The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (16 page)

We were both hungry, so I cooked us food and we drank the brandy I had brought from London. He sat in his armchair and I on the rug in front of him, both of us close to the fireplace with the heat toasting our feet. And very soon thereafter I fell asleep.

I woke up with the winter sun shining through the window of my old bedroom, which was really more a cupboard than anything else. Surprised, I noticed that my father had kept it in exactly the same state in which I had left it.

I got up, washed, dressed, and walked into the small sitting room. The familiar smell and the furniture I had climbed as I was little greeted me like long-forgotten friends. Quietly I said hello to the tattered armchair, hoping that no one would hear me talking to it or see me stroking its bleached backrest.
 

I spotted our two wooden chairs that had been covered in kinks as long as I could remember and the small table where we used to sit and eat. Then I noticed the doily. I walked over and inspected it. Someone had a good hand at bobbin lace. The room was tidier than I remembered it in its best days. There was but one explanation — female influence!

The scraping noise coming from the workshop lured me outside and I found my father cutting fine structures into a wardrobe door. Leaning against the shed, I watched him. His skill had always fascinated me. He had the rare ability to look at an apparatus, a tool, or a building and know instantly how it worked and how it had been constructed. He could fix machines he had never set eyes upon before. He opened them carefully, poked and wiggled at their intestines with his small screwdriver, and then, with utmost concentration, he scrunched up his face and figured out everything in minutes. He could do that with people, too. After a moment of scrutinising a stranger, he knew what character was hidden inside. Or he looked at me and knew what I felt. It was very annoying.

He noticed my presence and smiled.

‘Who is the woman? Do I know her?’ I had to attack before he did.

‘Katherina.’ He didn’t look up from his work.

‘Oh, really? I like her.’ She had lived in our street since I was little and had been like an aunt to me. I started wondering when they had fallen in love with each other and whether he would ask her to marry him. Ah, what a silly thought. Of course he would!

‘I’m happy for you,’ I said, and my father’s cheeks reddened. He answered with a grunt.

‘Breakfast?’ I offered, shivering and eager to get back inside.

He slapped his stomach once. ‘I had mine two hours ago, but there’s some space left.’ He tried his evil grin and mocked me, ‘Off you go into the kitchen, woman!’

‘For your information, I do know some self-defence,’ I lied, my arms akimbo.

‘Shall I ask the maid, Dr Kronberg?’ he retorted.

‘You could surely afford one with all that money you hide under your mattress.’ I knocked the wood shavings off his shoulders.

We kicked the slushy snow off our shoes, took them off, and walked into the warm kitchen. Leaning against the counter, we drank strong coffee and ate porridge, getting our tongues scorched.

‘Are you happy, Anna?’

This question did not come unexpected, but I was still grateful for the hot food in my mouth. It gave me a little time to think before answering,.‘Mostly, yes.’

He wanted to add something, but only scratched his ear.

‘What is it?’

‘Hmm… I’m getting old,’ he mumbled.

‘We all are. But what is bothering you?’

‘When parents are growing old, they are thinking about grandchildren.’

I gazed up into his face while my heart skidded along. He didn’t know what had happened eight years ago and I would never dare tell him. I knew it would hurt him badly and he would want to avenge his daughter.
 

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Do you have someone, Anna?’

I thought of Garret then, and although I tried to hide that silly smile, he caught my expression. He looked satisfied; for a moment, at least.

‘Who is he?’ he asked casually, and, after a moment’s consideration, he added, ‘or she?’ very carefully.

‘Stealth attack, Anton?’ I joked. ‘The man’s name is Garret. He is Irish and the best thief in the neighbourhood.’

The porridge flew from my father’s mouth and sailed in little flecks down to the floor. He coughed. ‘A thief!’

‘You know I live in the slums. Most people there have no other choice for making a living.’
 

His face was red with anger.

‘I know he is not the right man for me. He is warmhearted and loving, but he wouldn’t accept my…style of living.’

