The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (19 page)

‘Excuse me?’
 

‘It was wise of you not to reveal yourself to the Irishman, although he was close enough to—’

‘Get out!’ I hissed. His head jerked back a little as though I had slapped him. Then he rose to his feet, produced a nod, and left with a quiet ‘Good night.’

Stark called again a week after his first visit. He had meant to stay in my lab for only a few minutes to enquire about the bacterial pure cultures. I told him I would not give out any cultures as long as the research paper in
The
Lancet
wasn’t published. I explained that I was still in the process of characterising several different bacterial strains of the same species, as they seemed to show varying aggressiveness. That was when his eyes lit up and his hands vibrated slightly.
 

He wanted to know how the course of the disease differed and was delighted to hear that I had germs that could kill my test rabbits within only three days instead of two weeks. It was a lie, but it served the purpose. I also mentioned that additional security measures had been taken to prevent the pure cultures from falling into the wrong hands, which could result in them getting contaminated, or, even worse, cause harm. But I kept all details secret. Only I knew where and how the cultures were stored and how they were labelled. He tried to hide his disappointment and renewed his invitation. My hooks were in deeply; I was satisfied.

I went home and noticed that my door was unlocked. Slowly, I pushed it open and peeked in. Holmes sat in my only armchair.

‘Do you want me to die prematurely of a heart attack?’ I cried.

‘I think you are working on that quite effectively yourself,’ he answered calmly.
 

‘Why did you come?’

‘I identified the two victims.’

I closed the door with a bang and approached him. ‘Pray proceed.’

‘The first one was a Scottish farmer, Dougall Jessop, who moved to London roughly four months before his death. His wife died, he lost his farm, and ended up in Fulham Road Workhouse. He was on a come-and-go basis, for he had occasional employment outside. In London, he had no friends and no one missed him. The last they saw of him in Fulham Road was the beginning of summer last year.
 

‘The second man was also a Scotsman, Torrian Noble. He lived in London for the past five years and spent most of his time in Gray’s Inn Road Workhouse, but disappeared, too, at the beginning of last summer, and has since not returned. Jessop had never set foot into Gray’s Inn and Noble was unknown to the Fulham Road Workhouse.’

‘So they met in Broadmoor?’

‘I consider it as very likely,’ said Holmes.

‘How did they get there?’ I wondered aloud.

‘Well, I have a theory. Both workhouses belong to Holborn Union, which means they all are being watched by one Board of Guardians, headed by a chairman. I heard from other inmates that a physician had visited to offer treatments, supposedly paid by the Board of Guardians. That was at the beginning of last summer.’

I interrupted him. ‘That is extraordinary, Holmes! No such thing as free medical treatments for paupers has ever been provided in any workhouse. At least not that I know of.’

‘Exactly!’ he said. ‘My theory is that this physician examines the inmates, interviews them about their family situation, and chooses the ones that have no family, no close friends, and are comparatively healthy. The chairman of the Board of Guardians must be involved, too. A physician cannot simply walk in and examine paupers at his liking.’

‘So both had been abducted independently and later managed to escape together. Any idea how Noble got to Guy’s?’ I asked.

‘Unfortunately not. I interviewed a cab driver who takes that route regularly. He said that one day a man approached his hansom. He was unable to walk properly and couldn’t speak, grabbed the horse’s reins, and sank to the ground. That’s what made the horse whinny and rear. The driver, who believed the man was intoxicated, had had enough, cracked the whip, and left in a hurry. He had no idea where the man had come from and he could not remember whether there were any onlookers whatsoever.’

I served us tea and sandwiches and we were quiet for a while. Then I remembered Stark.

‘Stark paid me a second visit today,’ I said and Holmes looked up.

‘He wants the tetanus germs very badly. I can expect an invitation to Cambridge any day now.’

‘I had hoped this wouldn’t be necessary,’ he said quietly.

‘I’ll move into 13 Tottenham Court Road tomorrow and will give up this place for a while,’ I said, waving my arm at my apartment, ‘but how will we communicate?’
 

‘You will put a vase or the like into the window of your room whenever you have information that you need to share, or when you are in danger. I will come as soon as possible.’

‘When I’m in danger? Well, that means that vase will be constantly in the windowsill, I guess,’ I noted sarcastically.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘If you say so. And how will
you
contact me when you need to? By simply walking into my rooms?’ I asked, and he nodded.

‘So you are tailing me? Because how the deuce will you know when that vase is in the window if not for someone seeing it?’

