The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (27 page)

James couldn’t possibly have foreseen these developments. Or could he? There had been tendencies, and as a mathematician, — and, hence, an excellent theoretician — he had developed his own hypotheses. What precisely these had been, and what this had to do with the bacterial weapons he’d wanted me to develop, was a mystery to me.

I placed my hands in the cool grass, picked a few blades, rubbed them in my palms, and inhaled the fresh scent. Then I went into the museum, leaving James and Europe behind, to spend an hour or two among pickled corpses of animals and humans.

— twenty-four —

R
ows of glass cabinets and wood shelves gave off the familiar odour of old dust and beeswax polish. Years ago, I had spent many lunch breaks strolling among stuffed South American birds of every colour, skeletons of all sizes and shapes, and pale, malformed human stillborns floating in jars.
 

I rested a hand on my stomach, feeling the child within. Mycroft had cyphered Watson’s messages, then sent them to me. Mary, Watson’s wife, had recovered from a severe cold. For a few days, Watson believed she might have tuberculosis. She was well now and dearly wished to adopt my child. We had agreed that once the danger had passed and I could return to London, they would arrange for a wet nurse. Watson would assist during the birth. I wouldn’t have to hold my child for even a moment. Why the thought would make my throat clench, I couldn’t fathom. I wiped the sentiment away, focussing on the matter at hand.

The newly constructed museum was a three-winged building with high ceilings and a great variety of exhibitions of geological, petrographical, and zoological nature. Its newest exhibit interested me the most, so this was where I went: An account of how Dr Robert Koch developed what he had hoped was a remedy for tuberculosis. The so-called cure had been widely publicised the previous year. Had I not been in James’s grip, I would have visited his laboratory. Early spring this year, he’d admitted publicly that the remedy did nothing to stop the disease, but could instead be used as a test. The resulting scandal must have broken the man.

I leaned over the glass cabinet with the newspaper clippings from August of the previous year, detailing Koch’s presentation in November, reports of his colleagues’ opinions, Professor Virchow’s responses, and finally, a report of Koch admitting his grave mistake.
 

I found this premature announcement and the resulting downfall strangely untypical for a man as meticulous as Koch. He would test and test again, run various negative controls, then test once more, and only when he was absolutely certain his hypotheses were correct would he publish them.
 

Perhaps the prospect of curing Europe’s most dangerous disease had caused this slip in discipline? But I couldn’t quite believe it. Perhaps a colleague dropped a word or two to a reporter, or one of Koch’s usually careful and hesitant presentations had been overrated by his peers. A glimmer of hope must have wiped away all logic. I spotted photographs of consumptives pouring into Berlin, certain to find health; on their side hundreds of physicians, convinced to find fame.

I wondered where Koch was working now and whether the medical establishment would ever forgive such a brilliant scientist.

An adjacent cabinet showed some of his work before he had been assigned a position as a government advisor in Berlin. He had served in the French War as a military surgeon, where he formed the first theories on the causative agent of typhoid fever. After the war, he went back to his small practice and lived a quiet life. Then, around Christmas 1875, he isolated anthrax bacilli in his basement and killed all of his daughter’s pet rabbits during repeated infection tests. Father and daughter then caught barn mice that suffered the same fate as their long-eared predecessors. In the process, Koch could prove that anthrax was caused by germs. His discovery was a sensation. As a result, he was offered government employment at the renowned Charité Hospital in Berlin.

The Charité Hospital, Berlin, 1894. (16)

Among all the snippets of information was a newspaper clipping from the year 1886. Just after his appointment as head of the Institute of Hygiene, Koch had made a short trip to St Petersburg to investigate an outbreak of cholera in a nearby town. According to the papers, he’d contained the disease and then he’d given a short presentation at the St Petersburg medical faculty before returning to Berlin.

My neck began to tingle; a hint of excitement spread from there down my shoulders and into my fingertips. The chances were extremely low that Moran and Koch would have met, and that ideas on bacterial weaponry had been exchanged. Frozen, I stared at the piece of paper, my mind moving around possibilities and impossibilities. I slapped the cabinet’s wooden frame and left the museum.

The stairs up to my room seemed unusually steep today. Halfway up, I was out of breath.

Sherlock was still sitting on the floor, surrounded by notes. ‘You had a question,’ he said.

‘Not important.’ I sat down huffing. My stomach hurt. My feet hurt. August was unbearably hot and I was unbearably large. How could I continue to grow well into October? Sometimes I suspected two or three children in that enormous stomach of mine. But most women at eight months pregnancy didn’t look much smaller.

‘Here.’ He held out a cup of cold tea.

‘Thank you. I need to talk to Dr Robert Koch.’

One of his eyebrows flickered upwards. I told him about my trip to the museum. ‘I’d also like to use this visit to trick Moran.’

