The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (20 page)

Stark turned to face me. ‘He came here today following our invitation, and will give a presentation on his recent work — tetanus, and the isolation and characterisation of the causative agents.’

I inclined my head in acknowledgement and entered the podium. I was used to giving presentations for much larger audiences and my nervousness usually peaked just before I began to talk. But once I stood in front of my always-exclusively male listeners, I felt calm washing over me because I was in disguise. Today, I felt no nervousness whatsoever; there was nothing but cold drive.

I used a determined and low voice to grab their attention and not distract them with strong variations in pitch or volume. ‘My dear colleagues, it is a great honour to speak to you today, here in this lecture hall where the greatest anatomists have spoken before me.’ I made a sweeping move with my arm, indicating the men in the paintings. ‘Yet the topic of my presentation differs very much from those of my predecessors.’
 

Here I took a few seconds to let the information take effect.
 

‘My field of research is young, but advancing at unimaginable speed — bacteriology. We bacteriologists deal with the greatest evils for mankind — diseases such as tetanus, cholera, typhoid, anthrax, tuberculosis, and bubonic plague — to name but a few. We study how disease spreads and how the battle against their causative agents, namely bacteria, can be won. Today, I will focus my talk on tetanus and its recently isolated germs.’

I turned to the blackboard and drew a plot of the numbers of tetanus fatalities in London during the past thirty years. My audience was glued to my lips and to my hand leading the chalk over the slate.

After one hour, my presentation was finished. The men rose to their feet and clapped. Several of the older men approached to shake my hand and congratulated me heartily. Refreshments were offered, small talk conducted. Then we agreed to meet in a more private setting back in London in three days’ time.

I sat in my tattered armchair in my small single-room apartment in Tottenham Court Road. Leaning far back with my feet on the scarred coffee table, I stared at the ceiling with half-closed eyes. It was the only flat surface in this room that had no wallpaper peeling off. The ceiling, though, was perfectly homogeneous. I hated distraction. Other than that, emotions were a stranger to me. My mind slowly revolved around the presentation, the audience, and the visible social bonds and tensions between those men.

Three days later, Stark called at my apartment and we took a private brougham. I noticed the freshness of the two chestnuts, their coats were gleaming and dry, no froth seeped from the corner of their mouths. Our destination must not be far away.
 

Thick velveteen curtains were to remain drawn, but it did not bother me, for I knew London well enough; I walked its streets almost every day. The journey lasted fifty minutes. Stark chatted, I replied, while following my own thoughts and listening to the noise the wheels made on the ground. It sounded like the broad and flat cobblestones of High Holborn, a large and busy street. The carriage turned right, a smaller street now, followed by the sounds of Blackfriars Bridge and Great Surrey Street. A sharp right turn told me this could only be Waterloo. And, yes, we crossed the river. I used to pass this bridge at least three times every week; I would recognise it in my sleep. A left turn brought us onto the Strand, with all its bustling and clattering. Then the hooting of a train — we must have reached Charing Cross. Now the brougham turned into Regent Street, Piccadilly, St James, Pall Mall, and again, and again, going in circles. The pattern changed after a quarter of an hour. At first, I could not sense any familiarity. Maybe I had never been here, or at least not for a long time? But the ducks — the hungry, burred-up, freezing ducks begging for an evening meal from passers-by betrayed the location — we were passing St James’s Park on its south side. Then we made a left turn and stopped. This must be somewhere around Kings Road and south of Palace Gardens.

Our destination was a large villa. Light was pouring through all its windows onto the brownish lawn. The wind was stiff and the old sycamore trees clawed each other with scrawny twigs, their mottled torsos shiny from the ice-cold rain. The only green came from the artfully trimmed conifers lining the walkway to the house and the lichen-covered fountain with water lazily dripping over its rims.

Our heels crunched up the walkway and, a minute later, we entered the house. Servants took our coats to brush and hang them while Stark and I made our way through the hall and proceeded into a large, wood-panelled smoking room. A fire was crackling merrily, framed by a mantel piece of moss-coloured marble. Fifteen men were sitting in burgundy armchairs, smoking, drinking brandy, and eating snacks from a buffet. No servants were present. This meeting was done in secrecy.

The men received me with handshakes, but not everyone was pleased to see me. The younger ones shot glances across the room, some insecure, some jealous, some despising. I smiled at them, inclined my head to show respect while feeling completely at ease. I knew my contribution would be the essential one and they needed my expertise to reach their goals.
 

A peculiar hierarchy was now apparent. The group revolved around a man with a shock of light grey hair and a bushy moustache of the same colour. Today, I was certain that he was the leader. And yet, there seemed to be subgroups that rivalled each other. While the evening grew longer, I came to the conclusion that the leadership within the smaller groups was based on corruption and intrigue, while the overall leadership was based on power, pressure, and fear. This, I could use to my advantage.

