I watched the coiling and uncoiling, the swimming of thoughts, the forming and unforming of theory until I fell asleep.
Soft rustling woke me. I forced my eyes to not snap open and my breath to flow regularly. I inched my hand under the pillow, sighing as though I dreamed. The revolver was warm. My thumb found the hammer, my index finger the trigger. I had practiced with my left hand, but never used the weapon loaded, nor had I ever fired it. This would be my first time.
Prickling raced up my arm when I pulled back the hammer. The pillow muffled the clicks. My ears were pricked for the source of the low sound, but all was quiet now. Where had the noise come from? Straight ahead and a little towards the wall, perhaps? I opened my eyes, swung out my arm, and pointed the gun towards the armchair.
A slender silhouette sat folded there, knees up against his chest, arms wrapped around shins. In the dark of the night, the glint of his eyes was barely visible.
‘Hello,’ I whispered, trying to calm my frantic heart.
‘I had expected a certain degree of irritation,’ he said, pointing towards the gun. ‘Although not that much.’
I uncocked the revolver and placed it on the nightstand. When he walked up to me, I pulled my injured arm under the blanket.
He struck a match. Golden light spread as the wick caught fire. Frowning, he lifted a corner of my blanket and extracted my right hand from its hiding place. He pulled it closer, unwrapped the gauze, and examined the stump.
‘He intended to take the middle finger as well?’ he asked.
‘When he hacked off the index finger, the middle finger was in the way.’ Not wanting to upset him, I tried to speak as detached as I could. ‘He cut it three or four times, but damaged only skin and muscles.’
To prove my point, I wiggled my fingers, the middle finger following my orders reluctantly. My ghost finger wiggled, too, or so it felt.
His lips brushed over the scar; warm breath followed. A soft caress of gauze wrapped around my hand before he fastened it. He took my other hand and ran a fingertip over the thin layer of callus on my knuckles. One eyebrow shot up.
‘I know how little sense it makes to even attempt punching him,’ I explained. ‘But I’m unwilling to play helpless.’
I noticed how tired and worn he appeared. Dark shadows under his eyes, sallow cheeks with a two-day stubble. His jaws were working; I placed my palm there. He pressed the offered hand against his forehead and sighed, ‘Forgive me.’
‘There is nothing to forgive.’
‘Well, theoretically there isn’t,’ he muttered. A gruff noise. ‘It’s impossible to keep you safe at all times, illogical even; attempting it would cause more damage than good. Why does it bother me at all that I wasn’t there to protect you? Yet again! Apparently, I don’t even see it as a necessity to teach you how to use a revolver or how to land an effective punch. Look at you.’ His head snapped up, his hand waved at me, up and down. A nervous and angry movement. ‘You are a product of your sex. Your body invites attacks. Female, small, slender. With child, even! Everything screams weakness.’
‘Why thank you.’
He froze. ‘I’m apologising. It would be appropriate to either accept or reject the apology. Don’t try to make me believe there’s nothing to ask forgiveness for. I’m not that stupid.’
With my palm resting on his cheek, I said, ‘Apology accepted. But the truth is that it’s I who must apologise. I should never have opened that door, never expected Moran to be too ill or too weak to seek revenge.’
A single nod. He took my hand and buried his face in my palm, then pulled back.
I trembled.
‘I have to occupy your armchair. It was impossible to book a room at this time of night.’ He rose to his feet.
‘You can sleep in my bed. I’ll work on my notes.’
He ignored my offer and rolled up on the too-small resting place. I rose and approached him.
‘I’m not discussing the issue,’ he muttered, eyes closed already and arms wrapped around his chest.
‘Me neither.’ I snatched the blanket from my bed and covered him and the armchair, then pulled on a dressing gown and busied myself with Moran’s journals.
A moment later, he issued a soft grunt and a thank you, then relocated to my bed. His feet began to twitch at once.
— twenty-two —
The first light of the day trickled through the curtains. I rubbed my tired eyes and found myself in bed without the slightest idea how I had got there. My room was empty. I rose and dressed quickly, then tried to find Sherlock.
