The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (6 page)

Upon that, he pulled the corners of his mouth down and looked deeply disappointed.

‘You are reading Dr Watson; how ignorant of me!’ he announced, slapping his forehead.

That was an odd answer. In my mind I scanned through the last publications I had read, but couldn’t remember any by Watson and colleagues. Holmes noticed my confusion.
 

‘Are you reading the papers occasionally?’ he enquired, a little perplexed.

‘Er… No, not really. What does that have to do with her?’ I waved my hand at the picture.

‘If you would have read my friend’s stories, you would know who Irene Adler is,’ he answered.

‘Your friend writes stories about you in newspapers?’

‘Unfortunately, yes. He publishes in
The Strand
, but that’s of no import—’

‘Is it Dr Watson you live with?’ I interrupted, suddenly curious. I had noticed a somewhat worn-looking coat hanging next to the door. It was made to fit a stocky man of approximately my height. Also, the two armchairs appeared as though both were regularly used. I could not quite imagine Holmes receiving visitors every day and openly inviting them to wear down his furniture. Probably, his distressed customers preferred to pace the room and ruin the carpet instead.

After a moment of a measuring stare, he grumbled, ‘He lives with his new wife now. You are evading my question again.’

I quite enjoyed my own sauciness. Besides, I had a plan now.

‘You are rather impatient, Mr Holmes. May I?’ I asked, gingerly picking up the picture. He didn’t look too happy but let me proceed, and I started pacing his sitting room.

‘There are few pictures on the walls and they are almost completely hidden behind that chaos of yours. I should assume they hung there before you moved in and are of no importance to you?’

He raised one eyebrow and I continued. ‘That is in sharp contrast to her, though. She is the only picture on the mantelpiece; possibly because you don’t know how to drive a nail into the wall?’

A frown on Holmes’s face indicated that he did know how to use a hammer. Good for him. ‘There is all that stuff of yours on the mantelpiece, too. If she were insignificant, she would be hidden, at least partially. But there she is, in full view. However, she is not someone you are fond of, because you never take her off her place; although I’m not entirely sure you would ever do such a thing even if you were fond of her.’
 

Holmes appeared very alert now and I, not knowing whether he could sense my plan, put a little more distance between us while continuing my explanation. ‘The frame and the glass appear to be free of fingerprints. I guess she was touched once to be put there. The maid cleans your rooms daily; but she’s not very thorough, mostly because she doesn’t dare touch your personal belongings.’

Reaching one of the two tall windows next to the fireplace, I opened it and pulled the curtain aside while coughing and taking a deep breath of fresh air. The room was filled with pipe smoke. Inwardly, I was vibrating with excitement and foreboding — I was about to step on a rather fragile tightrope.

‘There is only one possible explanation, Mr Holmes. You dislike the woman, yet you keep her photograph. That can only mean that you adore her in an odd way. Considering what I learned about you yesterday, I conclude that she outwitted you. You are convinced you are the smartest man alive, and being outwitted by a woman is more than unacceptable to you. This is your greatest preconception and your weakest spot. You should get rid of it.’

With these last words, my hand shot out of the window. Holmes inhaled a hiss and bent his long body towards me, reaching for Irene.
 

‘For Christ’s sake!’ he huffed as I placed her gently on the outside windowsill.
 

‘Would you be so kind as to tell me what you think about the Hampton man’s death, Mr Holmes?’ I asked.

‘There isn’t much to think,’ he snarled and picked Irene up. ‘All that’s needed is but a simple calculation: the maximum distance the man could have floated was thirty miles. He entered the Thames as a corpse. That means he was close to death before he even got there. He can only have contracted cholera at a densely populated place with a lack of hygiene, and he could not have walked very far. It follows that he must have been close to a village or city. There is only one place that fits these facts like a glove fits the hand!’

‘And which place would that be?’

He ignored me and put the picture back on the mantelpiece.

‘I wonder why you are so observant,’ he muttered after a moment. I opened my mouth to reply, but he held up his hand. ‘Of course! You are behind the veil; the one no one sees but who can perceive everything. You must be observant to protect your life in disguise.’

His back still towards me, he asked, ‘Would you accompany me to Chertsey Meads?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Do I have to repeat the question?’ He turned around.

‘Is that a pub?’ I joked.

‘It is a wetland.’

I took my time to find the right words. ‘I must confess I feel honoured by your invitation, although I’m not so sure why I would be. However, I also have the feeling that the main reason for your invitation is that you can study me a little longer. That irks me because I am not a curiosity. And your constant probing of my brain is highly annoying.’ I saw him pulling his eyebrows together and asked, ‘Why should I come with you, Mr Holmes?’

The corners of his mouth twitched a little in a hint of a smug smile. ‘Because you enjoyed yourself too much, and there is nothing at the moment you would like to do more than to probe
my
brain for a little while longer.’