‘Yes, I’ll tail you.’

‘Holmes, did you tail me before?’ I asked crossly.

‘No, I did not.’

‘How come you know where I live?’

‘I asked your Irish friend.’

‘Garret would have never told you.’

‘He didn’t need to tell me anything. I suggested to him to get clean clothes for you after the mugging and he led me to your place without his knowledge,’ Holmes stated happily.
 

How very simple, I thought. ‘And why the deuce would you want to know my address?’

‘I was curious.’

‘Next time, just ask,’ I murmured.

‘You wouldn’t have told me.’

‘Probably not, no.’

We were quiet for a long moment until Holmes grumbled, ‘I don’t like it that you throw yourself into the lion’s den.’

‘I don’t like it, either,’ I said quietly, trying to hide my fear. It probably didn’t work very well. ‘Holmes?’

‘What is it?’

‘I know who you are,’ I said softly. He didn’t reply, so I turned towards him. He was staring at the ceiling and, at first glance, seemed relaxed. But his face was too still and his hands were rigidly flat on the armrests. Whenever I got too close to him, be it physically or emotionally, he grew uncomfortable. It had begun immediately after the first time we met, and had got worse, as the distance he needed seemed to be getting greater every time we talked. He would disappear as soon as the crime was solved, I was certain. Surprised, I noticed the ache that accompanied the insight.

‘You don’t know me yet, but soon you will,’ I told him.

Slowly, his face turned towards me, and I explained, ‘I will have to shed most of what I am to serve the lie. You may not recognise me any more, but whatever you’ll see is a part of me.’

— fourteen —

And since you know you cannot see yourself,

So well as by reflection, I, your glass,

Will modestly discover to yourself

That of yourself which you yet know not of.

W. Shakespeare

March, 1890

T
he train took me to Cambridge, or what was left of me. My fears were tucked away safely, as was anything that was soft and would distract me from my goal. My shirt was starched and crisp, my black coat new from the tailor, and my brain sharpened. Wisps of steam flew past the window, occasionally clouding the view of the bleak countryside. The snow had melted two weeks ago, leaving a muddy black surface behind. No green had dared to hatch yet, while the freezing drizzle poured down from an ever-present blanket of grey clouds. One could almost get the impression the sun would not return this year, but that suited my mood. I pushed that thought aside; moods were a luxury now that could tip the forced balance of my mind.

The train arrived at Cambridge Railway Station. I walked to the next cab, my heels clicking on the cobblestones, the stick swinging back and forth, my hat pulled low onto my face. The cabbie nodded at my order to be driven to Cambridge Medical School. Once inside the carriage, I closed my eyes and exhaled all remnants of tension, imagining a scarlet bull’s eye — a goal only I could see and aim at. I wouldn’t rest until my bolt had found its centre and blew it apart.

Precisely fourteen minutes later, the cab stopped. I opened the door,and paid the driver without looking up at him. Stark was already hurrying across the street, waving one hand in greeting.
 

He led me into the Great Court of King’s College, where its mighty vaulted ceilings with delicate fans of stone — criss-crossing like the arteries of a large organism — made me think of being swallowed alive. One blink of my eyes and I wiped my surroundings away, focusing only on the imaginary scarlet spot straight ahead.
 

King’s College, Cambridge, 1841 (19)

Stark opened a door to a small lecture hall. I counted fifteen men wearing stern expressions, aged mostly above fifty, with the older sitting in comfortable armchairs surrounded by younger men. Most were smoking and immersed in quiet conversations. Upon our entry, the chatter faded.

My eyes took in the room; it was no ordinary lecture hall. Dark and intricate wood panels decorated the walls. Pictures of more than twenty haughty-looking men, bewigged, robed, and framed in gold, hung all around the room.
 

Stark coughed and all heads turned in his direction, all but mine. I kept my gaze straight at the most distinguished men, trying to identify the leader.

‘Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr Anton Kronberg, England’s leading bacteriologist. He studied medicine at the Leipzig University and took regular internships at the Charité in Berlin, where he also defended his thesis. After that, Harvard Medical School rewarded him with a fellowship for four years.’

A few men nodded approvingly, and Stark continued with a smile. ‘Then London had the honour to welcome him. His work on infectious diseases at Guy’s Hospital made him a well-known scientist in all of London’s hospitals. But his visit to Dr Koch’s laboratory in Berlin with his breakthrough in the isolation of tetanus germs made him an internationally renowned bacteriologist. His colleagues describe him as driven, hard-working, and highly intelligent.’