‘Could you locate Moran?’ I asked when I met him in the hall, eating breakfast in a far corner, mutton chops and thick glasses concealing his identity.
His face darkened. ‘I wish I could have taken a horsewhip to that man.’ His voice sounded like the scraping of a pipe cleaner when shoved through old and encrusted innards of a pipe. The tiny hairs in my neck rose.
He placed the butter knife aside with consideration. Perhaps because he was fighting the urge to stab someone. ‘I followed him to the continent, lost him, then found a trail that lead me to Lions. He wasn’t there, and I couldn’t find any information on his whereabout. He’s wanted in London. My brother informed the Sûreté — the French Security Police. No results as of yet. But at least I know where Moran and Parker can be found in three years’ time.’ A sideways glance at me.
The hall was empty save for us and the waiter, who drifted between reception, kitchen, and our table. We kept our voices low.
‘He changed his plans,’ I said. ‘Last time I saw him, he told me he would come and meet me in October.’ Moran wouldn’t only take the child, he would also take care of me. It was a logical consequence; hence, not worth mentioning.
Sherlock straightened up, the muffin in his hand forgotten. ‘Does he know when the child will be born?’
‘All James could have provided was an educated guess. Moran might expect me to give birth in September or October.’ I dropped my gaze to my plate. ‘I’m not ready. I doubt I ever will be. Everyone,’ I waved at my surroundings, ‘seems to believe that my sex and the fact that I am with child should turn me into a happy round thing. But of course it doesn’t! How can I ever forget what James and I did to each other, and that this child is the product of all this violence?’
Breakfast was placed in front of me. We waited until the servant was out of earshot.
‘Isn’t forgetting the least favourable solution?’ A murmur, as soft and heavy as expensive silk.
‘I came to know a very dark side of me.’ I stabbed at my scrambled eggs. The knife screeched across the plate. ‘One that commits murder, that manipulates and twists the minds and hearts of others. What makes me sick is that it’s not my violent side which repels me the most, but the weakness my fear of it brings. I’m insecure as to what else I’m capable of. I’m the knife that used to cut apples to neat little quarters and now wonders when it will slice through a throat again. I would very much like to forget the taste of blood.’
‘We all are capable of murder,’ he said. ‘It’s essential to acknowledge that. We invented morals to disguise our violent nature. We allow men to beat their wives, we allow children to die in workhouses or to be locked away in asylums. All the while, we care only about how well dressed we are and what the neighbours might think. We are beasts of prey who work very hard on looking pretty.
‘To be able to see these things for what they are is a curse and a blessing. I wouldn’t want to lose my ability to observe only to lessen the hurt. And you wouldn’t either.’
Light grey eyes settled on mine, sending a jolt up my neck.
I dropped my gaze. ‘We’ll set a trap. I’ll pretend to be in early labour once we know Moran is close. But we need to let him know where we are without raising his suspicion.’
From the corner of my vision, I saw him tipping his head in acknowledgement.
‘September would be best, I believe. It gives me a month’s rest before the child is born.
I need to buy clothes, and…’ I exhaled a huff. I felt as though my time had long run out. ‘Can you get help from the local police, or do we have to arrest Moran and Parker by ourselves?’
‘We’ll need the police as witnesses.’
I nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Half your handwriting is unreadable.’ I let a sheet of paper flutter back to the floor. We worked in my room, notes littering rug and tablecloth. Sherlock sat cross-legged amid the mess, saucer and teacup in his hand.
‘I’d like to talk to Hooks and Whitman,’ I added.
‘Ah,’ he said, clinking china upon china. ‘Unfortunately, two days after Whitman had given us his account and was released from Newgate prison, he was run over by a horse carriage. Very unfortunate. He died on the spot. It was supposed to look like an accident, but the pivots had been meddled with.’
‘Moran and Parker did this?’
‘Most likely. They had a strong motive and the opportunity. Whitman was killed late at night; the next morning, they attacked you and immediately left for the continent.’