Slowly he regained his normal colour. I watched him and felt the urge to throw my arms around him and not let go of him for a very long time. But, of course, I did no such thing.

‘Anton?’

‘Hmm?’

‘You are truly the best man I have ever met. I do not know a single soul who could accept or even respect a woman like me. I mean, look at you!’ I grabbed both his shoulders. ‘You would even accept, although with a very heavy heart, if I loved a woman!’ I saw him getting very embarrassed now. ‘We always talked eye to eye, and I’m so grateful you allowed this. I’m so grateful that you treat your only child with respect and love, like an equal.’

He looked into my eyes now; his were a little glassy. ‘I don’t think I will ever marry. No one would tolerate a woman like me. No one who is quite right in his mind,’ I said at last.
 

‘Why would you say that?’ he cried out.

‘Look at me, Anton,’ I said gently. ‘Have you ever seen a woman like me? A woman who looks like a man, behaves like a man, can’t ever keep her mouth shut, and works as a medical doctor? I actually
did
consider marrying a woman so that all my male colleagues would stop whispering behind my back and the nurses would stop flirting with me!’

‘Anna! Don’t talk about yourself like that!’

‘But it is true.’

My father stood there helpless and silent, with his arms hanging at his sides. After a while, he touched my cheek and whispered, ‘Will you help me build that wardrobe?’

I nodded, grateful for the distraction.

We spent most of the daytime together. When I wasn’t working with him on some furniture or cooking for us or cleaning up the mess we had produced in the kitchen, I sat in our cherry tree thinking about my old life here; how life had been in Boston, and now was in London. The word
contrast
could not quite describe it.

On my last day, my father asked me to kill one of his hens. We were to have Katherina over for supper and he wanted a feast for his two favourite women. The chicken was in the oven when she stepped through the door. My father’s face shone brightly then, and hers, too. She approached him and placed her hand on his shoulder. The gentleness, love, and respect between the two produced a big lump in my throat. She walked over to me and gave me a hug.
 

‘Anna, good you came. Your father missed you.’

I could only nod, trying to be very busy peeling potatoes.

The train rolled into the station to carry me away. My father held me tight, as though this would be our last moment together. But who knew what the future might bring? I soaked up as much of his warmth as I could and tried my best to not cry while telling him that he was the most loving father a child could ever wish for.
 

The train gave a mighty jerk, belched a blob of steam, and started pulling me north while hooting Leipzig farewell. I peered out of the window and craned my neck until the small speck that was my father had disappeared.

Before I reached Berlin, I knew what I had to do. Tetanus bacteria died upon contact with oxygen. I would use sodium sulphite to consume any potential traces of oxygen in our supposedly anoxic culture medium.

Two weeks later, I saw the first colonies appear in my Petri dishes. We used them to infect rabbits and mice. The animals showed muscle spasms a week later and I extended my stay for another two weeks to finish my work.

I disembarked on January 16
^th
, 1890, glad that the ice wasn’t closing off the passage. The additional trunk I carried with me contained copies of the glass cylinders and anaerobic vessels we had developed and used for the cultivation of tetanus germs. I would show them to a glass-blower who would then help me to supplement my laboratory equipment at Guy’s. The trunk also contained my notebooks and the valuable pure cultures, growing inside sealed glass bulbs, carefully wrapped in many layers of cotton and wax paper.

I had wired Guy’s superintendent to send someone to safely transport my precious freight from the harbour to the lab. It was late in the evening when I arrived in London. A hansom took me and my companion to the hospital and, after making sure my cultures were safe and well, I went home, happily anticipating my own bed.
 

Standing at the door to my room, the latch key in my hand, I hesitated, not knowing what or how many would greet me inside. I shook my head at my own silliness and opened the door.
 

Twelve heaps were quietly snoring on the floor. The room smelled clean and my bed was untouched. I steered myself there, dropped down, and rolled up like a pickled herring.