— four —

W
e sat on the train to Chertsey and the landscape whizzed past unnoticed. To my surprise, I enjoyed myself discussing the Whitechapel murders with Holmes. The topic itself, though, was rather unpleasant. Jack the Ripper had killed at least six women. He had cut their throats, sliced their abdomens open, draped their intestines over both their shoulders, and had taken souvenirs with him — usually the victim’s uterus.

Holmes’s opinion of the Yard’s efforts was very low. ‘Every time I receive a telegram from the police, the bodies have already been taken away to the morgue,’ he exclaimed. ‘The staff have extracted organs and sold them as surgical specimens. Of course, they never remember what they took and what was already taken! I have serious doubts that this murder series will ever be resolved and the culprit found. The incompetence of the responsible investigators, the corruptive medical staff, the sheer number of pseudo-witnesses, and the papers’ floods of misinformation will render all investigations futile!’

He looked rather ruffled, with his mouth compressed and hands knuckling the seat.

Gazing out the window, I sorted through my mind, trying to find the right words. ‘Owing to my occupation, I come across a rather large number of stab wounds,’ I said, turning back to him. ‘One of the peculiar things I’ve noticed is that almost all women with knife wounds in their lower abdomen were victims of attempted rape. And all of those who survived the attack reported that the rapist had used a knife because he was unable to penetrate them. He was unable to produce an erection. Doesn’t that add a very different angle to the Ripper’s motives?’

Holmes leant back in his seat and stared out of the window. After several long minutes, he turned his face back to me and said, ‘The Ripper used several prostitutes, speaking of a high sexual drive. If he indeed was never able to finish a sexual act, he must have accumulated a great amount of frustration.’

Passengers close by started coughing and wagging their fingers at us. Some took their children by the hand and left the compartment. Holmes ignored their protests and I had my hand over my mouth to hide my grin, but my eyes betrayed me. He noticed my amusement and shot me an indignant glance.

‘My sincere apologies, Mr Holmes. I couldn’t help but think that any other man,’ I leant forward and lowered my voice, ‘would have at least felt awkward saying that very same sentence straight into a woman’s face.’

‘As what shall I treat you, then? Male or female?’ he said sharply, which resulted in the full attention of our fellow passengers being turned towards our peculiar conversation.

‘I want to be treated with respect, and you did that. Thank you,’ I said in earnest and with a hint of a bow. There was a long moment of silence, both of us measuring the other until some kind of common ground seemed to have been reached.

‘The fact that one victim was not enough, that he needed to kill more, also tells us a lot about the murderer,’ I added quietly.

‘He craves power,’ noted Holmes

‘He has none otherwise.’

‘Indeed!’ he exclaimed. ‘Everyone searches for the bird of prey when the mouse is the culprit!’
 

His excitement soon dissolved into thoughtfulness as he recommenced staring out of the window. The long, silent stretches interrupting our conversation did not feel uncomfortable. Neither of us liked small talk.

Chertsey was a neat little town with old houses, small front yards, and the occasional goats or cats passing by and wondering who the deuce these two intruders were.

Chertsey, 1833. (8)

‘Ah!’ exhaled Holmes, disappointed, as we reached the street flanking the wetland. We had expected to find perfect footprints on the paths here, as the ground was always moist, but the cobblestones prevented that.

Bent low over the sides of the narrow street, he strained his eyes to identify potential traces of the Hampton man’s activities. Occasionally, he was on all fours, almost touching the dirt with his nose, his magnifying glass at the ready.

Meanwhile, I scanned the meadow. The wind moved the grass like waves and the sun painted flickering lights on their tips. The gentle movement revealed faint criss-crossing patterns where hares and deer must have passed. I bent down and investigated the base of the grass and the small tunnels shaped by animals foraging for food. Our progress was depressingly slow and, so far, without results. After about half an hour, I got impatient and excused myself. Holmes only grunted in response.

At a nearby willow, I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my trousers and sleeves, and climbed up the tree. A gap in the foliage allowed a grand view of the whole of Chertsey Meads. I saw Holmes, who was yet again on all fours. The man was quite persistent, I thought. Larks were blaring and a harrier flapped its long, black-tipped wings, swaying across the river.
 

Then I saw it: among the faint animal tracks was one that had several broken grass blades farther up. Only a large animal could have produced that. I stuck two fingers into my mouth and blew hard.

Holmes stood erect and looked around. It seemed as though he had just noticed my disappearance. I whistled again and he spotted me.

‘Another twenty-five yards, Mr Holmes!’ I yelled through the funnel of my hands. Instantly, Holmes turned and walked the recommended distance. He inspected the ground and the grass for a moment, cried out in surprise, and darted off towards the Thames.

I climbed down, grabbed my shoes and socks, and took a shortcut to the other end of the trail. As a child, I had learned that running barefooted through a wetland with long strides can cause the sharp grass to cut in deep between the toes. So I stomped instead, hoping Holmes wouldn’t see me.