The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (24 page)

My two assistants were busy preparing a fresh batch of media when I entered the laboratory. Everyone adhered to etiquette — I bade them a good morning and they politely enquired about my health.

However, the surveillance had fortified — the two men kept within a three yards’ radius from me. While I struck a match on the table and lit the Bunsen burner, I wondered how much time I had left.

Using a magnifying glass, I inspected the colonies that grew on the solid media. The Petri dishes clinked quietly while I pushed them about, opening and closing their lids. Behind me, my two assistants were silently observing my doings, boring their stares into my neck, causing it to tingle constantly.

Bacterial colonies in a vast diversity of shapes and colours had formed under both oxic and anoxic conditions. We would need a lot of mice to test these on.
 
I turned to my two companions.

‘Mr Strowbridge, we will need at least one hundred mice to test our new germs. I need you to procure them immediately. And supplement the cages and the fodder, please.’ My voice was thin, supposed to reflect my weakened state.

Strowbridge nodded and left, while Bonsell stayed behind and moved a bit closer yet, compensating for the lack of his colleague and back-up. Several minutes after Strowbridge had gone, faint footfall sounded in the hallway. I hoped it would be Bowden. Meanwhile, Bonsell had squeezed himself a little too close.
 

‘Mr Bonsell, are you resistant to cholera?’ I held a slender iron lance into the Bunsen burner’s flame, just above the hottest blue. ‘I know you are supposed to keep an eye on me,’ I said softly, pushing the glowing lance into the solid media. The hiss made him jump. ‘But you are overdoing it. I might stumble over you and accidentally infect you with cholera.’

‘My dear sir!’ he cried in disbelief, taking a step back, possibly afraid I would drive the smouldering metal into his hands if he didn’t keep them off the workbench.

‘I mean it, Bonsell. The way you handled that woman was most unprofessional,’ I barked, using up my feeble breath. ‘You left a trail of highly contagious faeces that contaminated my entire laboratory. Or how do you think I contracted cholera? And worst of all, you risked the contamination of our valuable pure cultures. Your carelessness threw back our work for more than a week!’

I had risen to my feet, my face now very close to Bonsell’s. ‘Should you get too close to me while I work with my cultures, or should you so much as think of touching my work, I will break your arm!’

‘Well, well, Dr Kronberg,’ interrupted Bowden with a snarl, entering the room with long strides. He had overheard us and I was satisfied. This charade had been played solely for him.

‘Mr Bonsell, give us a moment of privacy,’ said Bowden and positioned himself to my right, his arms cross over his chest, eyes black like the fetid mud on the Thames’s bank. I sat back down and let him tower over me.

‘Dr Kronberg, how far did you advance with the cholera germs?’

‘I have a number isolates that need to be characterised and identified. Strowbridge is procuring mice this very moment. I’ll use them to test the cultures, and in no more than five days, we should be able to tell which ones are the cholera germs. After that, I can grow the amount you require.’

Bowden merely inclined his head, cleared his throat, and took a step closer. I forced myself to meet his gaze and remain steady. It took some effort; his eyes made me feel as though I was drowning in tar.

‘How come you contracted cholera? Shouldn’t you, of all, know how to avoid it?’

‘One would expect so, yes. It was inevitable, though.’

‘I don’t understand,’ responded Bowden to my cryptic statement.

‘My two assistants brought in a dying woman and smeared a trail of her contagious faeces from the entrance all through my laboratory. That left me with two choices — fume the room with concentrated acid and sacrifice my tetanus cultures, or scrub the floor. Naturally, I chose the latter.’

‘You could have told them,’ he jerked his head towards the door, ‘to do it for you.’

‘Excuse me, Dr Bowden, but had they not proved unreliable?’

Bowden’s eyes narrowed and he contemplated for a moment. Then he leaned forward and rasped, ‘What, in your opinion, should we be doing with the isolated cholera germs?’

I stared into the flame. In contrast to all other fires, the Bunsen burner flame was perfectly steady. My answer would most likely decide whether I would survive this day or not.
 

I swallowed the possibility of a very short life span and answered calmly, ‘I can only guess, Dr Bowden. But the fact that you abducted a cholera victim must raise the impression that you are a man without scruples.’

The blood vessels in his throat hectically tapped underneath the skin, his blood rose to his cheeks, and his mouth compressed to a thin line.

I smiled at him. ‘I admire that.’
 

Slowly, the colour drained from his face and I added, ‘You are well aware that
my
neck is already in
your
noose. I euthanised the woman. That might be interpreted as manslaughter, but more likely as murder. How often do I have to prove my trustworthiness, Dr Bowden?’ I tried to keep most of the rage out of my voice. Just a little remained audible, to let him taste my impatience.

‘I repeat my question: What are we doing, then?’ he hissed, and suddenly I saw the door of opportunity open wide.

‘Test both germs and vaccines on human subjects,’ I replied.