‘Mycroft hadn’t mentioned it.’
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. ‘Did he not?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry about the boy.’
He didn’t reply.
‘What about Hooks?’ I asked.
‘Still in Newgate. He will be less inclined to talk, given the sudden death of his companion.’
‘And von Herder? Or Dr Walsh?’
‘Von Herder is a weapon maker. He had little to do with Moriarty’s business, and will most likely have no information for us whatsoever. He merely designed tools, so to speak. Dr Walsh, however, might wish to talk.’
‘This here,’ I tapped my finger at the cryptic squiggles on one of Moran’s letters. ‘Does it mean Diffusive… Rinssance?’
He took it from my outstretched hand, held the paper close to his nose, narrowed his eyes, and mumbled, ‘Defensive Reinsurance Treaty.’ He traced his finger along the lines, then tapped on a specific place. ‘Between Russia and Germany?’
‘Yes, of course!’ I slapped my forehead and told him about Kinchin. ‘If we can believe Kinchin’s source — and I must add that the information wasn’t corroborated — the Defensive Reinsurance Treaty was sealed between Germany and Russia and was then left to expire. The Kaiser seems to believe that occasionally smoking a cigar with the Tsar is sufficient for peacekeeping.’ I wondered how Moran came to know about this secret agreement.
‘Hum…’ said Sherlock, scratching his temple.
‘I know. I find it hard to determine how much of what Kinchin said is a lie, how much is the truth as he perceives it, and how much of that had been observed and reported correctly.’ I had yet to tell him the most important message the man had given me.
‘My brother seems to trust him, so we can as well.’ He glanced up at me. ‘To a certain degree. Blind trust has never proven healthy. What else can you tell me about the good Mr Kinchin?’
And so I invited him into the small apartment of the old man. ‘The house itself wasn’t well tended to. Kinchin’s door looked as though no one lived behind it. A layer of dirt was brushed up against the door; a doormat was lacking. He doesn’t like guests, or people in general. He expected me; your brother had sent him a message. He is an elderly gentleman, sixty-five or possibly seventy years of age. His rooms are bare. Again, almost as though no one lived there permanently. But the place smelled of him. Old man odour, slightly sour and damp. His need to keep things in order borders on extreme. Everything was oriented parallel or perpendicular. The surfaces he used every day were shiny — the desk, the coffee table. Others had the finest trace of dust — the mantelpiece, for example. Both armchairs appeared well-used; he must have guests on a regular basis despite his solitary disposition. I cannot imagine him buying secondhand furniture. What he had looked expensive but well used. I couldn’t see where he cooked.’
Sherlock opened his half-closed eyes.
‘He made tea somewhere, but I didn’t have a chance to look into rooms other than his sitting room and the corridor. I believe he has the money to employ a housekeeper and a maid, but he prefers to live alone. Considering his occupation — or, should I say, hobby — it’s only natural to control information leaks as well as he possibly can. And an additional set of ears would surely pick up more than would be tolerable.’
‘It makes no sense,’ he interjected. ‘He needs water to make tea and to wash — he has to have someone cleaning and ironing his clothes. You said the house isn’t in the best shape, which indicates that it doesn’t have water pipes and no connection to a sewer system. Or did you see any on the outside walls?’ I shook my head. ‘So where does it go? Where does he discard spoiled food? If dirt from the stairwell is brushed up against his door, he might as well be living in an entirely different place.’
I grinned. ‘Circular scratch marks on the floorboards just outside his door.’
‘Buckets.’
‘Yes. Someone, perhaps the landlady, delivers his water and picks up his chamberpot contents every day. In the hallway, I saw a set of seven sets of shirts and trousers, of which three were untouched, pressed, and starched. All of them identical. Delivered once a week, it appears.’
Sherlock slapped his knee. ‘He doesn’t waste time nor useless thought. A most unusual man. I regret I haven’t met him.’
