The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (18 page)

I snatched his hand before it dropped to his side. ‘I see no reason why I shouldn’t give this to you. You are my best friend. I owe you much more, but all I can offer is money. This isn’t much, if you think about it.’

He shook his head as though to shake off my words. ‘I’ll walk you to your cart.’

‘No.’ I stepped up to him. ‘I don’t like goodbyes.’ My hand wrapped around his, extracting the bag handle he was still clutching. The luggage dropped to the floor. I leaned my head against his chest. ‘I killed a helpless woman. And I poisoned the father of my child.’

I meant to step away, but he held me tight. ‘You are welcome here, Anna. Whenever you need a home.’

‘I know,’ I said, and kissed him softly. He buried his hands in my hair and pulled me close.

The way to Folkestone was short, accompanied by the sounds of timid drizzle and wind combing through trees. While the train took me back to London, I tried to shut off any sorry feelings for Garret. He was a grown man. But having abandoned Barry in St Giles was unforgivable. The boy was dear to me, almost like a son. I had known that his mother was unable to provide him with enough to eat and that she was not healthy enough to at least survive until the boy had grown up.

— sixteen —

T
he pipe clicked against the crystal ashtray; black crumbs fell from the one bowl to the other. Sherlock stuffed it with fresh tobacco and held a match against it. His face was lit up, a golden flicker changing in intensity with every breath he sucked through the pipe. A flick of his hand; the match went out and tumbled into the ashtray with a soft
pling
.
 

‘What is so intriguing about this procedure?’ he asked.

‘I can see you focus. You empty your mind. The longer the process — pipe cleaning and stuffing takes considerably longer than simply sticking a cigarette into your mouth — the more focussed you appear. Once you begin to smoke, it seems as though you let one thought after the other back in. Line them all up. Put them in order, so to speak.’

His nostrils flared. A thin sliver of smoke crawled up to the ceiling. ‘Does it bother you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Watson has a habit of flinging windows wide open when I’m smoking my pipe. And, of late, you have abandoned cigarettes. Perhaps the odour grew unbearable? A side effect of your pregnancy, I should think.’

I smiled at him. ‘I like the stink of your pipe.’ He huffed a large cloud. ‘It is tangy with a sweet undertone. It reminds me of home, of good thinking exercise, and of you.’ It was an honest statement, yet I felt I had said too much again.

‘Very well, then.’ He settled back in his chair and focussed at the ceiling as though a particularly brilliant thought might be found there. ‘I paid a visit to Mr Hooks. He didn’t speak much. He enquired whether I can get him out of Newgate. When I told him that was not in my power, he closed up like an oyster. The moment I left, he said that all we accomplished was postponing what was bound to happen. He also said, “It is all there. Open your eyes, Mr Holmes.”’

‘He teased you. Perhaps he wanted you to reveal more of our plans?’

‘I believe so, too,’ he said. ‘I didn’t reply, hoping my silence would provoke a reaction. But he didn’t speak until it was almost too late. The turnkey locked his cell and we began to walk away. At that very last moment, Hooks ran up to the grated window and cried, “The Kaiser’s favourite toy, Mr Holmes! Can you tell me what it is?”’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I don’t know yet. I’ll talk to Mycroft about it. The Kaiser’s favourite toy. Reminds me of that children’s story…’ He trailed off, tapping the pipe against his teeth.

‘Did you talk to Whitman, too?’

‘No. He’s a former government employee and my brother wishes to interview him. He might try to bribe him.’

I rubbed my eyes and stretched my tired limbs. My stomach stuck out — a watermelon atop a bony frame. Comical, almost. Quickly, I folded my body to hide it. Sherlock caught my reaction, but made no comment.
 

‘Will Watson leave London now?’

Sherlock grunted softly. ‘His wife is reluctant to leave. And I don’t fancy this solution, either. Moran could simply follow.’

‘Let’s roam Whitechapel, then,’ I said with a grin. ‘Do you think Watson would like to join us?’

One eyebrow went up, together with a corner of his mouth. ‘I’ll dispatch a telegram.’ He jumped up and left with energetic strides.

