The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (23 page)

Greedily I inhaled the cold air, hurled myself out of bed, and puked into the chamberpot.

Shaking with weakness, I went to open the door and called to Mrs Wimbush, my landlady. I didn’t wait for her reply, but made my long way back to bed and wrapped my freezing body into the blankets. Sleep came fast and relieved me of the stomach ache and nausea for a while.

Someone harrumphed. I opened my eyes and saw Mrs Wimbush standing next to the bed.
 

She appeared slightly annoyed. ‘What’s wrong? You’re poorly?’

‘I believe I contracted cholera. Please don’t touch anything, but if you did, wash your hands with a lot of soap.’

Her eyes widened in shock and she moved back a few inches.

‘Mrs Wimbush, I would be ever so grateful if you could get me clean water, lots of it. And a large chamberpot, please…’ I saw Mrs Wimbush wrinkle her nose. ‘And would you please make me a mix of freshly chopped onions with black pepper? Grind it together to a paste. Fresh lime would be very helpful, too, so I can mix it into my drinking water. I will also need potassium permanganate from the apothecary to disinfect the diarrhoea before either you or the maid touch the chamberpot.’

‘Certainly,’ she whispered, rather pale now. ‘I’ll call a doctor.’

‘No! Thank you, Mrs Wimbush, I am a medical doctor and can take care of myself. But I would be very grateful for a good fire.’

The last thing I needed was some quack who would examine me and find these odd details about my anatomy.

Mrs Wimbush squinted at me, scratched the sparse hair on her chin, and then left my room. Soon she returned with the requested chamberpot and coal for a respectable fire.

Around noon, my landlady had got me most of the things I’d asked for. While she was gone, I meandered between bed and chamberpot, between vomiting, half-consciousness, and explosive diarrhoea.
 

Inside, I felt ice cold, while my skin was burning with a high fever. I was sweating profusely, too. It felt as though my body wanted to get rid of all the liquids it had stored. I imagined myself shrivelling up like a stranded jellyfish in the sun.
 

My wrapped-up breasts were beginning to ache. But I could do nothing about it, as Mrs Wimbush walked in and out of my room, exchanging soiled chamberpots and sheets every so often. The two small bulges underneath my sweaty shirt would be more than obvious.
 

Once she offered to send the maid to help me wash myself. I refused, hoping that she would take my protest seriously and not write it off as the ramblings of someone too sick to think.

It took two days of drifting in and out of consciousness, expelling body fluids, and wishing I could die rather sooner than later before my strength gradually returned.

When I found enough energy to wash, I bolted my door, shed my nightshirt, and undid the bandages from around my chest. Already I felt quite out of breath.

Warm water was waiting in the jug next to the washbowl and I scrubbed my reeking body. It needed two changes of fresh water to finally feel clean again. Panting and naked, I sat down in my armchair and let the blaring fire toast my front.

At the morning of the third day, I felt my appetite returning. The bits of dry bread I had for breakfast did not urge themselves back up my throat and I knew that cholera lay behind me.
 

Just when I had undressed and started to wash the night sweat off, I heard a knock on my door.

‘Who is it?’

‘Mrs Wimbush. Having a telegram for you,’ she shouted a little too loud through the closed door.

‘Thank you, Mrs Wimbush. Could you please leave it at the top of the stairs? I am not fully dressed at the moment.’

She harrumphed — I assumed in the affirmative — and stomped down the stairs.

I waited until I heard her door slam shut, then opened mine a small crack and snatched the wire. Its content made my neck tingle.

Will call tonight at seven. J. Bowden.

I stared down at the piece of paper, hoping the letters would disappear. Unfortunately, they didn’t.
 

I wasn’t ready for Bowden yet. My brain felt as thick as honey. The only person I could think of now, the only one who may know what I could do, was Holmes. So I put my teapot in the windowsill as a sign for him to come. I had barely washed and dressed when a rap on the door announced his arrival.

I opened and Holmes stepped in, still wearing his pauper clothes and the workhouse stench. How long would it take to solve this case? I wondered.

‘Good Lord! What happened to you?’ he cried out.

