The Devil's Grin - A Crime Novel featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes (Kronberg Crimes)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  I was so close now, I could see through the door into a room with a large oven. One man just stood there talking - Nicholson. Another shovelled coal while two men hurled one large sack after the other into the fire. The effort it took them and the sharp downward bend in the middle of each long sack identified its content. Strangely, my mind would not allow the interpretation of what my eyes observed. Only after the sweet smoke crawled from the chimney into my nostrils, could I accept the disaster.

  Gasping, I hid my face in my sleeve and hugged my knees tightly, trying to resist the urge to run inside and rip Nicholson into pieces. It took me awhile to collect myself. There was nothing to be done, so I turned around and left quietly.

  Breathing was almost impossible with that large lump in my throat. Scaling the inner wall wasn’t easy, either. I found my oak and the rope hanging down from it and made my way up. Then I lay flat on the thick branch and wept.

  ~~~

  ‘I’d have preferred you stayed in London,’ a quiet voice said.

  My head jerked up and I stared at Holmes who sat on the very same branch, leaning his back on the massive trunk. Unspeaking, I stood up, undid my rope, and pushed past him.

  ‘Wait,’ he said.

  Ignoring him I slung my rucksack on my back and climbed down the tree. He exclaimed quietly while making his way down, too. Quickly, I started off to a place where I had spotted a small clearing earlier tonight, and was gone long before Holmes’s shoes had touched the forest floor.

  After a while of racing my lungs out, I reached a small bog lake. A circular black velvet cloth, its rims decorated with clumps of grass, fenberry shrubs, and pale green sphagnum moss. I dropped my rucksack and shed my clothes. More than in the forest, I felt at ease here. Everyone believed the moor meant death, but for me it meant beauty and peace. Few would dare to come here.

  The moss swung around me with every step I took, the oscillations reaching as far as ten feet in each direction. I walked slowly, placing my naked feet mostly on the thick grass clumps. At the very edge I sat down and immersed my legs in the black water. The turf was sinking down now, softly releasing me into the lake. My outstretched toes did not reach the mud; the lake was deep enough for me to dive. And I did.

  Blackness embraced me and I let the cold water wash off the stench and the images of human corpses stuffed into linen sacks and thrown with carelessness into the roaring fire of Broadmoor’s enormous oven.

  My lungs started to protest, my ribcage contracted, eager to suck in fresh air and expel what I had used up. I kept diving and just before the darkness was about to enclose my mind, I pushed my head through the lake’s surface. With one long sigh, my lungs greeted the crisp night air of the Berkshire forest.

  A movement at the lake’s edge caught me eye. Someone was undressing hastily, and then stopped as I peered into his direction. I waited for him to put his trousers back on before I swam back to my pile of clothes with Holmes standing next to them. He hadn’t dared to walk onto the swinging plant cover and I wondered how he had planned to rescue me. He probably hadn’t planned much at all.

  ‘I would appreciate some privacy,’ I said quietly and upon seeing his hesitation I added: ‘Mr Holmes, do I have to remind you that any other gentleman would leave discreetly now?’

  ‘I certainly will. Under one condition: you listen to what I have to say.’

  I could not believe what he had said and felt rage clawing at my intestines. ‘You have nothing to bargain with.’

  He considered that for a short moment and then replied, slightly amused: ‘You wouldn’t!’

  But I had already placed my hands on two clumps of grass and pulled myself out of the water. Holmes stumbled two steps backwards. The sight of a naked woman, alabaster against an obsidian lake, seemed to have left an impression.

  I stood up slowly and looked him straight in the face.

  He turned around and left, his hands balled to fists.

  I shook the water and the anger off me and walked across the lake’s swinging fringe to find my clothes and get dressed.

  Walking back into the forest, I spotted Holmes leaning on a tree, arms folded over his chest. I walked up to him and after a little while we found a dry place. We sat down and I extracted the little food and drink from the depths of my backpack and placed it between us.

  ‘I would like to say something first, Mr Holmes, if I may.’

  He nodded.

  ‘I am tired of your games. Whatever you have to say, make it short. If I get the impression you are not truthful or purposefully omitting details, I’ll leave.’

