The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Breastmilk.’

  He burst out laughing; one short eruption accompanied by a flying piece of hare. We watched it land in the fire and transform into a fleck of coal. ‘I do not know a single grown man who would let a woman pour mother’s milk into his eyes,’ he said.

  ‘The middle and upper classes live a much more restricted life than us poor sods,’ I supplied. ‘Besides, it’s not poured. It’s squirted.’

  Another piece of hare shot into the fire.

  The animal was stripped to the bone and for the first time in four days, our stomachs were full to the brim. I touched the cup with the chickweed infusion. It was lukewarm and ready to use.

  ‘You’d better lie down on the log. I’ll wash your eyes with this.’

  Holmes did as asked and I kneeled down next to him, my skirt soaking rain off the grass.

  ‘Eyes are extremely temperature-sensitive,’ I cautioned. ‘Tell me how this feels.’ I spilled some liquid on his cheek.

  ‘Good.’

  With my one hand holding his lids apart, I poured the infusion into the one eye, then the other, until the cup was empty. I wiped his face with my palms, flicking the green droplets out of the four-day stubble. ‘We’ll have to repeat this.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, avoiding my gaze.

  It hadn’t rained the entire day and — according to Holmes — we made good headway. Good headway to where, precisely, I didn’t ask. I could see the plans brewing in his head, his half-here, half-there expression, his working jaws. Once in a while, my lack of interest surprised me, but the void of energy and willpower muffled all thoughts. The days consisted of rising in the morning, walking from A to B, and going to sleep to be woken by terror. The why’s and when’s and how-far’s no longer mattered to me.

  Twice, we spotted a farm and gave it a wide berth. While passing a shepherd and his dogs, Holmes spoke in a thick accent I didn’t understand. I kept my head low and greeted the man with a nod.

  When we set up the tent for the night, Holmes opened his mouth, then shut it again. He said, ‘Hum,’ narrowed his eyes, and shook his head.

  ‘You often talk to yourself when you are alone,’ I observed.

  ‘It usually helps to listen to someone with an intellect.’

  ‘You are a lonely and arrogant man.’

  He froze for a moment, then ignored me and settled down for his first watch.

  Surprised at myself, I wondered where that acidic remark had come from. It might have been the truth, but thinking it and slapping it in his face were two very different things. After barely a week, we were already annoying one another.

  I wrapped the blanket around me and asked, ‘What would you do if I weren’t here?’

  ‘Don’t waste your time with what ifs, Anna.’

  ‘Would you hunt Moran? Or would you first go back to London and see your friend Watson and your brother?’

  He was silent for a long moment, perhaps hoping I would fall asleep.

  ‘Colonel Moran escaped, and I know of two more men who eluded capture.’

  ‘What would you do if I weren’t here?’ I repeated.

  ‘Find them,’ he said.

  ‘I agree, it would be the best thing to do.’ Saying it felt like brushing a weight off my shoulders. Being so close to him hurt, and the last thing I wished was to be a deadweight. ‘We will part when we reach the next city.’

  ‘We will do no such thing.’ He turned his back to me with finality, cutting off all protest.

  ‘You are being sentimental,’ I said.

  ‘Go for a walk. Your foul mood is unbearable.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’ll climb a tree instead. Good night.’ And off I went, wondering what was wrong with me. One moment I could lie down and weep, the next I felt the urge to kick his crotch.

  Lewes Castle, Sussex Downs, 1822. (3)

  — three —

  Sunlight drew the moisture from our clothes and the tiredness from our limbs. Holmes’s eye had healed and his interest in plants that had uses other than poisoning people grew.

  With all our provisions eaten, we had to rely on what we found on our journey. During the day, we picked dandelion and chickweed leaves, chewing them while we walked. The dandelion roots were dug up to be cooked at night, together with a rabbit or pheasant either Holmes or I had shot. Now with the rain gone, he was more concerned about watchful eyes than protection from the elements. The spots he picked for the nights were in a depression, often close to a stream. A fire wouldn’t be visible from afar.

