‘Female from Dundee, delivered with a brougham,’ answered Stark in a bored telegram style. Anton made a mental note - Dundee was more than four-hundred miles north. How far does the Club’s network reach?, he wondered.
‘The cabby is a reliable man. We have had used him for other... tasks.’ Stark scratched his chin. Anton sensed the gaping cleft within the man, who did not quite trust his young colleague but had been ordered to share sensitive information with him. ‘He was well paid and instructed not to listen to any noise she made. We told him she is insane and seriously sick,’ explained Stark. He seemed to loosen up a little and chuckled. ‘The man must have whipped his horses like the devil, has never made it down here in such a short time!’
Then he clapped his hands in delight and Anton felt the heat rising inside his chest. But he told his heart to be still and his breath to come regular. In his brain, though, he went berserk: he beat Stark unconscious and tied his arms and legs with a rope. Then he would infect him with cholera and wait a few days. After the disease had turned Stark into an intestine expelling wreck, he would leave him outside in the cold, lying in his own shit and vomit, without food, water, or even a consoling word for his remaining days. A trial would be the least thing Stark would have to worry about.
Fighting for the appropriate amount of curiosity and ease in his voice he asked: ‘Dundee, you say? That’s far away. Who prepared her for the transfer?’
Here, Stark stopped for a few seconds, obviously pondering whether he was allowed to share this information, too. After a moment he gave in: ‘A colleague from the Dundee School of Medicine.’
Anton made another metal note. The Club had a medical doctor working for them so far away from London. How much further did their tentacles reach?
‘Did you take precautions?’ Anton enquired.
‘Of course we did!’ cried Stark indignantly. ‘She has no family, no one will miss her. The driver believes she will receive special treatment at our school.’ A smile played around his angler fish death trap. ‘Do not worry yourself, Dr Kronberg. No one will ever know.’ He grabbed Anton’s shoulder and shook it lightly.
Anton wondered how a man could exude so much hypocrisy and not drop dead of shame. ‘Excellent. Has the cab been cleaned thoroughly?’ Avoiding the transmission of the disease was the one thing that kept Anton sane at the moment. Trying to prevent the worst, was what he focused on, while his heart was aching like a rotten tooth.
‘Certainly!’ exclaimed Stark, letting go of Anton’s shoulder to wave his hand. ‘Its interior had been disinfected by your assistants. They also cleansed themselves and are now using your new invention - those masks, in addition to coats and gloves when they deal with the woman.’ Stark was now notably irritated by the interrogation.
Anton nodded approvingly and walked over to the door. ‘I will have to extract the germs before or right after the subject dies,’ he said and grabbed his coat from the hanger. Stark did the same and together they took a hansom to London Medical School.
Only a few minutes later, both men walked into Anton’s laboratory. On the floor lay a soiled and frail looking woman, half covered by a thin blanket. Although she was too weak to move, her hands were bound behind her back.
Anton felt himself splicing in two. He knew he had to remain here, appear calm and calculating. But all he wanted was run away and scream. He inhaled quietly and put himself back together again.
Both men approached the dying woman. Her breathing was shallow, almost gone.
‘Leave me alone. You don’t want to watch this,’ noted Anton dryly, and Stark appeared to have the exact same thought.
~~~
Her ribcage started to heave convulsively, and she opened her eyes in panic. Her unsteady gaze found Anton kneeling on the floor close by. She opened her mouth, but could not speak. Her eyes were pleading. He ripped off his gloves and took her cold and shrivelled hands into his.
‘I am so sorry,’ he whispered while feeling utterly useless.
Her legs started twitching - the loss of fluids and minerals caused her muscles to contract uncontrollably and painfully. He sensed it then and wished he could be the one to be taken away now. But that was ridiculous. No one could haggle with death.
Anton took both her hands into one of his now and stretched to take a bottle of ether from the shelf above him. He poured a large amount onto a handkerchief. She smelled it then. Anton gazed at her, asking for permission. She smiled weakly and he pressed the stinking cloth against her mouth and caressed her soiled hair until long after her heart had given up fluttering.
