The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (4 page)

‘I have seen these men using cocaine when nothing is at hand to tickle their intellectual powers. What about you, Mr Holmes?’ His gaze sharp now, his eyes met mine. I nodded and smiled. ‘It doesn’t help much, does it? Is it the cello that can put some order into that occasionally too-chaotic brain of yours?’
 

I pointed to his left hand.

‘No,’ I decided aloud, ‘for the cello wants to be embraced. You prefer the violin — she can be held at a distance.’
 

He gazed at the faint calluses on the fingertips of his left hand, marks produced by pressing down strings.
 

‘You are a passionate man and you can hide that well. But do you really believe that outsmarting everyone around you is an accomplishment?’
 

His expression was controlled and neutral, but his pupils were dilated to the maximum, betraying his shock.
 

I rose to my feet, took a step forward, and put my face close to his. ‘It feels as though a stranger ripped off all your clothes, doesn’t it?’ I said softly. ‘Don’t you dare dig into my brain or private life again.’ I tipped my hat, turned away, and left him in the grass.

Hampton Waterworks, 1884 (5)

— two —

T
he two constables helped me wrap the corpse into a blanket and place it onto the back of the waiting carriage. As soon as the package had been strapped down, they hastily put a safe distance between the stench and their insulted noses. After the younger of the two was done retching in the grass, I walked up to him, wiped his hands off with creosote, and gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder.

Once I had disinfected everyone’s hands, the inspector, Mr Holmes, the corpse, and I took the four-wheeler back to London.

The carriage made a lurch as Gibson snapped the door shut. He sat down, anticipation seeping off his frame. ‘Well, it appears we don’t need your services after all, Mr Holmes,’ he huffed. ‘A cholera victim who drowned in the Thames — wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ The snicker that followed made my blood rise.
 

He referred to the number of unidentified men, women, and children found floating in the Thames at regular intervals, usually amounting to over fifty each month. Some of them had died of cholera, others of pointy objects someone had stuck into their ribcages, throats, or elsewhere. When no one could spare the money for a funeral, the Thames surely took care of them.

‘I fear it’s far more complicated than that,’ I grumbled.

‘Excuse me? Please don’t tell me the man was murdered, Dr Kronberg,’ groaned Gibson, shooting an amused glance at Holmes, who in turn smirked at no one in particular.

‘There are only a few things we know for certain, Inspector. The man most likely died of cholera and floated in the river for one or two days. Both of which he did upstream of London, and that,’ I poked the air with my index finger, ‘is highly unusual. Not to forget the restraint marks on his wrists. Or do you have a sound explanation for any of these facts?’

Gibson did not reply, only looked expectant, hoping perhaps that I would solve the case for him. Meanwhile, Holmes had refocused his absent-minded gaze as though he only now noticed our company.
 

Irritated by the two men, I turned my face away to speak to the window instead. ‘I will dissect the body upon arrival at Guy’s and will hopefully learn what happened to the man. I’ll send you a report tomorrow.’

‘I will assist,’ stated Mr Holmes with delight.
 

‘Excuse me? Mr Holmes, I will certainly not allow a lay person to attend a dissection of a cholera fatality.’

‘I believe you will.’ His intense stare told me that I would indeed, should I wish to keep my identity a secret.

We arrived at Guy’s after one hour of stale silence. At the porter’s, I asked for a nurse and a cart to help transport the body to the dissecting department — a small red-brick building containing an antechamber equipped with several slabs of marble. We had the place to ourselves, as no anatomical lessons were given on Saturdays. That also meant I could disinfect the room with fumes of concentrated acid without having to discuss the issue with curious students.

Afterwards, I would prepare a report for the Home Office, stating, in essence, that there was no danger of cholera transmission through London’s drinking water supply.

Gibson took his leave — not too eager to watch me cut up a floater while I provided Mr Holmes and myself with an India rubber apron, gloves, and a mask. The last was a simple device made of fine, double-layered fabric which I had invented for such occasions. With the mask covering nose and mouth, dangerous airborne germs could not infect the man conducting a dissection or surgery — or, in my case, the woman. I felt nauseated at the thought that the man next to me knew my secret.
 

‘Mr Holmes, may I recommend you visit a circus next time you want to see a curiosity?’ I noted, regretting the snide comment instantly.

He coughed and replied, ‘I guess I must apol—’

‘Actually, this is not what worries me!’ I slammed my hand onto the marble. ‘I’m seriously considering blackmailing you. Unfortunately, you are rather sharp and my chances of winning such a game or even finding a rancid spot with which to taint your reputation are probably close to nil. So perhaps…’ I cleared my throat as not to groan and slap my forehead. Where the devil was my self-control? ‘My apologies. Please assume I have been thoroughly friendly.’
 

I decided to better keep my mouth shut. At least until my hands had stopped trembling.