‘Cholera,’ I said, retreated to my armchair, and placed my cold feet close to the fire.
 

I had seen myself in the glass earlier — my already gaunt complexion had transformed to a rather famished look with dark shadows under my eyes, scaring even me.

He exhaled a loud huff. ‘Why the deuce did you not call me earlier?’

‘Because I know how to treat cholera and you don’t,’ I offered as an explanation.

He mumbled something like ‘pigheadedness,’ then said, ‘I have to have a word with my street arabs. They should have notified me earlier.’

‘Notified you earlier of what?’

‘How many days have you been sick?’

‘A few,’ I answered.

‘And not left this house,’ he said, walking to my window and peeking through a gap in the curtain. ‘The boys are sitting on their behinds, observe that your are neither coming nor going, and they think nothing of it!’
 

Abruptly, he turned to me. ‘And how can I be of service today?’ Sarcasm cut through his voice.

I frowned and was about to give him the wire when I noticed the state of his hands.
 

‘How long have you been picking oakum now?’ I asked. He didn’t answer.
 

I fetched a pair of forceps from my doctor’s bag.
 

‘Sit down, please.’ I motioned to the armchair and sat next to him on the armrest. Awkwardly, I took his hands and started extracting oakum shrapnels from his skin.

‘How odd,’ I said quietly. ‘No one notices that your hands are not used to hard work, that the workhouse’s stench cannot cover the smell of Muscovy soap and tobacco, that you have a decent haircut, that your ears are clean, that you shaved with a sharp blade, that…’
 

‘It never fails to surprise,’ said he while I pulled a particularly thick splinter from underneath his thumbnail. He didn’t even flinch.
 

‘It never surprises me that people can’t see
me
,’ I answered, and saw his expression flickering from quizzical to nonplussed before he put his mask back on.

I was done with the splinter extraction and let go of his hand.

‘Bowden sent me a telegram,’ I said with a thin voice. ‘He will call tonight.’

I got up and rummaged in a drawer until I had found a small jar with a thick yellow paste in it. Silently, I worked it into his hands until he smelled like a sheep.

‘Lanolin,’ I explained, ‘will help to heal the skin quickly and has mild antibacterial qualities.’ I released him then and looked into his face. ‘I’m not ready for Bowden; I can barely think.’
 

I didn’t mention that I was about to panic, but I guessed it didn’t escape his notice.

‘Bowden knows you have been ill?’

‘Yes, he does. I asked Mrs Wimbush to send a wire to the medical school three days ago.’

‘Any clue what he could want other than you back in your laboratory?’

‘No.’
 

He rose and waved his arm for me to sit. ‘Anna, trust yourself in this. You are an excellent actress. In fact, the best I know. You are intelligent, observant, and you can adapt to any situation. Bowden knows you have been seriously ill, so he will not be surprised to see that you are not yourself. You can pretend to feel weaker than you really are. Stay in bed when he calls, shut your eyes often, breathe heavily, etcetera.’

So assuring was his speech that I almost believed him. ‘Sherlock,’ I said, lifted my right hand and held it parallel to the floor. It trembled severely. ‘I don’t have the nerve. I can’t. Not today.’ My voice was about to break, and he must have noticed it.

‘Hmm…’ he grumbled, ‘that looks rather serious.’

A moment later, he clapped his hands together, eyes shining brightly, and told me not to worry myself; to go to bed and find some rest.

‘What’s the plan?’ I asked his back, which was almost out the door.

He turned and stuck his face through the open crack, produced a boyish smile, and answered, ‘Hold-up is the plan. Bowden will find it impossible to pay you a visit tonight.’

The door snapped shut and I found myself trusting him without detailed explanations. How odd.

— eighteen —

I
stared into the looking glass for a long moment, then nodded at my own reflection, trying to convince myself that I was able to face the world of Dr Anton Kronberg yet again.

It took me a considerable time to get dressed, walk down onto the street, and find a cab to the medical school. My forehead itched with cold perspiration. Taking my seat in the cab, I condemned my weakness. The timing was more than inconvenient.