~~~
Anton disinfected his hands, arms, and face. He put his gloves on, his mask, and his rubber apron. He inserted a narrow tube into the woman’s rectum, connected the other end to a large syringe, and extracted about a quarter of an ounce of dirty greenish fluid.
Carefully, he spread drops of it onto plates of solid culturing medium his assistants had prepared for him. Half of the Petri dishes were kept under the exclusion of oxygen, the other half with air contact. Anton didn’t know yet whether cholera germs where strictly anaerobic or not.
He poured the remaining fluid into a beaker and heated it to 80°C for twenty minutes. After it had cooled down, he fed it to half the mice and rabbits. He marked them by shaving a bit fur off their bellies. No one would notice, he hoped. If he was extraordinary lucky he could have a cholera vaccine ready in a few days without the Club’s knowledge. Maybe it could help save a few lives. Maybe it could pay for what he’d done.
He prepared a letter - a small piece of parchment in a cheap envelope, which he would mail the next morning to Mr Sherlock Holmes, Baker Street 221B.
“Guilty of abduction, torture, and neglect of an unidentified female cholera victim, diseased today at London Medical School: Dr Gregory Stark, Dr Jarell Bowden, Assistant Mr Daniel Strowbridge, Assistant Mr Edison Bonsell, and an unknown medical doctor from the Dundee School of Medicine. Guilty of murder of the same woman: Dr Anton Kronberg.”
Chapter Sixteen
On the following evening at six o’clock, Dr Jarell Bowden called at Anton’s quarters.
‘You honour me with your visit, Dr Bowden,’ said Anton with a hint of a bow while beckoning the old man into his room. He offered him his only armchair. It used to be burgundy red, but time had turned it into a dull pink. Except for the patches, which were almost white. Bowden took the tattered seat with reluctance.
Anton made tea and stoked the fire, rarely taking his eyes off his visitor. Bowden’s expression was controlled but his beady eyes darted here and there, taking in Anton’s shabby room. He couldn’t hide a slight sneer.
Anton placed a chair on the other side of the coffee table and sat down facing his guest. ‘How can I help you, Dr Bowden?’ he enquired in a friendly manner, wondering whether Bowden would address the issue directly.
‘I heard you have threatened four of my men,’ said Bowden while taking his eyes off the room and gluing them onto Anton’s face. ‘How do you defend yourself, Dr Kronberg?’
Good, thought Anton, there was still hope as long as Bowden was openly confronting him.
‘I don’t,’ he answered, ‘as I did threaten them.’
Bowden’s upper body gave the slightest jerk backwards while his eyelids flickered a little. ‘You do not defend yourself?’ he said with surprise.
‘I don’t think I neither need nor should. The four tailed me and did so, I believe, without your orders. They let me know they don’t trust me. It doesn’t bother me, though, as I think neither of them is of importance to me or my work.’
Anton noticed that Bowden showed no reaction to the depreciative statement.
He continued: ‘One of them was about to reveal a secret that was not for me to know.’ At that, Bowden raised his eyebrows but managed to pull them down soon enough. He seemed to be aware of the younger man’s scrutinising eyes. Anton went on: ‘The behaviour they showed was uncontrolled and their action not thought through. They followed
a hunch and put belief above knowledge. I found them to be most unreliable. So I threatened them I would shove them into the Thames if anything like that would ever happen again.’
‘They told me a different story,’ responded Bowden lightly and leaned back in the armchair, obviously looking forward to a devastating effect of his words. But Anton did not react as expected.
‘Well, then it remains for you to decide whom you choose to believe,’ he answered calmly, while making an effort not to think about anything else but the scarlet bulls eye. Anton did not move nor did he take his eyes off Bowden.
After a long moment of consideration, Bowden answered: ‘You strike me as rather odd. Any other man would have tried to convince me of his innocence and would have fought to gain my trust. Why don’t you?’
