The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (2 page)

As this call came with some frequency, I had the pleasure of working with Metropolitan Police inspectors once in a while. They were a well-mixed bunch of men whose mental sharpness ranged from that of a butter knife to an overripe plum.

Inspector Gibson belonged to the plum category. The butter knives, fifteen in total, had been assigned to the murder division — a restructuring effort within the Yard in response to the recent Whitechapel murders and the hunt for the culprit commonly known as Jack the Ripper.

I slipped the wire into my pocket and asked the nurse to summon a hansom. Then I made my way down to my basement laboratory and the hole in the wall that I could call my office. I threw a few belongings into my doctor’s bag and rushed to the waiting cab.

The bumpy one-hour ride to Hampton Water Treatment Works was pleasant; it offered views London had long lost: greenery, fresh air, and once in a while, a glimpse of the river that still had the ability to reflect sunlight. Once the Thames entered the city, it turned into the dirtiest stretch of moving water in the whole of England. Crawling through London, it became saturated with cadavers from each of the many species populating the city, including their excrements. The river washed them out onto the sea, where they sank into the deep to be forgotten. London had an endless supply of filth, enough to defile the Thames for centuries to come. At times, this tired me so much that I felt compelled to pack my few belongings and move to a remote village. Perhaps to start a practice or breed sheep, or do both and be happy. Unfortunately, I was a scientist and my brain needed exercise. Country life would soon become dull, I was certain.

The road along the Thames, half way between London and Hampton Waterworks. (4)

The hansom came to a halt at a wrought-iron gate with a prominent forged iron sign arching above it, its two sides connecting pillars of stone. Behind it stretched a massive brick complex adorned by three tall towers.

Hampton Water Treatment Works were built in response to the 1852 Water Act, after the progressive engineer Thomas Telford had annoyed the government for more than twenty years. He had argued that Londoners were drinking their own filth whenever they took water from the Thames, which resulted in recurring cholera outbreaks and other gruesome diseases. The inertness of official forces whenever money and consideration were to be invested amazed me rather often.
 

Roughly half a mile east from where I stood, an enormous reservoir was framed by crooked willows and a variety of tall grasses. My somewhat elevated position allowed me to look upon the water’s dark blue surface decorated with hundreds of white splotches. The whooping, shrieking, and bustling about identified them as water birds.

I stepped away from the cab. Low humming seeped through the open doors of the pumping station; apparently, water was still being transported to London. A rather unsettling thought, considering the risk of cholera transmission.

I walked past three police officers — two blue-uniformed constables and one in plain clothes ,being Gibson. The bobbies answered my courteous nod with a smile, while Gibson looked puzzled.
 

The man I was aiming for was, I hoped, a waterworks employee. He was a bulky yet healthy-looking man of approximately seventy years of age. His face was framed by bushy white whiskers and mutton chops topped up with eyebrows of equal consistency. He gave the impression of someone who would retire only when already dead. And he was looking strained, as though his shoulders bore a heavy weight.

‘I am Dr Anton Kronberg. Scotland Yard called me because of a potential cholera fatality in the waterworks. I assume you are the chief engineer?’

‘Yes, I am. William Hathorne, pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr Kronberg. It was me who found the dead man.’

I noticed Gibson huffing irritably. Probably I undermined his authority yet again. Although it would require a certain degree of learning ability on his part, I was still surprised that he obviously hadn’t yet become accustomed to my impertinence.

‘Was it you who claimed the man to be a cholera victim?’ I enquired.
 

‘Yes.’

‘But the pumps are still running.’

‘Open cycle. Nothing is pumped to London at the moment,’ Mr Hathorn supplied.

‘How did you know he had cholera?’
 

He harrumphed, his gaze falling down to his shoes. ‘I lived on Broad Street.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ I said quietly, wondering whether the loss of his wife or even a child had burned the haggard and bluish look of a cholera death into his memory. Thirty-five years ago, the public pump on Broad Street had infected and killed more than six hundred people, marking the end of London’s last cholera epidemic. People had dug their cesspit too close to the public pump. As soon as both pump and cesspit were shut down, the epidemic ceased.
 

With a tightening chest, I wondered how many people would have to die when a cholera victim floated in the drinking water supply of half the Londoners.

‘Did you move the body, Mr Hathorne?’

‘Well, I had to. I couldn’t let him float in that trench, could I?’
 

‘You used your hands, I presume.’

‘What else would I use? My teeth?’
 

Naturally, Mr Hathorne looked puzzled. While explaining that I must disinfect his hands, I bent down and extracted the bottle of creosote and a large handkerchief from my bag. A little stunned, he let me proceed without protest.

‘You kept your eyes open. I could see that when I came in. Can you tell me who else touched the man?’
 

With shoulders squared and moustache bristled, he replied, ‘All the police officers, and that other man over there.’ His furry chin pointed towards the ditch.
 

Surprised, I turned around and spotted the man Hathorne had indicated. He was tall and unusually lean, and for a short moment I almost expected him to be bent by the wind and sway back and forth in synchrony with the high grass surrounding him. He was making his way up to the river and soon disappeared among the thick vegetation.

Gibson approached, hands in his trouser pockets, face balled to a fist. ‘Dr Kronberg, finally!’

‘I took a hansom; I can’t fly,’ I retorted and turned back to the engineer.
 