Mr Holmes, though, laughed heartily. ‘I suppose your deceit is morally justifiable, although, if exposed, will cause a public outcry. Fortunately, we both have the right to private judgement. Trust me, Dr Kronberg, exposing you to the police or anyone else appears utterly boring to me.’

I peered over the edge of my mask and found his expression to be sincere enough. And yet, the stiffness of my spine would not disappear. To turn the attention to the matter at hand, I nodded at the corpse. We undid the blanket and hoisted the body onto the slab’s polished surface.

With a pair of tweezers, I collected the fragments of flora and fauna that had caught on the body’s clothes and hair and placed them into a small bowl. Then I cut off the man’s coat.

His shirt buttons did not show any grease prints, nor did the buttons of his trousers. I then proceeded to cut off the remainder of all his clothes and found restraint marks not only on his wrists, but also on his ankles, as well as needle punctures in the bend of the man’s left elbow.

I pointed out the punctures and Holmes nodded, scanning each square inch of newly revealed skin as I undressed the man in front of us.

‘The punctures look professionally done, not like the holes they punch into people in opium dens. He must have seen a medical doctor. Highly unusual,’ I observed while picking up my largest knife.
 

I was uncertain about Holmes’s endurance when it came to slicing apart human beings, so I kept half an eye on him while cutting a large Y into the man’s torso, starting at the clavicles and extending down to the pubic bone. Holmes, though, seemed perfectly unmoved by the procedure, so I continued with sawing off the sternum and removing part of the thorax. The odour worsened significantly and reminded me once more that I would never get used to the stench of death.

While removing the lungs, the pressure I exerted on them resulted in an expulsion of pink froth from the corpse’s nose and mouth. My physique was not ideal for a dissection, or, rather, I did not have the figure of a butcher. Grunting, I lifted the lungs into a bowl and cut them open.

‘As I suspected — the man didn’t drown,’ remarked Mr Holmes upon the fact that the lungs were not filled with water.

‘They contain only a small amount of dust and soot, supporting your assumption that the man spent most of his life in the countryside,’ I said. Had he been a Londoner, his lungs would have appeared grey.

The number and size of the coagula inside the man’s abdomen corroborated our assessment of the time of death.
 

That he had had cholera in the final stage was as clear as bright daylight. In addition to the appearance of his skin, his liver was reduced and pale. His guts were empty for but a small amount of dirty greenish liquid.
 

All organs went into separate bowls, leaving me panting and sweating. By now, my apron had taken the function of a hothouse and my hands felt like slippery fish inside my gloves.

Mr Holmes bent down low over the corpse and stared straight into the man’s half-emptied abdomen. Perhaps he found dissections entertaining.

Upon examining the man’s mouth and eyes, I saw that his tongue was swollen and impressions of his teeth showed along its edges. I pushed the remains of his eyelids apart. After a moment’s consideration, I turned to Mr Holmes. ‘What do you make of this?’

He gazed into the milky blue eyes with one pupil as small as a pinprick, the other spanning almost the entire iris.
 

‘Poison, or possibly a head trauma?’ he suggested.

‘Hmm…’ I answered, checking the man’s skull again. But I could still not find any signs of violence.
 

I took up a smaller knife and made a cut along the hairline, and one from there to the top of his head and down on the back again. Then I pulled the skin to the side of the head and over his face. My hands worked with precision, but my brain revolted. Skinning a human face is another thing I would never get used to.

I picked up a saw and cut into the skull, then used a delicate chisel and a hammer to crack the bone along the grooves I had made. Great skill and caution were needed to cut only the bones and leave the nerve tissue untarnished.
 

The upper half of the skull came off like the top of a breakfast egg, revealing the brain that at first glance appeared normal. I extracted the right hemisphere and cut it into slices, took the magnifying glass from Mr Holmes’s hand, and bent down over the brain sections. Small, liquid-filled lesions presented themselves.

‘Odd!’ I straightened up, tossing my tools aside. His magnifying glass produced a loud clonk on the slab. ‘My apologies,’ I muttered.

Pressing my palms onto the marble slab, I pushed all thoughts aside and let my gaze fly over the corpse, putting bits of information back into my mind, hoping a picture would form. What had I missed?
 

Impatiently, I yanked my gloves off and pressed my fingers into the bend of the man’s elbow. The punctures felt stiffer than the surrounding tissue. I cut through them and pulled the skin apart. The vein appeared slightly infected.

‘It seems as though the man had a needle inserted, which was then left there for some time,’ I said, rather baffled.

‘That would make restraints necessary,’ he concluded.

The man’s stomach lay in a bowl next to me. I opened the organ and another surprise presented itself: half-digested bread and smoked fish, probably eel, swam merrily out of the opening.

‘The man had eaten, although he shouldn’t have had an appetite at all during the final stage of cholera. And yet, he ate quite a few bites. I can see no signs of force-feeding in his mouth or oesophagus. Peculiarly, his stomach cramped shut for probably two or three hours before his death. Although half digested, none of the food made it into the small intestines. Why is that?’