Anton started shivering. To conceal the fear he rose to his feet and stoked the fire, then rubbed his hands close to the heat.
After he had collected himself again, he turned to the old man: ‘Because I do not put words above action. If I where in your position, I would not trust that new man either. And you don’t, which makes you a safe leader. To be absolutely sure, I would put a tail on the man, as you did, too. I would ask his former colleagues what kind of person he is, as you did, too. At some point though, I would have to make a decision. Either I can or can not trust him. At some point I would have to take a risk. It’s either in or out. But you have to make that decision, as you are the leader. Only you can know whether these four men have always been trustworthy to the highest degree, have never lied to you, have never done anything that could have jeopardised your goals. I am in no position to recommend which action is the one you should take, Dr Bowden.’
Anton walked back to his chair and sat down, silently gazing into Bowden’s wide open eyes. After a long moment Bowden pouted his lips slightly and produced a scant nod. ‘You are a remarkable man, Dr Kronberg. I have never met anyone who speaks so openly. Yet, I can not trust you. I will think about our problem and will, as you have noticed already, keep you under surveillance for the time being.’
With that he took his leave. After the door had closed, Anton placed his forehead into his palms and sat on the chair for a very long time, while seeing his own body floating face down in the river.
~~~
The woman from Dundee walked into my room. She looked at me. I was lying in my bed unable to move. She lifted my blanket and crawled in next to me. ‘Sleep Anna,’ she said gently, placing her skeletal hand, which was neither warm nor cold, onto my chest. She smiled. Her hand was heavy, like a large rock crushing my lungs. I could neither breathe nor move. She was smiling still, while I was dying.
I inhaled the cold air greedily, hurled myself out of the bed, and puked into the chamber pot.
~~~
Shaking with weakness, I went to open the door and called to Mrs Wimbush, my landlady. I did not wait for her reply but made my long way back to bed and wrapped my freezing body into blankets. Sleep came fast and relieved me of the stomach ache and nausea for a while.
Someone harrumphed. I opened my eyes and saw Mrs Wimbush standing next to the bed. She looked worried and slightly annoyed.
‘Wha’s wrong with ya? Yer poorly?’
I nodded and answered: ‘I think I contracted cholera. Don’t touch anything. If you did, wash your hands with a lot of soap.’
Her eyes widened in shock and she moved back a few inches.
‘Mrs Wimbush, I would be ever so grateful if you could get me clean water, lots of it. And a large chamber pot please...’ I saw Mrs Wimbush wrinkle her nose and shaking her shoulders in disgust. ‘And would you please make me a mix of freshly chopped onions with black pepper? Grind it together to a paste. Fresh lime would be very helpful, too, so I can mix it into my drinking water. I will also need potassium permanganate from the apothecary, so I can disinfect the diarrhoea before you or the maid handle the chamber pot.
‘Certainly,’ she whispered slowly and rather pale. Then she added: ‘Don’t ya need a docter?’
‘No, thank you Mrs Wimbush, I am a medical doctor and can take care of myself. But I would be very grateful for a good fire.’
The last thing I needed was some quack who would examine me and find these odd details about my anatomy.
Mrs Wimbush left and soon returned with the requested chamber pot and coal for a larger fire.
~~~
Around noon, my landlady had got me most of the things I’d asked for. While she was gone, I meandered between bed and chamber pot, between vomiting, half-consciousness, and explosive diarrhoea.
Inside, I felt ice-cold, while my skin was burning with a high fever. I was sweating profusely, too. It felt as if my body wanted to get rid of all the liquids it had stored. I imagined myself shrivelling up like a stranded jellyfish.
My wrapped-up breasts were beginning to ache. But I could do nothing about it, as Mrs Wimbush walked in and out of my room, exchanging soiled chamber pots every so often. Two bulges underneath the sweaty shirt would be more than obvious. She had offered to send the maid to help me wash myself. I refused, hoping she would take my protest seriously and not write it off as the ramblings of someone too sick to think.