Bowden’s expression relaxed, but there was still a trace of doubt in his eyes. I took a deep plunge into the black and let my imagination go rampant. ‘Considering that the Kaiser might be planning a war, I would try to develop highly aggressive strains of pathogenic bacteria to use them in systematic germ warfare.’

It was an insane idea, a wild guess, something to press the point that I had absolutely no scruples.

It had the desired effect — Bowden was thunderstruck.

— nineteen —

T
wo days later, Stark and I met with Mr Standrincks, chairman of the Holborn Union Board of Guardians. Standrincks was to distribute contracts in all of Holborn’s workhouses — harmless-looking sheets of paper that allowed the testing of novel vaccines on inmates, to be signed by men, women, and children willing to take part in our trials. Most of these people couldn’t read well enough and thus would miss the small clause at the very bottom of the contract — it permitted the Club to inject active bacteria any time of their choosing to test the efficiency of immunisation.
 

None of the paupers knew they were about to sign their own death sentence for the pitiful price of two sovereigns. As the poorest of London were to receive money in exchange for a small prick in their biceps or for swallowing a spoonful of liquid, we could expect a large number of volunteers to choose from.
 

After our meeting in Standrincks’s office, we took a four-wheeler to inspect Fulham Road’s workhouse. The selection process would begin tomorrow.

The vase was waiting on my coffee table when I returned to my room late in the evening. It was like a slap in the face. I stood frozen in the doorway and only reluctantly moved forward, gazing into every corner. But the room was empty.
 

I stared at the vase, not daring to touch it, let alone toss it out of the window. Too well did I know what it meant.

Two sharp raps and Sherlock entered without waiting for my invitation.

He closed the door, leaned against it and said casually, ‘I saw you today, Anna. Needless to say, I want you to select me.’

My guard fell. ‘No,’ I breathed, turned away from him to look out the window. My eyes burned.

Soft footfalls on the floorboards, a creak, then another — this time, closer. ‘I was under the impression we are working together. How else can I appear in court to testify?’

‘The tests are legal. We give out contracts for signed consent.’ My voice reflected back into the room. The glass I had spoken to had got cloudy.

He was quiet for a moment. I turned to face him. My hands grabbed the windowsill for support.

Contemplating, he rubbed his forehead.

‘I am sorry. I wish…’ I looked down at his threadbare shoes. Coarse wool stockings peeked through various holes. ‘I wish I could end this now.’ I waved my own remark away, impatiently and almost ashamed over its uselessness.

‘Does Bowden trust you now?’

‘Not entirely. But I do hope he believes I’m worse than anyone in the Club.’ I avoided looking into his eyes.

‘What did you do?’

‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you when this is over.’

‘You will choose me for the trial, Anna.’

‘Make me.’

‘And you’ll have to find a way to avoid killing dozens of people,’ he spat across the room.

‘What do you think I’m doing, Sherlock? Do I look like I enjoy myself?’

‘Hmm… perhaps you do.’ He took three strides forward, then picked at my newly tailored waistcoat. ‘Well-made, finest wool and silk. Expensive, I dare say.’

Furious, I slapped his hand away. ‘You are an idiot! That was a weak attempt. You need to come up with something better to make me hate you so much that I send you off to get injected with tetanus or fed with cholera! What the hell are you thinking?’

Calm grey eyes met mine when he spoke quietly. ‘I’d very much prefer if you’d not have romantic feelings for me.’

What a flood of emotion he caused with that one sentence! Frantically, I searched for words. But all I could squeeze out was a simple, ‘Me, too.’

Stark and I stood in the large dining hall of Fulham Road’s workhouse. The vaulted ceilings were reminiscent of a church, but the odour wasn’t. The stink of stale porridge and sweat, bleach, mould and dust were carried along by the cold air chafing the frigid stone walls.

The inmates had dressed in their best attire for the occasion: women with clean dresses, white aprons, and neat caps; men wearing styles of greater variety — some from the shoemaker store with leather aprons, heavy trousers and boots; some from the farm with equally sturdy clothes —
 
all exceptionally clean. They wanted to look appealing, and it weighed my heart down to watch them lining up to sign the consent.

We had already selected more than fifty subjects from the large mass. They should suffice for the first tests. The day before, I had convince d Bowden that I’d be the one with the final word in the selection process. Strong and healthy adults were what we wanted; no children, no old or undernourished people, no pregnant or nursing women. The mortality rate might be higher in those groups and dead paupers would raise suspicion, I had argued. Bowden had agreed.

With each pauper I examined, Sherlock moved closer and closer in the line-up. For more than half an hour I avoided his gaze until he finally stood before me, holding the signed contract in his outstretched hand.

My fingers ran over his biceps and ribs, I pulled the lower lids down to check the colour of his eyeballs, and said dismissively, ‘Not this one,’ to Stark without ever addressing the man in front of me.

‘Why? He looks comparatively healthy,’ was Stark’s surprised answer.