  With cold and hunger at bay, dark thoughts slammed back into my mind at full force. I longed for solitude. Perhaps when we arrived wherever he planned to go, I would disappear.

  My brain felt numb; planning how best to escape Holmes was tedious. Unable to invent anything complex, I settled upon simply turning a corner when he wasn’t paying attention. I knew this non-strategy was utterly stupid, no need to even attempt it. What I truly needed to escape from was James and his child.

  Three hours before nightfall, when the woods formed a dark and inviting line at the horizon, Holmes informed me that we were now turning south towards Littlehampton.

  The orange sun hung heavy among the trees when I set out to hunt. Holmes didn’t seem to mind the odd distribution of tasks. While he collected wood, cleaned and oiled our revolvers, and explored the surroundings for emergency hideaways, I ventured out armed with my crossbow.

  I was glad to gain some distance from him and certain he enjoyed the time of solitude just as much as I did. He appeared highly alert for the slightest change in my mood. Whether it was my physical condition or my reticence that annoyed him the most, I didn’t know.

  Pheasants were easy prey this time of the year. Mating season had tired the cocks and they settled on their sleeping branches early after sunset. If I’d had very long arms, I could have picked them off the trees like overripe pears.

  Soon I found a sleepy specimen halfway up a beech. I raised my crossbow, aimed and fired, and was back at the tent in less than an hour.

  I plucked and gutted the quarry. We waited for nightfall before lighting the small fire.

  Holmes poked at the embers and I sat down opposite him, throwing some of the bird’s yellow fat in the skillet to melt. The instant it touched the hot metal, it hissed and bubbled. Heart and liver followed, sizzling and shrinking, blood oozing from the meat and mixing with the melted fat, darkening to a deliciously crisp brown and throwing off a scent that made it hard to not reach out and grab a piece before it was done. While I busied myself with slicing meat from the bones, Holmes flipped our food in the pan.

  ‘Delicious,’ he hummed. Then, sharp eyes met mine. ‘You have been evasive long enough. It’s time for a longer conversation.’

  My chest contracted. I nodded automatically.

  ‘It’s now eight days since we left your cottage. I very much doubt that Moran is closing in on us already. But I’m certain he will try everything in his powers to do so. The more information you provide, the more reliable my calculations on his plans and whereabouts will be.’

  ‘Naturally,’ I answered.

  ‘Excellent. Now, what precisely happened to you and Mycroft after Watson and I departed from Dieppe?’

  That trustworthy brain machine of mine hauled in memories as demanded. ‘Nothing remarkable happened in the train to Leipzig or on the ride to my father’s home. I instructed the driver to drop us off in the woods, about half a mile from the house. The path led uphill, rather steep, and Mycroft fell behind. I had no patience to wait for him, so I ran ahead to find my father.’

  Holmes listened with eyes half-shut, lazily poking at the frying meat.

  ‘The garden looked as though he had not returned yet,’ I continued. ‘The house was empty, the curtains drawn. Once inside, I noticed the lack of dust. The room smelled clean and fresh. There were two possibilities. One, that he had asked someone to clean for him. But that would have been highly atypical for my f
ather. The second and most likely possibility was that he had returned and left soon thereafter.’

  Holmes held out the skillet and a fork for me. ‘Thank you,’ I said and impaled a piece of liver. He selected his dinner and leaned against a tree, chewing and gazing into the void. I wondered whether he pictured himself inside the house, seeing the things I described.

  I took my time eating and collecting myself. ‘I did not notice the man until he spoke to me.’ At that, Holmes focused on my face, eyebrows at a sharp downward angle. ‘He said I could find my father in the church. He said he wouldn’t be buried in sacred soil, for he had taken his own life.’

  I swallowed. ‘I was talking to my father’s murderer. He had poisoned him and let it appear like suicide. I asked him how he was planning to kill me. He answered he’d kill me slowly, but not immediately. James had forbidden his men to harm me, he said. I would be allowed to give birth to his child and three years later, they would come and find me. Or us.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ he mumbled, his gaze directed back at the tree tops.