The moustached man stood up and silence fell.

‘Dr Kronberg, you may have heard my name before. I am Dr Jarell Bowden.’

I nodded, surprised that no coldness trickled down my spine.

‘I speak for everyone in the room when I say that we are very lucky to have you here.’ Men were nodding and murmuring in agreement.
 

‘As Dr Stark already told you, we are a group of medical doctors who were able to obtain enough private funding to conduct research into the development of vaccines.’

Bowden spoke in the plural. They must have been experimenting not only with tetanus, but with other diseases, too.
 

‘You correctly stated in your presentation that the successful development of a vaccine greatly depends on the availability of the isolated germs. To be frank — we need your cultures, and we want you to isolate other germs for us.’
 

Bowden was used to getting what he wanted, I noticed. His greed was palpable.

The room fell quiet again and all faces turned to me.
 

I spoke with my low and confident voice. ‘You honour me greatly, Dr Bowden. Yet, I cannot simply provide you with deadly bacterial cultures and agree to isolate more without knowing how they will be used in the future.’

He had not expected such a reply. His shoulders stiffened, his upper lip curled.

I continued. ‘You wish to develop vaccines and I have experience in this field; I will be of great value. You need my pure cultures and you are well aware of that. But what then? I don’t see anyone in this room who would be able to manipulate them, grow them, or be able to produce a vaccine and run test trials on animals or humans. I can only give you the cultures if you are open with me and include me in your project. It will be either that, or nothing.’

I remained standing, my gaze stuck on Bowden’s face, and took a sip of brandy. The exquisite taste of aged oak barrel and smoke flowed smoothly down my throat.
 

Bowden sat down; all heads turned towards him. He looked inquiringly into the faces of each of his men. Eleven nodded and four did not move. It was decided. I would have been surprised had they not agreed to my terms. The four men who had not approved of me would require my special attention. If necessary, I would get rid of them.

Late in the afternoon, I placed a vase in the window of my apartment and boiled water for tea. Half an hour later, a tall man in shabby clothes knocked on my door.

‘Come in,’ I said before retreating into the far corner of the too-small room. ‘Sit, please.’ I indicated the lonely armchair. A cup of tea on the coffee table was awaiting him. ‘I had been invited to Cambridge to give a talk on tetanus. A group of sixteen doctors from the Medical Schools of Cambridge and London attended the presentation. Three days later, I met the same group in a villa here in London.’

He took his seat and picked up his cup. I continued. ‘Dr Gregory Stark took me there in a private four-wheeler, hoping I wouldn’t know where we were going. The curtains were drawn and he involved me in useless small talk. However, I am certain the meeting’s location was in a one mile radius of Kings Road. I don’t know the names of all the men yet, but the leader is a certain Dr Jarell Bowden. I am not sure the house was his.’

He didn’t show any sign of recognition upon hearing the name, so I explained, ‘Bowden is known for his advancements in sexual surgery in insane women and was suspected of performing cruel and unnecessary experiments on his patients. The charges were soon withdrawn. Bowden had the best lawyer in London. Stark seems to be a senior member, but without much weight. Four of the men did not approve of my inclusion to the group; their names are Hayle Reeks, Ellis Hindle, Davian Kinyon, and Jake Nicolas.’

I pointed to the note lying next to his teacup, with names of six men written on it.
 

‘They all work at London Medical School as anatomists, except for Stark, who is based in Cambridge. I may have to get rid of the four younger ones if they are giving me any trouble. It would be good if you could find something that would make it possible to detain them for a few days if needed.’

He nodded, his eyes glazed over as though he was lost in thought. ‘I don’t like what you are doing,’ he finally said.

‘Do you have information for me?’ I enquired. When no answer came, I walked to the door and opened it in dismissal, staring at the worn floorboards and avoiding his eyes.

He did not move for a long moment. I looked at him and saw his eyes darken just before he jumped up and crossed the room in two long strides. He snatched the door handle from my hands and slammed the door shut, bent down, and growled, ‘Stop that!’

My breath came out in one long sigh. My balance tipped, slid, and shattered on the floor.

My head fell forward as though my neck couldn’t support it any longer. The aroma of Muscovy and pipe tobacco tried to pull me closer. Angry with myself, I pushed away from him and walked over to the window, leaning my forehead on the cold glass. The street and the pavement below me were bustling with everyday life. How very far away, I thought.

‘If you cannot bear the sight of me, then please don’t come looking.’

After a long moment of silence, the quiet click of a closing door hauled my self-control back into life. I took the vase, walked down into the street, and gave it to a beggar.