It took two days of drifting in and out of consciousness, of expelling bodily fluids, and wishing I could die rather sooner than later, until some of my strength returned.
I decided to finally wash myself, bolted my door, and undressed, undid the bandages from around my chest and, as a result, felt quite out of breath already.
Warm water was waiting in the jug next to the wash basin and I scrubbed my reeking body. It needed two changes of fresh water to finally feel clean again. Panting and naked, I sat down on my armchair and let the blaring fire toast my front.
~~~
He let go of my hand. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered. His answer was harsh and made my heart ache: ‘Leave me alone. You are embarrassing me.’
I just made it to the chamber pot in time.
~~~
The morning of the third day I felt my appetite returning. The bits of dry bread I had for breakfast did not urge themselves up my throat again and I knew that cholera lay behind me.
Just as I had undressed and started to wash the night sweat off, I heard a knock on my door.
‘Who is it?’
‘Mrs Wimbush. Havin’ a telegram for ya,’ she shouted a little too loud through the closed door.
‘Thank you Mrs Wimbush. Could you please leave it at the top of the stairs? I am not fully dressed at the moment.’
She harrumphed - I assumed in the affirmative - and stomped down the stairs again.
I waited until I heard her door slam shut, then opened mine a small crack and snatched the wire. Its content made my neck tingle
‘Will call tonight at seven. JBowden.’
I stared down at the piece of paper, hoping the letters would disappear. Unfortunately, they didn’t.
I wasn’t ready for Bowden yet. My brain felt as thick as honey. The only person I could think of now, the only one who may know what I could do, was Holmes. So I put my tea pot in the windowsill as a sign for him to come. I had barely washed and dressed when a rap on the door announced his arrival.
I opened, and Holmes stepped in, still wearing his pauper clothes and the workhouse stench. How long would it take to solve that case? I wondered.
‘Good lord! What happened to you?’ he cried out.
‘Cholera,’ I said, and retreated to my armchair, with my cold feet close to the fire. I had seen myself in the glass earlier - my already gaunt complexion had transformed to a rather famished look with dark rings under my eyes. It had scared even me.
Holmes exhaled audibly. ‘Why the deuce did you not call me earlier?’
‘Because I know how to treat cholera and you don’t?’ I offered as an explanation.
He opened his mouth to retort, mumbled something like ‘pigheadedness’ and then dropped the issue.
‘And how can I be of service today?’ he ask
ed sarcastically.
I frowned and was about to give him the wire when I noticed the state of his hands.
‘How long have you been picking oakum now?’ I asked. He didn’t answer.
I fetched a pair of forceps from my doctor’s bag.
‘Sit down, please.’ I motioned to the armchair and sat next to him on the armrest. Awkwardly, I took his hands into mine and started extracting oakum shrapnels from his skin.
‘How odd,' I said quietly, ‘no one notices that your hands are not used to hard work, that the workhouse’s stench can not cover the smell of Muscovy soap and tobacco, that you have a decent haircut, that your ears are clean, that you shaved with a sharp blade, that...’
‘It never stops to surprise, does it?’ said he while I pulled a particularly thick splinter from underneath his thumbnail. He didn’t even flinch.
‘It never surprises me that people can’t see me,’ I answered and saw his expression flickering from quizzical to nonplussed before he put his mask back on.
I was done with the splinter extraction and let go of his hands.
‘Bowden sent me a telegram,’ I said with a thin voice. ‘He will call tonight.’
I got up again and rummaged in a drawer until I had found a small jar with a thick yellow paste in it. Silently, I worked it into his hands and he started smelling like a sheep.
‘Lanolin,’ I informed him, ‘will help to heal the skin quickly and has antibacterial qualities.’ I released him then and looked into his face. ‘I’m not ready for Bowden, I can barely think.’ I didn’t mention that I was about to panic, but I guess that didn’t escape his notice.
The Devil's Grin - A Crime Novel featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes (Kronberg Crimes) Page 13