‘Mr Hathorne, am I correct in assuming that the pumps — when not running in open cycle — take water from the reservoir and not directly from the trench?’

‘Yes, that is correct.’
 

‘So the contaminated trench water would be greatly diluted?’

‘Of course. But who knows how long the dead fella was floating in there.’

‘Is it possible to reverse the direction of the water flow and flush it from the trench back into the Thames?’

He considered my question, pulled his whiskers, then nodded.

‘Can you exchange the entire volume three times?’
 

‘I certainly can. But it would take the whole day…’ He looked as though he hoped I would change my opinion.

‘Then it will take the whole day,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Hathorne.’ We shook hands, then I turned to Gibson. ‘Inspector, I will examine the body now. If you please?’

Gibson squinted at me, tipped his head a fraction, then lead the way up the path.
 

‘I will take a quick look at the man. If he is indeed a cholera victim, I need you to get me every man who touched his body.’
 
After a moment of consideration, I added, ‘Forget what I said. I want to disinfect the hands of every single man who entered the waterworks today.’

I knew Gibson didn’t like to talk too much in my presence. He disliked me and my harsh replies. And I had issues with him, too. After having met him a few times, it was quite obvious that he was a liar. He pretended to be hard-working, intelligent, and dependable, while his constables backed him up constantly. Yet he was still an inspector at the Yard, and I was certain that being the son of someone important had put him there.

We followed a narrow path alongside the broad trench connecting the river to the reservoir. I wondered about its purpose — why store water when great quantities of it flowed past every day? Perhaps because moving water was turbid and the reservoir allowed the dirt to settle and the water to clear? I should have asked Hathorne about it.

Gibson and I walked through the tall grass; if I strayed off the path — and I felt compelled to do so — its tips would tickle my chin. Large dragonflies whizzed past me, one almost colliding with my forehead. They did not seem to be accustomed to human invasion. The chaotic concert of water birds carried over from the nearby reservoir. The nervous screeching of small sandpipers mingling with the trumpeting of swans and melancholic cries of a brace of cranes brought back memories of my life many years ago.
 

The pretty thoughts were wiped away instantly by a whiff of sickly sweet decomposition. The flies had noticed it, too, and all of us were approaching a small and discarded-looking pile of clothes containing a man’s bluish face. A first glance told me that the corpse had spent a considerable time floating face down. Fish had already nibbled off the soft and protruding flesh — fingertips, lips, nose, and eyelids.
 

The wind turned a little, and the smell hit me directly now. It invaded my nostrils and plastered itself all over my body, clothes, and hair.

‘Three police men are present. Why is that?’ I asked Gibson. ‘And who is the tall man who just darted off to the Thames? Is this a suspected crime?’

The inspector dropped his chin to reply as someone behind me cut across in a polite yet slightly bored tone, ‘A dead man could not have climbed a fence, so Inspector Gibson here made the brilliant conclusion that someone must have shoved the body into the waterworks.’

Surprised, I turned around and had to crane my neck to face the man who had spoken. He was a head taller than I and wore a sharp and determined expression. He seemed to consider himself superior, judging from the snide remark about Gibson and the amount of self-confidence he exuded that bordered on arrogance. His attire and demeanour spoke of a man who had most likely enjoyed a spoiled upper-class childhood.

Keen, light grey eyes pierced mine for a moment, but his curiosity faded quickly. Apparently, nothing of interest had presented itself. I was greatly relieved. For a moment, I had feared he would see through my disguise. But as usual, I was surrounded by blindness.

The sharp contrast between the two men in front of me was almost ridiculous. Gibson was lacking facial muscles and possessed a lower lip that seemed to serve more the purpose of a rain gutter than a communication tool. Almost constantly, he worked his jaws, picked and chewed his nails, and perspired on the very top of his skull.

‘Mr Holmes, this is Dr Anton Kronberg, epidemiologist from Guy’s,’ said Gibson. I reached out my hand, which was taken, squeezed firmly, and quickly dropped as though it was infected. ‘Dr Kronberg, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ finished the inspector, making it sound as though I should know who Sherlock Holmes was.
 

‘Has the victim been pushed into the trench, Mr Holmes?’ Gibson enquired.

‘Unlikely,’ Mr Holmes answered.

‘How can you tell?’ I asked.

‘There are no marks on either side of the Thames’s water edge, the body shows no signs of being transported with a hook, rope, a boat, or similar, and…’
 

The man trailed off and I made a mental note to go and check the Thames’s flow to ascertain that a body could indeed float into the trench without help.

Mr Holmes had begun staring at me with narrowed eyes. His gaze flew from my slender hands to my small feet, swept over my slim figure and my not-very-masculine face. Then his attention got stuck on my flat chest for a second. A last look to my throat, the nonexistent Adam’s apple hidden by a high collar and cravat, and his eyes lit up in surprise. A slight smile flickered across his face while his head produced an almost imperceptible nod.

Suddenly, my clothes felt too small, my hands too clammy, my neck too tense, and the rest of my body too hot. I was itching all over and forced myself to keep breathing. The man had discovered my best-kept secret within minutes, while others had been fooled for years. I was standing among a bunch of policemen and my fate seemed sealed. I would lose my occupation, my degree, and my residency to spend a few years in jail. When finally released, I would do what? Embroider doilies?