  ‘The moment the man left, he ran into Mycroft. They fought, and Mycroft shot him. But there is more. He also said that James had set this trap: the plan was to separate you and me, and with that weaken us. What he did not include in his calculations, though, was that neither of us was alone. You had Watson, and I had your brother.’

  Holmes merely nodded. ‘What poison had been used to kill your father?’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘You didn’t examine him?’ A sharp shot with both tongue and gaze.

  I grew cold and let the drop of temperature reflect in my voice. ‘I went to see my father. I touched his skin, examined his eyes, sniffed his face, licked his lips even, but nothing indicated what poison had been used. Then I lay down next to him to bemoan his death and to share a little of my warmth with him. It did not matter that he had begun to smell, that he was stiff and cold as the stone floor he lay upon. It did not matter what poison had been used. All that mattered was that my father had been killed and his murderer was dead. No matter how well I examined and studied my father’s corpse, he would not come back.’

  Holmes cleared his throat. ‘I merely wished to know whether an identical mixture had been used to murder your father as the one you used to poison Moriarty. That would have indicated a much more complex scheme than I was able to divine.’

  ‘Belladonna can be excluded; his pupils weren’t dilated. An overdose of arsenic would have caused a blackening of his fingertips or discolourations in the mouth, eyes, or hands. I found none of these symptoms.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, lowering his chin and folding his hands, index fingers tapping each other. ‘We can conclude Moriarty suspected you might poison him one fine day—’

  ‘He said that he had always suspected the wine,’ I interrupted.

  ‘But apparently he did not know what poison you would use. He had not discovered the flask. Let us go back to what your father’s murderer said. That Moriarty forbade his men to harm you is quite revealing, don’t you think?’

  Knowing James, the games he had played, the layers of lies concealing one another, I wasn’t certain his actions revealed anything. I picked another piece of meat and ate while thinking of various strands of possibilities.

  ‘When James saw his blackened fingertips,’ I began, ‘he must have known what poison I had used and that the arsenic would kill him soon. He would have wanted his murderer to suffer and die. What might have made matters complex was that his murderer is also the mother of his unborn child. He had to make a compromise if he wanted it to live. That he would give me three years to raise it is odd, though. Why not have someone take it right after birth and kill me? All that’s needed is a wet nurse.’

  ‘Hum…’ said Holmes. ‘If I wished to abduct a small child, what would be the best time to do so? If I had to pay a band of ruffians, I’d make sure the child was old enough to survive a hasty and possibly long trip under harsh conditions.’

  ‘That would explain the three years,’ I answered.

  ‘And if the child is not what he wanted?’ he mused.

  ‘Why would…’ I trailed off, thoughts racing, picking up pieces and rearranging the picture. ‘Assuming he never cared about his unborn child, which would be quite plausible, the ultimatum only serves to torture me. He allows me to give birth, to love the child, and live in fear for three years, only to take it away and gift me the ultimate pain — the death of my own child.’

  ‘Precisely!’ He pointed a long finger at me. ‘We need to take precautions to cover both possibilities.’ With that, he extracted the tobacco pouch to roll himself a cigarette. I had long lost the appetite for a smoke.

  ‘How ridiculous,’ I said quietly. ‘I cannot believe he would have expected me to love his child. On the other hand…’

  ‘Yes?’ he said, his fingers pinching the tobacco snug into a piece of paper. He held up a tinder and pulled air through his cigarette until a small flame shot up its end.

  ‘I believe that James wanted this child. There were signs. He was upset when I tried to abort it. It hurt him.’

  Frowning, he stuck the cigarette between his teeth. He surely missed his pipe. The flickering gaze behind a cloud of tobacco smoke, his lips pressed together, face hardened, while everything else about him seemed to relax and tense in waves, told of his busy mind.

  A long moment later, he pressed the remains of his smoke into the grass. ‘What you need is a miscarriage,’ he finally said.