His eyes slid from my face down to my stomach. The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘That might work. Dinner?’

‘Let me catch my breath first.’

Three days later, I stood in front of Koch’s house. I had sent a calling card the previous day. Now, my hand trembled over the knocker. He would throw me out, I was certain. Without wasting another thought, I grabbed the brass knocker and banged it against the wood. Three times.

Shuffling, then the clinking of a chain, the rasping of a key being turned. The door opened a crack. A grunt, more shuffling yet, and a quiet curse.

‘My apologies. These… letters!’ the housekeeper groaned. Two large sacks were blocking the entrance. The woman peeked over my shoulder, then back at me. ‘Oh, I had expected Dr Kronberg.’

‘Yes, that is correct,’ I drawled in a poor attempt at staining my German with an American accent. ‘Women can study and practice medicine in America. I’m Dr Kronberg.’
 

My title combined with my sex and my expectant glance sent her a step back, with her arm jerking the door open all the way until the handle hit the wall.

‘Thank you.’ I stepped in, my eyes sweeping over the abundance of letters. ‘From tuberculosis patients?’

Another grunt. ‘For a year now, Dr Koch has received two such loads every week. From everyone with consumption or consumptive relatives.’

I doubted it. That would make more than fifty per cent of the European population. What I saw were perhaps two to three hundred letters. At the most.

She beckoned me through the hallway into the sitting room. ‘Dr Koch will be with you shortly.’ Then she disappeared.

I remained standing next to the door and closed my eyes. My mouth was dry. The large clock on the wall ticked and I tried to make my heart slow to its rhythm. Footfalls in the corridor. I took a deep breath and turned around.

He stood at my height — five and a half feet — and seemed to shrink a little now. The knuckles of his hand turned white against the doorframe, one foot sliding back an inch. I took off my bonnet so he could see the magnitude of the fraud.

‘I am appalled,’ he whispered, stepped in, and closed the door.

‘I betrayed your trust. I apologise for this,’ I said.
 

He snorted. ‘With what do I deserve the honour of your visit, Mrs Kronberg?’

Odd, how quickly a university education and graduation can be wiped away. I pondered how I should answer. Shooting my thoughts and opinions at him would be of little help.

He continued in the high and thin voice so typical of him. ‘My time is limited.’

‘I’m still the same person. I worked hard to get a medical degree, just like you. I worked hard to get further in life, against all expectations of society. Just like you, Dr Koch.’

He had been born into a family of mine workers. Both his parents were ambitious, his father an engineer and mine foreman. They could barely afford their son’s tuition. Koch was a genius and a fighter. It had taken him years of hard work to get out of the anonymity of a small town practitioner and to reach the fame of one of the most renowned scientists in Europe.
 

‘The natural sciences are full of opportunities,’ I continued, ‘for men. I cannot accept such illogical limitations.’

He poured himself a brandy, then stood by the window. ‘What is the reason for your visit?’

‘In spring of 1886, you visited a small town close to St Petersburg. You contained a cholera outbreak and presented your observations at the medical faculty in St Petersburg. Did you ever touch upon the topic of germ warfare during your talk?’

His eyes darkened, beard quivered. I imagined his Adams apple frantically pushing the brandy down his oesophagus.

‘I discussed spreading of disease in general.’ He coughed.
 

‘Have you ever been approached by the military?’

‘Of course. I served in the war.’
 

‘That’s not what I meant. Did anyone ever ask you if pathogenic bacteria could be used in weaponry?’

His irritation was palpable. ‘I work to heal disease, not to cause it.’

I waited.
 

After a minute or two, he lost his patience. ‘No one ever asked such an absurd question.’

‘Thank you, Dr Koch.’

The clock announced the ninth hour. He glanced at it, impatient.

‘Your questions are highly… unusual,’ he said.

‘I’m aware of that. But it’s of the utmost importance that I find answers. Did you mention, during your presentation or later in conversation with faculty members, historical accounts of the deliberate spreading of disease?’

His face hardened, his fingers tightened around the crystal glass. I had never seen him so upset. The usually quiet and rather shy man was boiling with anger. ‘Dr Koch, I’m not asking you to forgive my bold behaviour. I did what I had to do. I’m not asking anyone to accept what I deem right.’

He exhaled and slowly shook his head. ‘I must apologise,’ he said quietly. ‘I have been a most unbefitting host. I didn’t even offer you a seat.’ He waved his hand at the armchair. ‘Coffee?’

I nodded, and he called for the housekeeper.

Once the coffee was served he sat down, pinching the bridge of his nose.

‘As I already said, I discussed germ theory and epidemiology. And I gave several examples. John Snow’s observations on London’s last cholera epidemic was one of them. My presentation centred on water as a vector for cholera transmission. The epidemic was located in Kolpino, a small town at the river Izhora that flows into the river Neva only a few miles northeast and then enters St Petersburg.