of your business, Mr Holmes.’ My suspicion was confirmed.

Suddenly,
his expression changed as his
modus operandi
switched to analysis and after a minute he seemed to have reached a conclusion. ‘I dare say that guild was the culprit.’

‘
What?’

‘
As women weren’t allowed a higher education a few years ago, you had to cut your hair and disguise yourself as a man to be able to study medicine. But the intriguing question remains:
Why
did you accept such drastic measures for a degree? Your accent is evident; you are a German who has learned English in the Boston area. Harvard Medical School?’

I nod
ded; my dialect and mix of American and British English were rather obvious.

‘
At first I thought you lived in East End, but I was wrong. You live in or very near St Giles.’ He pointed a long finger to the splashes on my shoes and trousers. I wiped them every day before entering Guy’s, but some bits always remained.

‘
The brown stains on your right index finger and thumb appear to be from harvesting parts of a medical plant. The Milk Thistle, I presume?’

‘
Correct.’

‘
You treat the poor free of charge, considering the herb which certainly is not used in hospitals. And there’s the location you chose to live - London’s worst rookery! You seem to have a tendency towards exaggerated philanthropy!’ He raised one eyebrow, his mouth lightly compressed. I could see a mix of amusement and dismissal in his face.

‘
You don’t care much about the appearance of your clothes,’ he went on. ‘They are a bit tattered on the sleeves and the collar, but surely not for lack of money. You have too little time! You probably have no tailor blind enough to not discover the details of your anatomy, no one you could trust at your home, no housekeeper or maid who could keep your secret. That forces you to do everything for yourself. In addition will be your nightly excursions into the slums to treat your neighbours. You probably don’t fancy sleep very much.’ His voice was taunting now.

‘
I sleep four hours on average.’ I wondered whether he noticed that I analysed him, too.

He continue
d his observations. ‘You are very compassionate, even with the dead,’ he pointed to the corpse between us. ‘One of the little typical female behaviours you exhibit. Although in your case it’s not merely learned - there is weight behind your compassion. I must conclude that you have felt guilty because someone you loved died. And now you want to help prevent that from happening to others. But you must fail, because death and disease are natural. Considering your peculiar circumstances and your unconventional behaviour, I propose you come from a poor home. Your father raised you after your mother died? Perhaps soon after your birth? Obviously there has not been much female influence in your upbringing.’

U
tterly taken aback by the triumph in his demeanour, I answered: ‘You are oversimplifying, Mr Holmes.’ Only with effort could I keep my anger under control. ‘It’s not guilt that drives me. I wouldn’t have got so far if not for the passion I feel for medicine. My mother did die and I resent you for the pride you feel in deducing private details of my life. Details I do not wish to discuss with you!’ Now the man’s gaze flickered a little. ‘I have met people like you in Harvard, Mr Holmes. Your brain is buzzing constantly and when not put to hard work you can tear yourself apart. Boredom is your greatest torture.’

His breath stumbled over my words.

‘
What do you take when you are bored? Cocaine? It doesn’t help much, does it? Is it playing the cello that can put some order into that occasionally too-chaotic brain of yours?’

I point
ed to his left hand.

‘
No,’ I decided aloud, ‘for the cello wants to be embraced. You prefer the violin - she can be held at a distance.’

Absentmindedly, he gazed at the faint calluses on the finger tips of his left hand, marks produced by pressing down strings.

‘
You are a passionate man and you hide that well. But do you really believe that solving a crime and outsmarting everyone around you is the greatest accomplishment?’

His expression was unfathomable, but his pupils were dilated to the maximum - he was shocked.

I rose to my feet and took a step forward. My face now close to his, I spoke softly. ‘It feels as though a stranger had ripped off all your clothes, doesn’t it?’

Straighten
ing up again I finished: ‘I dearly hope, for your own sake that you will never again have the opportunity to dig in my brain. Have a good day, Mr Holmes.’ I tipped my hat, turned away, and left him in the grass.

Chapter Two

The two constables help
ed me wrap the corpse in a blanket and place it onto the back of the waiting cab. As soon as the package had been strapped down tight, they hastily put a large distance between the stench and their insulted noses. After the younger of the two was done retching in the grass, I walked up to him, disinfected his hands, and gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder.

Once I had disinfected everyone else’s hands, the Inspector, Mr Holmes, the corpse, and I took the cab back to London.

Gibson was closing the door as the carriage gave a lurch. He sat down with anticipation seeping off his moist face. ‘Well, it appears we don’t need your services after all, Mr Holmes.’ he huffed. ‘A cholera victim who drowned in the Thames. Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ The little snicker he produced sounded like shrivelled peas rattling in a can. I held on to my elbow to make sure it wouldn’t to insert itself into Gibson’s eye socket.

He had referred to the number of unidentified men, women, and children found floating in the Thames in regular intervals, usually amounting to over fifty each month. Some of them did die of cholera. Others died of pointy objects that someone had stuck into their rib cages, throats, or elsewhere. And when no one could spare the money for a funeral, the Thames surely took care of it.

‘
It’s not that simple,’ I grumbled.

‘
Do you want to tell me the man had been killed, Dr Kronberg?’ groaned Gibson in a patronising tone. I turned and shot him a sharp glance until the blood visibly rose above his collar.

‘
There are only few things we know for certain, Inspector. The man most likely died of cholera and floated in the river for one or two days. Both of which he did upstream of London and that is highly unusual. Not to forget the restraint marks on his wrists. Or do you have a sound explanation for any of these facts?’

Gibson
did not reply but looked expectant, hoping perhaps I would solve the case for him. Meanwhile, Holmes had refocused his absentminded gaze as if he only now noticed our company. Irritated by the two, I turned away and spoke to the window: ‘I will dissect the body upon arrival at Guy's.’

‘
I will assist,’ state
d Mr Holmes with delight.

‘
Excuse me?’