  He neither nodded nor made any other move. Staring at the forest floor, he spoke quietly. ‘Last winter I investigated a burglary and paid a group of street urchins to tail the suspect. The man was killed and one of the boys saw the murderer. Two days later the boy was found beaten to death. He was eleven years old.’

  Holmes still did not move and I waited, gradually understanding his actions.

  ‘I swore I would never again put anyone in danger for the sake of a case,’ he said finally.

  I opened the brandy I had brought and offered him my one cup; he took it without a word.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said softly, ‘for you and the boy.’

  Slowly the crickets’ music faded. It was obviously time for them to go to bed. I, however, was wide awake.

  ‘You think you should have known better,’ I added with a thin voice, ‘you do think that rather often.’ It wasn’t meant to be a question. I turned towards him and touched his hand with mine. ‘Absolutely nothing can be learned from cruelty.’

  He looked at me then, quizzical at first and after a moment his eyes had gotten cold and hard.

  ‘I am sorry; it was not my intention to humiliate you,’ I said.

  ‘You didn’t,’ he replied, still cold. Then I knew my assumption had been correct: someone had torn him apart a long time ago. No one is born untrusting, only made so.

  I refilled the cup he held in his hand. He nodded and took a mouthful, then offered it to me. I poured its entire content down my throat.

  We were quiet for a long time, eating, drinking, and contemplating until I interrupted the silence.

  ‘The flame was white.’

  ‘I know.’

  There was no use to call the police. A white flame burns at over one-thousand two-hundred degrees Celsius, turning bones and even teeth into ashes within twenty minutes.

  ‘What else did you see?’ I asked him.

  ‘Much what you saw; I followed you.’

  ‘You are an exceptional detective and I can understand that you feel I’m in your way.’ He looked over at me and I continued: ‘I won’t budge. I have a personal interest in this crime. They are experimenting with highly pathogenic germs and they shouldn’t be able to get past London’s best bacteriologist.’

  ‘You have a plan,’ he noted.

  ‘Yes. Two of the victims got infected with tetanus, one with cholera. From tonight on, I will focus my research on tetanus and get so attractive that whoever is behind it will pay me a visit. There must be a number of medical doctors involved, and one of them will want my services, sooner or later.’

  Holmes exhaled audibly but after a while he said: ‘That is sensible.’

  It took me a moment to digest that.

  Then he added: ‘They have just destroyed all evidence and it will take them a while to start anew. They will have to select test subjects and I’m quite certain they will try to find them in workhouses.’ His smug smile told me he had a plan.

  ‘How do you plan to get into the workhouses?’

  Inviting, he raised one eyebrow and I said: ‘Not as a pauper?’

  ‘Isn’t that the most obvious strategy?’ He seemed a little disappointed by my question.

  ‘It is; I am just having problems picturing you in rags.’

  He only smiled then, looked at his watch, producing light with a match. It was two o’clock and the night had gone chilly. Somewhere close by a
n owl hooted. I unfolded my blanket, moved closer to Holmes, and draped it over his legs and mine.

  ‘What happened in Broadmoor this morning?’ I enquired.

  ‘Nicholson had been warned and had the whole of the night to clean up. It was as clear as the bright daylight but Lestrade didn’t notice. The usual.’

  The thought of Nicholson supervising the burning of corpses made me shudder.

  ‘Who warned Nicholson?’ I asked.

  ‘Gibson.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He was in an exceptionally smart mood and wired the local police force asking for reinforcement for our raid the following morning. As he did this against my instructions, he didn't dare telling us before we left. The bobby who received the wire is Nicholson's nephew. Naturally, he warned his uncle.’

  ‘Shit! I mean… sorry! Drat is what I meant. My apologies, sometimes I’m a bucket.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Bucket,’ I said, tapping my skull with my index finger, ‘empty vessel.’

  He slapped his knees and gave a bark of a laugh before muffling himself face down in his sleeve. I noticed that this was the first time I had seen him laughing. After a long moment he said earnestly: ‘I think your vessel is full to the brim.’

  Abashed, I fell silent.

  By now, we had emptied half the brandy and Holmes commented on the lack of his pipe. Lightheaded, I extracted my tobacco pouch. He watched me rolling a cigarette, pinching the paper tight around the brown plant clippings, sending my tongue’s tip across its edges, and picking excess tobacco from both ends. Without comment he picked the cigarette from my offering hand, and I made myself one, too.

