The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (26 page)

I
t was only a short glance he cast at the iron door, at the barred window,and my face behind it. Then he retreated into a corner, sat down, and picked at his socks.

The thought of the dying rabbits and mice behind my lab at the London Medical School snuck into my brain, threatening to blow it apart. Our time had run out.

Someone behind me spoke; it was Bowden. My throat was clenched like a fist, my mouth was a desert. He tapped my shoulder and slowly, I turned around, trying to conceal my rage. My brain sent an urgent command to my lungs to commence breathing. Not so much for the lack of oxygen, but for the danger of being discovered.
 

I coughed and looked at Bowden. ‘They look too sick already!’ I barked at him.

His expression hardened; he took a step back. ‘These were the only ones available! Use them.’

‘When do we start?’ I strained to put only curiosity in my voice and not the stampede of angst and hate.

‘Tomorrow.’

The next day, a general examination of our human test subjects was due. Only hours later, I was supposed to feed one group with active cholera germs, the other with the heat-killed bacteria.

In my doctor’s bag were two brown glass bottles, labelled with ‘active’ and ‘inactive’, together with a large syringe and a rubber hose for force-feeding, if necessary.

While making our way through the hall of block five, I asked Stark to examine the women and let him believe I felt an aversion to the female sex. He was noticeably amused.

A guard opened the door to a cell and I stepped in. The door was shut behind me. All hair on my body stood erect. The tiny window, deep set into the thick and ice-cold stone walls, was far up and blocked with four metal bars. The floor was cold, too. The constricted room sucked up all warmth; I was shivering before I was done placing my utensils on the small wooden table.

A rattling at the door made me turn. The guard opened and the first test subject was shoved in without much care. I was shocked — the man was naked, his hands cuffed behind his back. The guard remained standing at the door.

My tongue glued itself to my palate. I wanted to shout that there was absolutely no necessity to force all the clothes off that man. Respect and compassion had obviously left this place long ago, and I wondered why normal people willingly turn into torture machines. It gives them power, I thought, and nodded. Immediately I regretted the gesture; already, the guard had his narrowed eyes on me.

I examined the man, and then the next, and the next. They all were copies of the same: undernourished, maltreated, and scared. They all hoped I would help them, show mercy, or tell them what was about to happen. As if they would like to know! I wouldn’t. Anything but die of cholera while being strapped onto a bunk.

The guard led in the next man. He looked like the others, starved and dirty with his ribs only too visible above the sunken abdomen. He hunched and was limping, his feet blackened. Nicholson wouldn’t recognise this wreck of a man whom he had met once a long time ago.

I placed myself between him and the guard and slowly lifted my head. My heart was racing and my face so hot, as though someone had slapped it repeatedly. He appeared controlled and kept his eyes fixed upon a spot somewhere above my head.
 

I began the routine auscultation. Like the others, he had a number of bruises and cuts on his torso. I placed my clammy hand on each mark. One had the shape of a shoe. That, and an old scar right next to his spine and the freckles on his shoulders, made my eyes water.

Angry with my weakness, I cleared my throat, squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, then got back to the matter at hand.

I examined his mouth, tongue, and eyes, silently trying to communicate to him that I had a plan, that he could trust me. Although I wasn’t too sure what that plan would be.
 

But he looked determined, as though he had his own strategy. Without moving his head, his eyes darted towards the guard, then looked back at me. As his lips twitched to the faintest smile, I stopped breathing. Only a second later, he coughed violently and doubled over, barely able to catch a breath.
 

I barked at the guard to make haste and take off the cuffs to prevent the man from choking. The confused man stumbled towards Sherlock, but stopped halfway, uncertain what would be the safest procedure. I took a step towards him and shot out my hand, ordering him to give me the key.
 

Sherlock was now on the floor, turning slightly blue in his face. The guard’s eyes flew from my outstretched hand to the heap of coughing man and he seemed unable to decide what to do.
 

I took another step towards him and kicked him hard in his groin. He caved in with a pitiful huff. Just before he sank to his knees, I used all my fury to hit him on the back of his head. His nose cracked when he hit the floor. He was about to get up again as Sherlock’s heel made contact with the man’s neck.
 

Any other day, the loud snap would have shocked me. Today, it felt like the greatest relief. We had won our first battle without making too much noise and drawing attention.

I extracted the key from the dead man’s fist. ‘Turn around,’ I whispered, and freed Sherlock’s wrists, then took a step back to give him the necessary space to undress the guard and put the clothes on himself.
 

While he pocketed the revolver, he asked casually, ‘How long until they expect you to have another patient?’

I didn’t answer and he finally looked at me. ‘Anna!’ he ordered.

‘Ten or fifteen minutes at the most,’ I said automatically.