‘He said he is a collector of information that is hard to come by. I believe him. He trades and catalogues information to put it in order. Much like he keeps meticulous order in his rooms. He uses existing information that might seem irrelevant when taken out of context; he puts it in context and thus creates new knowledge.’ My child kicked hard. I winced and rubbed the skin that stretched over the bulge, feeling how he or she moved about in the enclosure, probably complaining about the space becoming more and more constricted. We both grow, little one.
‘Or discovers hidden knowledge,’ he said.
‘Yes. He told me he was expecting the development of bacterial weapons.’
‘Hum… Did you tell him details about your work?’
‘Of course not. He wouldn’t be able to cook his own anthrax poison with the little information I gave him. But he certainly is intelligent enough to find all information he needs to do so.’ My words reminded me of something very heavy. ‘Sherlock. It is quite possible that it was I who gave James the idea of using deadly germs for warfare.’
He placed the paper on the floor and gazed up at me. The little cogwheels behind his eyes visibly rattled. After a moment, he lowered his head. ‘Let us get back to that later. I’m under the impression you haven’t yet told me everything Mr Kinchin said.’
I tipped the contents of my teacup into my mouth, swallowed, and said, ‘Indeed. The most important part I have yet to tell you. Come. Let’s go for a walk. I can think better with fresh air in my nose.’
We strolled along the street Unter den Linden towards the Brandenburg Gate. The lime trees were in full bloom. Sunlight filtered through golden blossoms and hungry bees buzzed among them. The summer air vibrated. My mouth watered at the thought of fresh honey dripping from a warm slice of bread.
‘Kinchin told me that in 1885, Moran killed a Russian spy in London. The spy went by the name of Pjotr, or Peter, as he was called in England. He used Smith as his family name. He spoke English and French fluently; his accent was almost unnoticeable. The man moved in upper circles. Rich bankers and lower ranking governmental officials were among his friends. He played cards in clubs and drank copious amounts of vodka. On several occasions, he talked about the Russian railway. One of his friends grew suspicious, because every time anyone blurted out Britain’s position towards the Central-Asian Railway and her plans to counter this Russian threat of the British-Indian colonies, Peter suddenly appeared sober. Whether the man noticed the new appreciation of his company or not, Kinchin couldn’t tell. But one day, an order was given to arrest him for treason. According to Kinchin, the Special Branch as well as the milit
ary were involved in it. He believes this is how Colonel Moran came to know about Pjotr. Kinchin knew that Moran was Moriarty’s man and he seemed to enjoy the fact that Moran is hunting me. Interesting…’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ I flicked his question aside. I had referred to James as Moriarty. It hadn’t escaped Sherlock’s notice, either.
‘Anyway,’ I continued. ‘From here the details become sketchy. Pjotr disappeared just before the Yard could arrest him. The last time he was seen was in an opium den, arguing with a man who had been described as large, moustached, and highly authoritarian. Pjotr was shouting something about China, her abundant opium fields, and that all that could only be claimed by the Russians. Very clumsy. Two days later, his body was found floating in the river. His throat was conveniently slashed wide open. According to the mortician, the man had bled out while he was drowning. What Moran might have learned from Pjotr before he killed him isn’t known.’
My roaring stomach interrupted me.
‘Lunch?’ he asked.
I laughed. ‘Yes, I’m starving. As usual.’
We went to a nearby inn. While I ate, Sherlock pushed the potatoes about on his plate, his face a mask of deep concentration.
‘I don’t see a connection. Russian railways don’t reach to China,’ I noted.
‘Hum,’ he answered.
He didn’t say much for the remainder of the day while we arranged and rearranged notes in my room. Fuelled by tea and driven by curiosity, we worked until the red sun peeked straight through the windows. Curtains billowed. The hot summer air cooled a fraction.
‘This won’t do!’ he announced, took his hat, and was out the door in a heartbeat.
I stared at the closed door and back at Moran’s journals. Petersburg. Eighty pounds sterling spent in the first week, thirty in the second week, one hundred twenty in the third. Horrendous amounts of money.
The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) Page 16
