The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (5 page)

My hands squeezed the slab hard as though a clue could be forced out that way. ‘Mr Holmes, could it be possible after all that the man had been pushed into the waterworks’ trench?’

‘I don’t believe so. One might think a boat could have dropped him off, but the fish wouldn’t have had time to eat all this before the body was discovered,’ he pointed to the corpse’s face. ‘Even if someone went through the troubles of dragging the corpse with a boat for one or two days before dumping him into the trench, we should see very different marks on his body and clothes from ropes or hooks that held him to the vessel.’

‘And if that someone had planned to poison half of London with cholera, he would have made sure that the body was fresh,’ I added.

‘Precisely,’ said Holmes.

Then a thought hit me. I almost slapped my forehead with my contaminated hands, quickly washed them, took my mask and apron off and said, ‘Wait here,’ before leaving in a rush.

Mr Holmes had his eyebrows pulled up as I returned with a box of polished birch wood. I set it on one of the other slabs and extracted a stereo-microscope from it. I wiped its three lenses and both oculars with a silken handkerchief.

‘May I introduce the best microscope you will ever set your eyes upon? Or, rather, peer through,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘I found this one in Boston, although it’s a German make. Its secret lies in the stacks of multiple lenses. I never came across a better one. And it cost me an arm and a leg,’ I explained while extracting liquid from the man’s vein.

I placed a single drop of serum onto a glass slide and tipped a cover slip as thin as paper onto the drop to flatten it to a thin film of liquid. Then I fastened the slide onto the holder just underneath the largest microscope lens and inserted a drop of immersion oil underneath. I aligned the small mirror at the bottom of the microscope towards the sun, peered through the oculars, and focused on the swirling particles.

Microbes, as seen through Dr. Robert Koch’s Microscope, 1877 (6)

‘What resolution does it have?’ asked Mr Holmes, sounding intrigued.

‘With an approximately one-thousand-fold magnification, I can see anything as small as two micrometers.’

‘Exceptional!’ he cried out and pushed closer.
 

And there, in the circular field-of-view of the microscope swam peculiar cells, shaped like minuscule tennis rackets of only five micrometers length — bacteria that could kill every warm-blooded vertebrate. I moved aside to let him take a look.

‘Germs!’ he said, intrigued.

‘Yes. It seems you were right again.’ I smiled up at him.

‘I never mentioned that possibility.’

‘You did. You mentioned poison.’ Upon his quizzical look, I added, ‘Germs produce toxins. That’s how they kill.’

‘But cholera is not found in the bloodstream.’

‘No,’ I said, ‘he didn’t die of cholera. Although he had had it in its final stage, I believe he was already recovering. The food in his stomach indicates that. The deadly blow must have come from tetanus. But I don’t know how he got infected. The needle punctures are only slightly inflamed, and don’t show the typical appearance of a tetanus entry wound.’

Mr Holmes was silent for a long while, mulling things over with a furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. I was almost done cleaning up my dissection equipment when he muttered, ‘I need to take that bowl with me,’ indicating the collection of twigs, leaves and beetles I had picked off the man’s clothing.

‘How good are you at identifying them?’

‘I dare say the best.’ He pulled off his gloves, apron, and mask, and I showed him how to disinfect his hands and the contents of the bowl he wanted to take with him.

‘I suggest we meet Inspector Gibson at my residence tomorrow morning at eight.’

‘Hmm…’ I replied.

‘Would that be a problem?’

‘I will think about it. I might deliver my report directly to the Yard’s main quarters.’ I avoided looking at him.
 

He turned to leave, but then seemed to think otherwise. ‘I assume you wouldn’t tell me your real name?’

Aghast, I shook my head. ‘Don’t try to go behind my back to find it out.’

He looked slightly amused. The thought had probably crossed his mind.

‘Do you want me to find out your address behind your back? Just in case, I mean.’

He slapped his hand against the door frame. ‘221B Baker Street.’

— three —

I
stepped off the omnibus and just managed to avoid a pile of horse manure on the pavement. Turning around, my gaze fell on the street sweeper. He was leaning on his broom handle, chewing on something obviously ropy and picking his teeth with blackened fingers. Such archaeological excavations exceeded even dissections at being unappetising.

I tipped my hat at him, entered the eastern end of Regent’s Park, and turned north. The bustling of the street behind me gradually dimmed, to be replaced by the quiet chatter of couples walking arm in arm and sparrows’ grating chirps.

The Flower Walk, Regent’s Park, London, 1896 (7)

After a few minutes, I reached 221B Baker Street. Like its neighbours, the three-storey house was built of red bricks, with its base looking as though it had been dipped into cream. It had large white-framed windows and a smoked oak door. As my hand closed around the brass knocker, I wondered how much Holmes earned with that odd occupation of his. After a knock and a moment of waiting, the stout landlady beckoned me in.

