The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (7 page)

The river clucked quietly and reed warblers ranted at each other. I was careful not to tread on the trail, but could already see that someone had walked here. Right next to the river, grass and reeds were bent across an area of about two by four yards — he must have rested here. Suddenly, I remembered the Hampton man’s shoes. Holmes had shown them to me. But the prints were not identical to the soles I had seen.

‘Stop!’ cautioned Holmes when he saw me taking a step towards the river’s edge.

He examined the trodden place for only a minute or so and then said, ‘As expected.’

‘And
what
did you expect?’

‘The Hampton man walked — or, rather, hobbled — only half the distance through the meads. He was accompanied by Mr Big Boots.’ Holmes pointed to the ground next to him. There in the mud were the clear footprints I had seen already. The ones with the holes at the heels were missing.

‘He carried him,’ I noted.

‘Yes. And here,’ he pointed again, ‘he laid him down.’

There was a faint elongated impression. Its size would have fitted the Hampton man’s body.

‘The two must have been friends,’ he stated and, seeing my quizzical expression, he explained, ‘Big Boots carried him, and there are no signs of a fight. This allows us to make an assumption only. But here is the simple proof.’ He pointed to the impression of buttocks right next to the longish dent. ‘The Hampton man died while resting his head in his friend’s lap!’

He contemplated for two seconds, stated that there was nothing more to be learned here, and traced his steps back to the cobblestone road.

We walked to Chertsey without finding either man’s footprints next to the roads. Holmes’s plan was to enquire at the local inn whether anyone had seen the two.

We entered a small stone house with
The Meads Inn
painted in neat red letters over the entrance door. The inn itself consisted of a tiny room with a mawkish interior design. A woman, whom I suspected to be both decorator and owner’s wife, beckoned us in. Her eyelids and hands were flapping in unison, probably intended to appear inviting.

Holmes steered us towards a table. We ordered stew and beer and, as the woman set our meal down in front of us, he let a sovereign spin on the polished wood.

‘We are looking for two men who passed through Chertsey Meads the day before yesterday. One was over six feet and eight inches tall, probably supporting the other, who was seriously ill, unusually pale, undernourished, and almost a head smaller than his friend. Both were dressed poorly. Have you seen them, by any chance?’

The woman flinched. She didn’t even look at the money that swirled so promisingly before her eyes.

I threw her an apologetic glance. Holmes hadn’t introduced us.

‘My apologies, ma’am. I am Dr Anton Kronberg and this is Mr Sherlock Holmes. We are investigating a crime and would be ever so grateful if you could help us.’

Her expression didn’t soften the least.

‘Haven’t seen nuffink!’ she said abruptly, turned around, and disappeared into the kitchen.

‘That went well,’ I mumbled, leaning over my bowl and shovelling hot stew into my mouth.

Holmes only smiled a little, then turned his attention to his food, and ate it merrily.

‘How could you know how tall Big Boots was? By the size of his shoes?’ I asked.

‘And stride length.’

‘Ah.’ I thought about that for a while and added, ‘You can calculate that although Big Boots had to support the Hampton man? Wouldn’t his stride be shorter owing to the effort?’

Holmes talked to his stew. ‘It would be, but in this case, the strain did not appear to be significant. When the Hampton man leaned on Big Boots, the latter didn’t show a sideways tilt of his heels to counteract the force. And we know the Hampton man was light. Big Boots’s stride length didn’t change in the least even as he picked up his friend and carried him. All these facts indicate that he was in rather good health, tall and strong.’

My brain absorbed the information like a hungry cat the milk.
 

After we had drained our beer, he announced that he wanted to take his leave at once.

The woman hurried back to us, we paid, and Holmes asked casually, ‘You had a burglary?’

She stopped in her tracks. ‘Why, yes! How did ya know?’

Holmes pointed towards the window. The sash was missing, probably taken out for repair. I had noticed it as we came in, but hadn’t thought of a crime, for a pub’s window panes are chronically threatened by the clientele.

‘Yes…yes…two days ago,’ she stammered.

‘What has been taken?’

‘Food, mostly, and the oil lamp from over the door,’ she said, pointing to the exit.

‘What about clothes?’ I asked. She stumbled backwards, almost bumping into the wall.

‘How did ya… My husband’s coat — but how could ya…’

‘It is but a simple observation of—’ I elbowed Holmes to interrupt his explanation. The woman was shocked enough and there was no need to pour more information into her already stunned brain.

‘Did the burglars leave something behind?’ he asked with an annoyed sideways glance at me.

‘What do ya mean?’ she said and, upon noticing Holmes’s impatient look, she added: ‘No, he hasn’t left nuffink.’

‘Have you seen him?’ I asked.

‘Of course not!’ she said and stomped off into the kitchen.