‘That should suffice.’ Gingerly, he took my right hand and pulled it closer to his face. I hadn’t noticed that my knuckles were bleeding.
 

Before he could examine it any further, I whisked my hand away. ‘What is your plan?’

‘I will break into Nicholson’s office and send a telegram to the local police, informing them of the unfortunate circumstance that Broadmoor is suffering a mass breakout. That should make them come with the artillery.’ The smug smile put all the usual energy back into his face.

‘Listen, Sherlock — whatever happens — I must be Anton Kronberg for a little while longer. I’ll explain later.’

He nodded, and I said, ‘Now, I should be believably unconscious. Knock me out.’

He snorted, looked around, and picked up a small piece of plaster from the floor.

‘You want to hit me on the head with that tiny thing?’

‘All you need is a little blood,’ he said, took a step forward, grabbed my neck, and drove the pointy little rock into my brow. It was only a small cut but bled sufficiently.

‘Thanks,’ I noted wryly and bent down to rub some dirt next to the wound.

‘Excellent!’ He grinned and unlocked the door with the guard’s latch key.
 

I watched him leave, then curled up on the cold ground. My heart was galloping in anticipation and worry, and I wished I could do more than just lay here, pretending to take a nap.

— twenty-two —

L
ying on the cold floor, I felt like the eye of a tornado. Sherlock was the storm and I the centre, waiting for destruction to surround me. I closed my eyes again and listened into my own dark and to the soft
click click
of blood dripping down onto the stone tiles.

After a few minutes, the tempest began with a rap on the door. I remained silent and the knocks became more urgent, then turned into shouts. ‘Dr Kronberg? What is going on? I demand you open the door immediately!’ It was Stark’s voice.

Then I heard him fumble the lock and try to force it. Several minutes passed until they found a spare key and finally opened the door. He stuck his head through the gap and shouted, ‘An escape! Guards! Hurry!’ on his way back through the hall.
 

The blood had drawn a tiny black pond on the floor, and I let my thoughts tiptoe back to the night at the bog lake.

After a while, Nicholson walked in. I saw him through my half-closed eyes. Methodically, he planted one foot on the ground and then the next. A quiet
tap tap
. I pictured him flicking a forked tongue in and out of the slit of his mouth like a great anaconda tasting the air, trying to detect the next meal.
 

Then he stuck the tip of his shoe into my abdomen. This, too, he did slowly and deliberately. I had to suppress an angry growl, feeling the urge to eat him alive. Only a quiet groan escaped my lips and he stopped, put his foot back to the floor, and left me alone.

Then I heard a great hustle in the hall — people shouting, several gunshots, and Sherlock’s commanding voice. It spread a very warm feeling through my chest.

Two policemen walked in. One jerked me up to my feet, slapped my face to wake me, while the other cuffed my hands behind my back. I let my head hang low so as not to show the triumphant grin I couldn’t wipe off my face. They walked me out of the room with a firm grip on the scruff of my neck. The other men were handled the same way — Stark, Nicholson, Bowden, several guards, and the Broadmoor staff. Among them was Sherlock, looking pleased. We avoided each other’s eyes.

They loaded us criminals into a dog cart with two officers pointing guns into our faces. The other policemen and Sherlock were behind us in a hansom and Bowden’s brougham. It looked as though Sherlock had engaged the entire local police force.

On the way to the police station, we passed over a particularly bumpy section of the cobblestone road. I stood up halfway and protested against this inhumane treatment of a medical doctor who had only wanted to save mankind — I did that rather loudly — and then head-butted Nicholson while falling on top of him.
 

The crack I heard as my forehead made contact with his nose was very satisfactory indeed! The man protested with zest — spitting saliva, blood, and insults at me.

The cart came to a halt and one of the two policemen slammed me back on to my seat. Nicholson was bleeding copiously, his eyes full of hate, and I was certain that he would have wrung my neck here and now if he could only have freed his hands. My lips twitched to a smile and I let Nicholson see it. Naturally, it did nothing to improve his mood.

Feeling like a queen on her throne, I rode along. The time of the Club was over.

We arrived at the local police station after a twenty-minute drive.
 

‘Put this man into a separate cell, Inspector. He was the head of the gang, and I must interview him at once,’ said Sherlock with a most convincing coldness in his voice. Even the small hair on the back of my neck believed it and bristled.

An inspector lead me into a small interrogation room and pressed me down on a stool. He left and locked the heavy iron door; only a moment later, it was opened again. I heard ruffling, the door being locked, and two swift steps being taken. Then, Sherlock’s face appeared in front of mine.

Exceedingly careful, he inspected my head. The cut he had made was irrelevant. The bruise on my forehead did hurt, but it would heal soon enough. He was so focused on examining my superficial wounds with gentle fingers that he didn’t notice my gaze.