  ‘I would have needed one much earlier. But right away would be convenient, too.’

  ‘Quite obviously, that’s not what I mean.’

  ‘But that’s what I mean,’ I answered.

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the bark.

  A miscarriage… I thought of Moran possibly tracking us. What thrill that man must be having. If I had a miscarriage and he learned about it, he wouldn’t be thrown off our scent. That James had told his men to not harm me until his child had turned three wouldn’t keep Moran from hunting Holmes.

  ‘We need to see his solicitors,’ he said. ‘As James Moriarty’s widow and soon-to-be mother of his child, you have the right to a dower. And we should be able to move all of Moriarty’s assets to a trust fund for his heir-at-law, and with that, cut off all financial aid and reward to the assassins. That would certainly dampen their motivation.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to let Watson know you are alive and well?’ I asked.

  His expression flickered. Obviously, he had no wish to discuss this issue yet again. ‘Yes.’

  I frowned at him, but did not dig any further. It was his decision, and I was certain it wasn’t an easy one.

  ‘What about Mycroft?’

  ‘I sent him a telegram on my way from Meiringen to London. And I plan to contact him again soon. We’ll need his help.’ A dissecting glance later, he said, ‘You don’t believe it can be done. A feigned miscarriage.’

  ‘No.’ I inspected my hands as though they could speak for me. ‘It would require hiding my stomach from Moran and simultaneously convincing James’s solicitors that I will raise the child. A wire from James’s solicitors to his family and another one to Moran would destroy the charade in minutes.’

  ‘There is a risk, indeed. But I believe I can use it to our advantage.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Too many strands of possibilities at the moment,’ he said, picking at fragments of greenery stuck to his shoes. ‘The most essential is to make Moran believe your child died before it was born. He will inform the others of that sad fact, and once he learns that you received your dower and moved all of Moriarty’s money to a trust fund, Moran must try to convince the solicitors of the child’s death. Moran knows that without Moriarty’s money, he is nothing. We must arrange it so that no one believes him. We must destroy his reputation. But most importantly, we must track his messages in order to identify his accomplices.’

  I nodded, focussin
g on the main goal. ‘It should be fairly easy to obtain a stillborn from any hospital in London. Mycroft could bring one.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted,’ grunted Holmes sardonically.

  ‘Do you occasionally care whether people think you heartless?’ I asked.

  ‘It is a waste of time to wonder what others might be thinking. One only has to look at people. One opinion here, another one there, and rarely are they based on facts. The heart is a thing that beats and pumps blood to the brain. Quite obviously, I have both.’

  ‘I know you have both,’ I said softly.

  ‘Ah, the romantic! I must disappoint you. I avoid emotions wherever possible. They represent an unacceptable distraction. I am an intellect. The rest are bodily functions.’ He leant back to prepare another smoke.

  ‘Bollocks!’

  Cigarette smoke shot through his nostrils. Grey eyes flashed in amusement.

  ‘I can prove it,’ I said.

  ‘A challenge? Very well.’ He sat erect, anticipation in every breath.

  I rose and approached him, then kneeled in the grass next to him with my face close to his. ‘Cocaine.’

  His pupils flared wide open, as though he could already taste the drug rushing through his veins. ‘I have seen a great number of needle puncture scars on your forearms, Holmes. Your ability to use your left hand almost as well as your right impresses me. Injecting cocaine solution left-handed is quite a feat.’ I took his right wrist, unbuttoned the sleeve and pushed it up. He stiffened. Slowly, I ran my index finger across his pale skin, counting the needle punctures. He extracted his arm from my grip.

  ‘From what I could observe,’ I said, ‘I conclude that your emotional landscape is rather complex. So complex, in fact, that your mind must control it. You are a very controlled man, but I wonder what you were before you gained that control? Perhaps that was when you took cocaine so often that you scarred your forearms? These are old punctures. You seem to not need it any longer. Or should I say you do need it, but you control that need?’