A short while later, he returned. ‘We’ll have to modify your shape, stuff your front, so to speak.’ His upper body disappeared into the wardrobe. ‘I retrieved a few things from my quarters earlier today.’

A handful of clutter was tossed onto the bed. Soon I was disguised as a pot-bellied, moustached, large-nosed version of a police inspector. Sherlock hid his face behind the mutton chops he had worn at the solicitors’ office.

We hailed a four-wheeler and made a detour to Watson’s house. The doctor climbed in. Even in the dark, I could see his glowing cheeks, his shining eyes, his quivering moustache. ‘I brought my revolver,’ he said as he settled into his seat. ‘Hello, Dr Kronberg.’

I reached out and shook his hand. ‘I see you are in a much improved state, Dr Watson. I’m glad.’

‘We will not be needing your revolver today, Watson,’ said Sherlock.

Watson’s shoulders sagged slightly. He turned to me. ‘I have noticed you are still with child.’

‘Yes.’ All other words hung in my throat, none of them able to decide in which order to slip out.

‘If I can help…’ he began, his hand twitching towards mine, then retreating before it made contact.

‘It’s too late. Thank you, Dr Watson.’

‘Oh, well… yes. I know. I meant…’ He picked at his earlobe. ‘My wife cannot bear children. I think we could adopt…’ He trailed off. ‘I would have to talk to her first, of course. I cannot promise. Not yet.’

I snatched his hand and pressed it hard. He noticed my struggling for composure and changed the topic. ‘Where are we heading, Holmes?’

‘Whitechapel. We’ll visit a few brothels, pretending to be inspectors from Scotland Yard looking for a suspect.’ He extracted Moran’s photograph.
 

Watson huffed with surprise. ‘But Holmes! I have nothing that could prove my identity as an inspector.’

‘I forged an identification card for my own entertainment two years back. That should suffice. You two remain quiet. I speak.’ He pulled his hat lower onto his face. The conversation was closed.

We drove along Commercial Street, passing horse trams and omnibuses. At a narrow gap between two houses, we stopped.
 

‘Careful, now,’ said Sherlock when we squeezed through an alley onto Romford Street.

It was dark. No gas was wasted to light streets like this one. The air was thick with odours, indicating the lack of sewers, the lack of regular visits by disinfectors, and the lack of anything that could prevent disease from spreading. Small animals scampered across the street; their ragged fur, distended bellies, and naked tails could identify them either as enormous rats or very sick cats.
 

We saw no women on the street, but customers were lining up at the doorsteps of one establishment.
 

Refuse littered the pavement. Our progress was slow, and I could feel Watson growing uncomfortable. He bent his neck, perhaps to make sure he wasn’t imagining it: every two minutes one of the customers stepped in and another stepped out, buttoning his fly.
 

‘French,’ I explained to him.

He looked puzzled and tried to wipe the curiosity off his face as though it was dirt.

‘They don’t speak it,’ said Sherlock.

The penny dropped.
 

‘Holmes!’ hissed Watson, threw a glance at me, pulled up his shoulders, and began trotting a little faster to avoid any more comments on that matter.

‘Twenty-one, I believe,’ said Sherlock and came to a halt at a door with a dangling
two
on it. No trace of the missing digit. ‘Remember: I speak, you remain quiet.’ He banged the silver knob of his walking stick upon the door.

A creak, and light seeped through a gap. A face appeared, and with it, the unexpected: a tall and healthy looking woman, her figure a perfect hourglass in an expensive silk dress. Her skin was smooth and pale, her hands slender.
 

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes?’

Sherlock cleared his throat and flashed his card. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Nieme. This is Inspector Dodder and Inspector Atkinson. You’ll want to invite us to a room in the back of your house.’

‘None of my girls is underage,’ she said, not moving a bit.

‘We know you are lying. But the illegal age of the girls you employ is not the reason for our visit. I’m unwilling to discuss this issue on the street and I’m certain none of your customers would appreciate to hear what I have to say.’