We made our way back to the station and I asked Holmes whether he had also got the impression the woman was hiding something.
 

He snorted. ‘Who isn’t?’

As we took our seats on the train back to London, he asked, ‘Is it possible to contract tetanus without an infected wound?’

‘Actually, it is. I was thinking about that last night. He could have got tetanus from eating bad or dirty meat. I have seen people eating cats, dogs ,and rats, and not having enough patience or wood for cooking them long enough will inevitably result in contracting whatever disease the animal had.’

Holmes’s eyes glazed over; he fell silent for a long time. We had almost reached London when he said, ‘We have to find Big Boots. Could he have contracted cholera, too?’

‘Not necessarily.’ I noticed the glint of hope in Holmes’s eyes fading. ‘Would a second cholera victim come in handy in helping you solve the case?’ I asked coldly.

He mirrored my stare and answered, ‘Without Big Boots, I will not be able to solve the case. There is not enough information.’

After another long and silent stretch, I asked, ‘Mr Holmes, I’m rather confused. Two men take a walk together to the Thames. One dies of tetanus while having cholera in the final stage and is thrown into the river; the same having restraint marks on his wrists and ankles. Both men steal food and a coat only hours before the coat is thrown into the water, together with the man who wore it. That makes absolutely no sense.’

‘Hmm…’ answered Holmes. And that was the last word he spoke until we parted in London.

— five —

O
ne week after the Hampton incident, I found a stranger in my ward. Patients were gazing curiously at the man who lay on the floor in silent agony. His spine was arched far back, arms pulled to his side, fists clenched, and feet cramped into an almost half-moon shape.

In the short moment it took me to rush up to him, I saw I was too late. All I could do was kneel at his side, caress his head, and wait for the last seizure to release its grip.

Patients who were strong enough pulled themselves up from their cots for a better view. Anxious muttering started filling the room, mixed with anger and pity.
 

The man was perfectly still now, but for a barely noticeable vibration of all muscles in his tense body. His facial features were stretched into a devilish grin and his eyes were rolled far back into his skull. I placed my other hand on his chest. His heart was still beating, but the muscle spasms forbade him to breathe.

‘Just one more moment,’ I whispered.

His fluttering heart couldn’t accept its fate.
 

‘The pain will go away.’

A minute later, the strained heart fell silent. No one in the ward dared to speak. The presence of death sealed their lips. Only a few quiet coughs and the whimpering of a child cut through the void.

This was one of the hardest things to accept: the moment when death came no matter what I did, and then to let it happen and give both, man and death, peace. And strangely enough, once I accepted it, it gave me peace, too. As though death had touched my shoulder to salute an old acquaintance and to tell me that, when he came for me, I would be able to give him that very same friendly salute.

I closed the man’s eyes and left the ward to find someone who knew his identity. But I could not find a single soul who had even seen him being delivered. But that was impossible; he could not have walked in by himself.

Nonplussed, I walked back towards my ward and spotted the old porter, Mr Osburn, pacing the corridor. When he saw me, he waved with both arms and came running.
 

‘What is it?’ I barked and immediately regretted my harsh behaviour.

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ he said anxiously, pointing through the door.

‘Yes, he died. Did you know him?’

‘Oh, no!’ said Osburn, shaking his head, his large ears almost flapping. ‘Didn’t know him. Found him on the street, just in front of the gate.’

‘What?’

He was about to repeat himself, but I cut him off with a flick of my hand. ‘Did you see who dropped him off?’

‘No, Doctor. Am sorry, I didn’t see nothing.’

‘No one walking away? Or a cab driving off?’

He was thinking hard, staring at my shoes and pinching his earlobe. It made him look fragile and I began to feel sorry for the man. He appeared a little shrivelled, was friendly and forthcoming, but lonely in his porter house and probably even more so at home.

After a long moment, he pulled himself together and answered in a clear voice, ‘Now that you mention it, I heard the crack of a whip. Then the whinnying of a horse, just a minute afore I heard the gasping of a man. That man, you know, and then I found him. And then brought him here.’

‘Why didn’t you tell anyone that you’d brought him in?’ I tried to say it friendly, but failed.
 

He started stammering. ‘Am sorry, am sorry, I didn’t know what to do. He were a dying man, you know, and I just… I just…brought him here. And Billy from the disinfectors helped, and we didn’t see no doctor and no nurses and didn’t know what to do! I ran around and didn’t find no one, all the time thinking about that poor man dying. And then I came back and you were here and…and… He were dead.’

The old man had tried his best to help and I behaved like a snot-nose. ‘My apologies, Mr Osburn,’ I mumbled, ashamed. He stammered something unintelligible, then hobbled back to his porter house.

Before I returned to my patients, I asked a nurse to send the body to the anatomy lecture hall and to announce a presentation at four o’clock for students of medicine and bacteriology.