The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (9 page)

I unbuttoned the shirt, took it off, and draped it over a hanger, then pulled off my shoes, trousers, and stockings. My fingers probed inside the wrappings around my chest until one end of the bandages was found and I could free my compressed bosom. While rolling the cotton strip into a ball, the red stripes on my breasts slowly paled.

Pulling off my underpants, I grinned at the absurd appendage that stuck out between my legs. After four years, I still haven’t got used to my penis — fastened to a harness and made of the finest calf leather. It appeared authentic enough as long as no one examined it too closely. It had a narrow rubber tube inserted, with its other end attached to a small leather pouch filled with water. Occasionally I accompanied a colleague to the urinal, which drowned all doubts about my sex before they had the opportunity to surface.

Carefully, I took the contraption off, wrapped it in a towel, and stuck it into my doctor’s bag.

I gazed at my naked self and let the fact sink in that I was yet again a woman. Every morning I shed my female part and made myself believe I was a man. To me, it was the only way not to be afraid. I had no time for fear when I was at work. Rather, I had no time for fear at all. But this was naivety rather than courage. If my identity were revealed, I would simply start a new life elsewhere. That’s what I tried to make myself believe. But one part of my consciousness kept telling me how hard it would be to let go of all I had accomplished. Yet, I rarely listened.

The left-hand side of my wardrobe contained all things female. I pulled on a bodice, stockings, a petticoat, and a simple linen dress. A scarf around my head concealed the fact that my hair was rather short. All in all, I wasn’t worth looking at, and yet, once I entered the streets again, it felt as though I had thrown myself onto the market for sexual reproduction. Several of the men I walked past swayed or reached out almost unintentionally just to brush my shoulder or waist. As a woman, I had many more obstacles in my way than as a man.

From Bow Street, I turned north and walked the few blocks to my small flat in Endell Street, St Giles — the worst rookery of the British Empire.

Dudley Street, 1872 (12)
 

London was a monster with many heads — or faces, to be more precise. One could stroll down a clean and busy street, but, making a wrong turn, one would disappear into a maze of dark and filthy alleys, harbouring millions of rats the size of footballs. Rodents thrived in the slums more than anything else, as they were the only inhabitants who always had enough to eat, be it fermenting cabbage, faeces, or cadavers of both animal and human origin. The uninitiated would probably not return, at least not without getting mugged, probably beaten up, and sometimes murdered. Clean water was a rare commodity, as were food, shelter, a warm place in winter, clothes, and basically anything that would make life acceptable.
 

On the other end of the scale were the tranquil and clean upper-class areas. Beautifully dressed and well-behaved ladies and gentlemen could stroll through the parks without being bothered by the poor and dirty. Here, even the trees and bushes were well groomed. People had enough to eat, though their servants often did not.

Every day, my way to and from Guy’s Hospital took me through these contrasting areas of London’s rich and poor. Every day, I saw the transformation of the city, beautiful villas to filthy bottom-of-the-pit hovels with garbage bags or battered hats as replacements for missing windowpanes.

And so did I transform, from the fake male bacteriologist and epidemiologist Anton Kronberg to Anna Kronberg — fake widow and fake medical nurse. I knew that changing identities had its risks, but I gladly took them. In Boston, I had lived as Anton only, and after three years my own body had become a stranger to me. The lack of a penis was highly bothersome and my breasts were useless and ugly appendages that, at some point, I hid even at night. After many weeks of tightly bandaging my chest, I got a breast infection that threw me down with a high fever and excruciating pain. I spent a week in bed, naked. After that, I could not hide my female identity for much longer than a day. I needed to be Anna, to not lose myself.

To avoid a meeting with the landlady, I ran up the creaking stairs to my apartment and slammed the door shut before she had opened hers. The stench in the hallway told me she had had too much gin and too little time to discard the contents of her chamber pots. Almost every day, I was glad they had no children. The crying of neglected youngsters on top of their shouting wars would have been unbearable.

 
I cut the bread and cheese, made tea, and took an early supper while standing at the open window and listening to the odd mix of drunkard sing-song, children’s play, dog yowls, and laughter.
 

Then I fetched the bucket and walked down to the street to get water from the pump. Back in the room, I poured it into the washbasin and started washing the Macassar oil out of my hair and the dissection odour from my body. Contemplating over how to dress — a rather new experience for me — I stood in front of the wardrobe and settled on something more appropriate for an upper-class woman. That left me with only one piece to choose from. I put on a camisole and laced the black sateen corset, put on a petticoat and my best dress made of dark blue silk.

Looking at myself in the milky glass at the wall, I saw a woman I barely recognised. The expensive fabric poured from a too-slim waist down to ankles stuck in tightly laced boots. My black velvet hat was adorned with a single raven feather, shimmering blue and violet in the evening sun. Black curls peeked out, almost reaching my chin. My short hair was definitely too progressive and onlookers might think I was on my way to a Suffragettes’ meeting.
 