  ‘May I ask something personal?’ he said cautiously.

  ‘Try,’ I answered, tipping another brandy into my mouth in preparation for what may come.

  ‘How did you receive the long scar on your abdomen?’

  My throat clenched like a fist.

  ‘I am sorry, and I shouldn’t have asked. Especially when considering the peculiar situation,’ he said, pointing at our legs stuck under the same blanket.

  ‘I think coming to your home every day for two weeks to cure your pneumonia might be even more peculiar.’

  ‘Probably.’

  The light talk had enabled me to breathe again.

  ‘Did it make you think of The Ripper?’ I asked him.

  ‘Yes. I was wondering for a while about your strong interest in the murders, and why you formed your own, and very conceivable I must say, theory. I assumed your interest was personal. And then I saw the scar tonight.’

  ‘Good deduction,’ I croaked, and gazed up into the tree. After a long moment I started recounting the most terrible night of my life.

  ‘I had defended my thesis, we had a small party, and I walked home alone late at night. Three of my fellow students begrudged me my success. They had always had an eye on me and followed me through the streets that night to corner me in a dark alley. They told me that I needn’t be afraid; all they wanted was to check the size of my penis, which must be microscopic because I was such a nerd. Soon they noticed the nonexistence of that organ. At first they were shocked, but then realised their luck. I would never tell on them. And they were right - why should I betray my own secret?’ I took a deep breath.

  ‘They raped me in turns. One of them wasn’t able to penetrate me, so he used a knife to leave his mark. Not to kill, just to show the power he had over me and to always remind me of that night. As if I needed that,’ I swallowed. ‘How would anyone forget such a thing? I will never bear children.’

  Holmes had turned stiff during my narrative and I saw his knuckles turn white as his hands held on to his knees.

  ‘It is in the past, they don’t haunt me anymore.’

  He stared at me, astonished.

  ‘It is my life; I cannot live it when I’m full of hate,’ I explained.

  ‘But you leave them free to rape again?’ There was accusation in his voice, but it did not offend me. I felt strangely balanced.

  ‘No. They know I come after them should they cross the line.’

  ‘You live in London,’ he noted dryly.

  ‘But I have friends. They will let me know when it’s time to pay a visit.’

  He looked doubtful.

  ‘You have never seen me angry,’ I hinted.

  ‘Have I not?’

  I had to smile at his surprise and said: ‘I got my father’s shot gun, sawed the barrel off to fit it under my coat, and followed them two weeks after the… incident. The man who used the knife gave me the most trouble; I had to shoot him in his right foot to leave any impression at all. He is still limping. The other two only got an imprint of the gun’s butt in their faces.’

  Holmes raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Are you shocked?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘No.’

  His answer had come too fast to be believable and he had noticed that, too. He examined the night sky for a while and then muttered: ‘It is complicated.’

  I waited a long time, but he did not elaborate further on the matter. Strangely, my upset heart wouldn’t calm itself. It galloped like a foal. I grew aware of the man next to me and noticed the complete lack of distance, both physical and emotional.

  ‘I’m shocked, too,’ I whispered, rose to my feet and packed my rucksack, left the blanket where it lay, and went back to the lake.

  Chapter Nine

  Two days ago on September the 10th, an unidentified female torso had been found under a railway arch in Pinchin Street. No other body parts were found in the vicinity. The papers were full of it and all of London suspected Jack the Ripper, except for Holmes. Again, Bobbies where swarming Whitechapel and any other slum in London, making it exceedingly difficult for me to change from Anna into Anton and back again.

  During the last weeks, Holmes had spent considerable time disguised as a pauper, but had now focused his energies on the torso case. Our two dead men were still unidentified. I, however, had other things demanding my attention as well.

  The government had awarded me with a substantial grant for the isolation of tetanus germs. A visit at Robert Koch's laboratory in Berlin was included in the funding. In two weeks time I would leave London for the whole of three months. The prospect of seeing my father again made me feel rather fluttery in my chest.

  Despite the exciting news, my stomach wouldn’t stop aching - I was certain the word had spread and the men behind the Broadmoor experiments had their eyes on me already.