She stepped back, not taking her eyes off us. We walked into a small and clean parlour. A man the size of a wardrobe with abundant hair on wrists and neck exchanged a nod with the madam, then stepped aside to let us pass.

‘You will remember the female torso that was found under a railway arch not far from here,’ he began. ‘Pinchin Street, September 11, 1889, discovered by Constable Pennet.’

She nodded, flicking her eyes towards the door where the wardrobe-man stood.

‘We have evidence that leads to a customer of your house.’ He extracted Moran’s photograph and placed it on the table. ‘Can you confirm that he is a regular customer, known for paying high fares to deflower underage girls?’

She remained composed, her face losing only the faintest trace of colour. Her voice was steady when she said, ‘I can confirm that he is a regular customer of ours.’

‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘The next time this man comes knocking at your door, I trust you’ll bolt it and refer at once to Division H at Leman Street.’

She nodded, eyes still stuck to Moran’s face.

‘Very well.’ With that he took the photograph, slid it under his waistcoat, and off we marched.

All five brothels we visited were exceptionally clean and well appointed — they were hiding their illegal, expensive, and
special
services in one of the most dreadful areas of London.

‘When I lived in St Giles,’ I began, ‘I was wondering about the number of prostitutes in London. It appears that there are eighty thousand, aged twelve to thirty-five. This results in a ratio of roughly fifty to a hundred male Londoners per prostitute, if one assumed potential customers to be aged fifteen to forty-five, and if one leaves out every man too sick, too weak, or too poor. Considering the average fee and number of customers a prostitute serves per night, I arrived at a surprising conclusion.’

‘You lived in St Giles?’ Watson looked surprised.

I nodded, remembering that I’d never told him that much about me. ‘My conclusion is that the average male Londoner capable of sexual intercourse visits prostitutes about once a week; hence, regularly seeks comfort in the arms of a woman despised by society. A conundrum, don’t you think?’

‘Are you saying that—’ Watson began, clearly offended.

‘I’m certain she excludes her current company, my dear Watson,’ Sherlock interrupted, and beckoned us from the alley out to the main street.

‘Please don’t misunderstand me, Dr Watson. The point I was trying to make…’ Watson’s face still looked much darker than it normally would. ‘I merely criticised the hypocrisy of the situation.’

‘I have never even thought of… of…’ he huffed, eyes round, head shaking.

‘That was not what I said,’ I reminded him. ‘What I said, or meant to say, was that it is normal to bed a woman for the sake of bedding her, not listening to what she has to say, and then pay her and label her a low-life, a whore, or worse: dirt. Why is that?’

‘Because these women are selling their bodies!’ Watson threw his hands in the air.

‘Do you believe they
want
to do this? Besides, most middle- and upper-class women do the same by marrying a man who can sustain their lifestyle.’ I was perfectly aware that I was poking a stick in a bees’ nest.

‘Dr Kronb—!’

Sherlock slapped a hand over Watson’s mouth. ‘Control yourself. We are in disguise,’ he murmured. ‘Ah, there is the omnibus!’ He waved at the driver and manoeuvred us towards the main street. We hadn’t seen any cabs for the past twenty minutes.

We climbed into the vehicle and were the only passengers, if one would ignore the elderly couple sitting far in the back.

‘I take it you are starving?’ Sherlock asked before I had a chance to continue my discussion with Watson.
 

I frowned. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘Would you like to take a late supper with us, Watson?’

‘Thank you, but my wife will be waiting. She’ll be anxious. I’m puzzled, Holmes. When Moran learns that Whitechapel isn’t safe for him, he’ll certainly avoid it. But what is the use of it?’

‘One of Mycroft’s men will call at Moran’s house tomorrow morning. He’ll introduce himself as an Inspector from Scotland Yard and ask him where he has been on the days between the 9
^th
and 11
^th
of September two years ago. He’ll let him know that the Yard received an anonymous package containing new evidence that suggests involvement of Moran in at least one case of murder. He’ll also order Moran to stay put for the next few weeks if he doesn’t wish the police to believe he’s guilty.’