But it wasn’t only my hair. Everything about my face screamed oddity at me. Constantly bold and determined, sharp eyebrows, set chin, long nose — I appeared more like a bird of prey. As a woman, I looked too masculine; as a man, too feminine.

I shook my head, thinking that I might not have much time left. A black-haired man in his thirties or even forties, who doesn’t have a hint of a beard, simply did not exist. Being in my twenties, I could perhaps go on with this charade for another ten years, but then I would have to find an alternative. So far, I saw none. How could I possibly live without science?

Frustrated, I kicked the wall, then snatched the package off the table, took a small handbag, and started south. Just as I turned a corner, I heard the
flap flap flap
of naked feet on the pavement behind me, hushed voices and whispers of children. They started splitting up to get to me from two different sides.

‘Oy! Is that you guys or a swarm of cockroaches?’ I shouted over my shoulder.

The splattering of feet came to a sudden stop.
 

‘Anna? Tha’ ya?’ a boy’s voice enquired.

‘No! Balls! I’m on a secret mission! I’m disguised as a lady, you idiot!’ I mocked him, trying to hold that snort in. Someone chuckled. I turned around and barked an unladylike laugh.

‘You can’t walk ’round like that!’ Barry said. Abruptly, his concern changed to determination. ‘We give you protection. Where’d you wanna go?’ He walked up to me, showing his missing front teeth and offering a dirty sleeve.
 

‘M’lady?’ he said poignantly, trying a curtsy.
 

I smiled, thanked him, and took the offered aid. The children walked me two blocks to the next cab. I bowed to them for their services to ladyhood and took the hansom to Baker Street.
 

Mrs Hudson led me up the stairs and opened the door to Holmes’s rooms. Two men were occupying both armchairs. One was Holmes, who started coughing clouds of pipe smoke the moment I entered. The man next to him was moustached and stocky. He wore a wedding band that looked new. Both had their feet on the coffee table as I entered; they were comfortable together, good friends. I gathered this was Watson. I took off my hat, stepped closer, and offered him my hand.

‘Dr Watson, I presume?’

He nodded and squeezed my fingers lightly.

‘Yes.’ He coughed and gazed over my shoulder, as though he expected another visitor.

‘I am Anna Kronberg. It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson.’ It was difficult to remain calm. Obviously, he had expected the male version of me. I wondered how I would wriggle out of this situation.

With a twitch of his arm, Watson offered me his chair.

‘Thank you, I was on my feet the whole day.’ I sat down. The coffee table would have done it, too, but my dress didn’t allow such frivolous seating arrangement.

‘My dear Watson, would you give us a few minutes of privacy, please?’ Holmes asked kindly.
 

‘But of course,’ replied Watson and retreated into the bedroom at once.

‘I am truly sorry,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘My friend was in the area and paid me a surprise visit. I told him whom I was expecting tonight and he was positively surprised and very much looking forward to meeting you in person. Naturally, I invited him to stay. I couldn’t know you would come without your usual disguise.’

‘I tricked myself,’ I noted dryly.

‘If I can make a recommendation,’ he said, ‘don’t lie to him. He is suspecting it since you introduced yourself and will have put two and two together by now. I can promise you that he will not give you away. I would entrust Watson with my life, if necessary.’

Holmes’s assuring smile only intensified my feeling of being trapped. ‘With how many of your friends did you plan to share my secret, Mr Holmes?’ I asked coldly.
 

His eyes narrowed and he replied in the same chilly tone, ‘I had not planned to share your secret with anyone. Although, I must admit, it was a mistake to assume you would, for your own sake, maintain the male masquerade and not risk your career out of pure vanity.’

I shot up from my seat. ‘Mr Holmes, I beg you to control yourself! My lifestyle is nothing I ever wish to discuss with you. I used to live quite safely before I met you.’

His gaze softened a fraction. ‘You are free to go.’

‘You know perfectly well that it is too late for that already.’ Huffing, I sank back into the armchair and rubbed my brow. ‘Dr Watson will surely be shocked.’
 

Holmes’s mouth twitched.
 

‘Wonderful!’ I said, trying to disguise the queasy feeling in my stomach.

At that, Holmes gave a single nod and shouted, ‘Watson, you may come back in.’
 

Watson emerged and Holmes said, ‘My dear friend, this is Dr Kronberg.’

The man was obviously shaken. He merely nodded, then sat down on the coffee table, as there was only that or the floor to sit upon and he needed something to support his buttocks momentarily.
 

‘You
really
mean to say that… That this…’ He was looking at Holmes now. ‘You are,’ he looked back at me, ‘Dr
Anton
Kronberg from Guy’s? I mean, I kind of thought so as you entered. But…’ He shook his head and stared at me, then back at his friend.

‘Have you ever met Dr Kronberg, Watson?’