  ~~~

  I was at home when an urgent knock interrupted my kitchen scrubbing.

  ‘Yes?’ I called and Barry opened my door. He stood in the door frame, a small boy of ten years, pale-faced underneath the grime, and his hands shaking. The whole boy was a picture of great agitation.

  ‘What is it?’ I said dropping the rag in the bucket.

  ‘Me mum,’ he croaked, ‘is very sick.’

  I nodded, snatched my doctor’s bag, and we were both out the door in less than a minute.

  He lived just around the corner in a two storey house, of which the mould had taken hostage many years ago. The privy was overflowing, as it had to accommodate for the thirty or so inhabitants, all in various stages of utmost poverty. Without a single window or door intact, the house and whoever lived inside was at the weather’s mercy all year round. Here in St Giles it was a house like all the others.

  We climbed the crooked stairs to the second floor. It was dark and I stumbled several times. The missing windowpanes had been replaced with mildewed cardboard or potato sacks filled with garbage. Milky white daylight fingered through the shadows and painted the decline in even harsher colours.

  We passed a narrow corridor and entered a room that smelled like fermenting excrements. I stopped in the door frame and squinted, waiting for my eyes to adapt to the poor light. The heaps on the floor were children. They lifted their heads and greeted me with weak smiles, showing wreckages of yellowed and blackened teeth. In the corner lay a
straw mattress that seemed to have been clubbed to death.

  Even if I would earn a thousand pounds each month, I wouldn’t be able to turn life in St Giles into something acceptable. Several thousand people lived here under the worst conditions. Women gave birth on filthy stairways or down in the streets. Their babies had a survival chance of thirty per cent at the most. Of these, another thirty per cent made it into adulthood, just to die of violence, disease, or undernourishment.

  Barry and I approached the static pile on the mattress.

  ‘Mum? She’s here,’ whispered the boy.

  The blanket moved and a pair of blue eyes peered up into mine, losing focus soon thereafter.

  ‘Sally, what happened?’ I asked.

  She mumbled something unintelligible.

  I touched her forehead - it was scorching hot - then pulled the blanket down to her waist and unbuttoned her dress. I palpated her abdomen. Her spleen and liver were enlarged and she groaned as I pressed my fingers gently into the soft flesh. I lit a candle and moved the light closer to her. There were rose coloured patches on her lower chest.

  I turned to Barry. ‘Does she talk funny sometimes?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Barry, your mum has typhoid fever. Do you know what that is?’

  He nodded again, his eyes wide in horror.

  I looked around in the room. There was a hole in the wall, which must have been a functional fireplace once. The thought of the approaching winter and my imminent journey to the continent left an astringent taste of urgency in my mouth.

  They couldn’t even make a fire here to at least warm the winter up a little. The biting cold would penetrate the missing windows and doors and the rotten walls, to turn anyone who wasn’t up to it into a frozen corpse. And no matter how loud you begged, the winter wouldn’t retreat until three months later. Three months!

  I turned back to the boy. ‘Barry, I’m leaving London in a week. You will be her nurse, I will instruct you. We will move her into my quarters tomorrow and you take care of her there. Do you think you can do that?’