I watched my feet climb the stairs while thoughts swirled around in my head like a swarm of mosquitoes. To me, Holmes was a magnet with north and south poles unified. He knew my secret and could, with a single statement, destroy my life. I wasn’t quite certain whether avoiding or observing him would be the safer tactic.
 

Upon reaching the landing, I finally lifted my gaze and noticed a small crater in the wall. I probed with my finger, then brushed the plaster off and peered through the hole. On the other side, I could see Gibson’s head. Wondering whether this was a bullet hole, I knocked at Holmes’s door.

Gibson opened, I stepped in, and the world changed from polished and gleaming to utter chaos. The ceiling was decorated with stains, the spray pattern indicative of small explosions. Some spots looked as though acid had eaten into the plaster. I had noticed splotches on Holmes’s hands yesterday but had not been able to identify them. Now I knew — the man was a lay scientist.

Enormous stacks of paper hid the desk, a chair, and most of the mantelpiece, where a knife stuck in the carved wood held a bunch of papers. On top of the marred panelling stood a photograph of a beautiful woman.

I apologised for being late. Gibson was pacing the sitting room, looking important. Holmes himself was smoking a pipe in an armchair by the fireplace, looking bored. His violin lay on the coffee table in front of him.

A small and timid chambermaid with hair the colour of dirty egg yolk served us tea and biscuits. She did not glance at anyone in the room. Slinking here and there, she seemed to go unnoticed by Gibson, who now lowered himself into the other armchair to receive his refreshments.
 

Holmes was giving Gibson the results of the dissection, but did not elaborate on the twigs and beetles or on any other thoughts he entertained on the case.

‘Were you able to identify the man, Inspector?’ I enquired.

He shook his head, showing me his annoyance. ‘No, I already told Mr Holmes I’m afraid it will be entirely impossible. He didn’t have any papers on him and no one who fits his description has been reported missing. I will not waste my time investigating this case. I hope you agree, Mr Holmes.’

Holmes nodded without looking up and Gibson heaved himself off the chair with a satisfied smile.

‘Dr Kronberg, if I have any other questions, I will contact you,’ said Gibson and took his leave. I knew he wouldn’t, and that was just as well.

As the inspector stomped down the stairs, I stood with my back to the closed door and looked at Holmes. ‘Interesting,’ I noted, and he opened his eyes, apparently surprised to see me.

‘Is there anything else, Dr Kronberg?’ His voice was monotonous.

‘Gibson is wrong and you know it,’ I answered. Holmes raised one eyebrow and I waved my hand at him. ‘Well, when is he
not?
’

‘Indeed,’ murmured Holmes with an expression of impatience.

‘My apologies for wasting your time, Mr Holmes.’ I produced a warm smile. ‘I have only two questions. Did I miss anything of importance owing to my late arrival?’ He shook his head once. ‘The second question is: could you find anything of interest in the bowl you took home yesterday?’

‘It was full with insects, leaves, and dirt. Highly interesting.’ He yawned.

His gaze followed mine as I looked at the violin and said, ‘She is on top of the breadcrumbs — you played her before Gibson came in. Are you on a case at present?’

He narrowed his eyes and I saw him getting ready for combat.

‘What amused you about the maid?’ he asked calmly.

If he wanted a diversion, so be it. ‘I was wondering why she was so extremely shy. Whether it could be her inexperience, or a problem she has with you. The fact that I wondered at all, was, well… amusing.’

‘Amusing?’

‘Mr Holmes, you are the most observant man I ever came across, yet you want me to believe that you don’t know the impression you leave on others?’

‘I have a theory, but I am involved and thus not entirely independent in my judgement.’

‘You scare people,’ I stated simply. He could digest it as he pleased. But Holmes’s response surprised me — he chuckled.
 

Accidentally, I cast a look at the woman on the mantelpiece.
 

‘Another theory I would like to hear,’ he said and I knew he had put me under the microscope the moment I entered his rooms.

Seeing my startled expression, he produced a flood of explanations. ‘I noticed you glancing around as you entered. You looked rather taken aback. What a contrast when coming in from that neat staircase. My piles of papers and the spots on the walls and ceiling amused you. I could almost see the pictures of explosive experiments forming in your head. Very refreshing, indeed! Then you discovered the photograph,’ he pointed to the woman’s picture, ‘and your eyes lingered there for two seconds. You have formed an opinion.’

He put his hands back in his lap and sat there, relaxed, while monitoring his surroundings without the slightest movement of his head. The man had very long antennae indeed!

‘I am curious, Mr Holmes — if you don’t want to involve me in this case, why not simply ask me to leave? Another thing I was just wondering was whether you ever met someone who learned how to avoid your analytical skills. Someone who could observe you well enough and then avoid being analysed by you, avoid being obvious, so to speak.’

‘You are evading my question.’ He still had that calm voice and I started wondering what could possible rattle his composure.

‘What question? I must have forgotten it,’ I mumbled and then, seeing him pointing his chin at the photograph, I said softly, ‘Your weak spot.’