The Devil's Grin - a Crime Novel Featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes

by Annelie Wendeberg

  It was late when I finally left the hospital grounds. Three months of hard work with close to no sleep were taking their toll - my head was aching badly and I felt sick to the bone.

  My way home seemed endless today and several times I almost lost my orientation. Eventually I made it into the small chamber at Bow Street. Lying flat on my stomach I rested my head on the cold floor and fought the urge to puke. After a while I felt a little better and got up to replace my trousers with a dress to head home.

  As I slowly walked down Bow Street again, trying to avoid puddles of half melted snow and mud, I spotted a group of teenagers. They were new to me. The streets were almost empty now and not a familiar face was in sight. The boys watched me approaching and I crossed the street to put some distance between us. My hair was standing on end when I noticed them following me.

  At the corner of Endell and Wilson I started panicking. I could see no one on the street except my pursuers. And that was the moment they chose to start running. Memories of the rape pushed themselves into my pelvis and I almost fainted. That annoyed and shocked me enough to wake me from the victim’s stupor. I started running as fast as I could, trying to picture a forest around me, to make me feel safer or more self-assured. The icy rain drove needles into my face and my feet slammed through ankle-deep puddles.

  I noticed the distance growing smaller and the despair was cutting my breath short. After three blocks the boys had caught up and threw me onto the dirt road. For a second I thought how ironic it would be to drown in a puddle somewhere in London after having crossed the vast ocean twice.

  Something hit me on the back of my head and the world started squealing silently. The boy’s shouts were dull throbs and the night turned from a dark grey into screaming red and orange. I could see only flashes of the things happening around me. Someone punched my face and abdomen, but the pain came with delay and felt oddly harmless. I felt the tugging on my clothes and shoes but it didn’t matter much to me.

  Then I heard the muffled screaming of a tortured steam engine and saw a familiar face - a bear of a man with flaming orange hair sent the boys flying. Curiously, I got the feeling that the street and I were melting together into a glutinous and sore mass with the biting cold holding us together like a badly stitched seam. Then I flew, too. It took me a while to realise someone had picked me up and carried me away. It was Garret.

  ~~~

  I saw his lips moving, his face was flushed and anxious. I couldn’t hear what he was saying. My vision was limited and I had the feeling of looking through a narrow tunnel. I meant to speak, but couldn’t hear myself making a sound.

  Garret brought me to a place which was unfamiliar to me. He laid me down and my rib cage hurt as he did so. Gradually, my senses returned. I noticed the cold wet cloth wiping my face. The back of my head was throbbing badly. I managed to get my right hand up there and pain shot through my chest. I touched the raw mess just above my neck, my fingers pushed and probed but no bones seemed to shift - a fracture of the skull wasn’t likely. The knowledge relieved me greatly until I noticed that my hand was covered in blood.

  ‘Garret?’ I mumbled, ‘my head? Just look, no touching.’

  He turned me gently onto my side. I heard him breathing and it took a long minute before he turned me back again. His face was a mask.

  ‘Ya need a surgeon,’ he stated.

  ‘Don’ know one.’

  ‘Don’ ya act lika a maggot Anna or I’ll eat yer head off!’ he barked at me and I flinched. Dimly I remembered that Garret always got angry when he felt helpless. ‘Yer a nurse, ya ‘ave colleagues,’ he added apologetically.

  I could not think and could not come up with an excuse either.

  ‘Will fix it myself, jus’ let me sleep,’ I mumbled.

  My bones and my head felt so heavy, I started wondering why the bed frame would not give in. Garret kept talking to me, but I did not hear much of it. But then an idea crept into my brain. ‘Watson! Dr John Watson, Garret, get John Watson, Baker Street, 221B.’

  Garret nodded and disappeared from view.

  Deep sleep carried me away.

  ~~~

  Someone touched the raw spot on the back of my head and I woke up from the pain that followed suit. It felt as if part of my brain was being extracted.

  ‘You have a serious concussion and at least two broken ribs. I’m not sure about further internal damage, but your head wound needs several stitches.’

  That sounded like Watson. I forced my eyes open and saw three men peering down at me: Garret, Watson, and Holmes.

  ‘Go away,’ I mumbled. Great tiredness was tugging on my eyelids and all I wanted was peace.

  Someone turned me on my side again and started fingering my head. I desperately hoped that Watson knew what he was doing. A hand holding a cup filled with a milky white liquid appeared in front of my face – opium.

  ‘No!’ I squeezed out of my dry mouth and pushed it away. Only few things could scare me as much as loosing control over a chemical substance. I noticed the bristly hair on his thick fingers as Watson hesitated. Someone muttered unintelligible words and the hand disappeared.

  After a moment, I heard the snip-snip of scissors – my hair was cut off around the wound. Then the clucking sound of liquid pouring out a small bottle followed by a sharp pain told me that Watson disinfected the back of my head.

  Then it felt as if he pulled my scalp off my head as he joined the loose flaps of skin and stitched me up again. Desperate not to cry out, I grabbed a hand that was the closest, squeezed it with as much force as I could muster and pushed it hard against my forehead.

  After a too long time of sewing, Watson wrapped my head in bandages.

  ‘I’ll come back tomorrow,’ he told me.

  ‘Hmm…’ I answered, noticing a slender hand slipping out of mine.

  ~~~

  Two days later I stood in front of the small glass that hung on the wall of Garret’s room. It had taken me the best part of yesterday to remember I had been here many times before. I was utterly shaken and worried about possible brain injuries and after-effects.

  In my other hand I held a glass shard and used it to examine the back of my head. The bald patch there was as ugly as a scorched forest. The black thread Watson had sewn into my scalp stuck out of the bruised skin. It looked as if someone had pulled a barbed wire fence through a war zone.

  I got a pair of scissors and started cutting the dishevelled fringes, but soon noticed that this alone wouldn’t do. So I snipped all my black curls off and was left with something that resembled more the hair cut of a lice infested child than that of a somewhat orderly adult. Feeling tired, extremely ugly, and unwomanly I dropped my tools into the wash basin.

  Heavy footsteps announced Garret’s return just before he knocked on the door.

  ‘For Christ’s sake Garret, will you come in? This is your room.’

  He rumbled through the door, slammed it shut, and almost slithered as he came to a halt, his mouth hanging open.

  ‘I know,’ I said, and turned away.

  He came closer and wrapped his big arms around my narrow chest.

  ‘Anna,’ he whispered with an intensity that made my skin bumpy. I just stood there with my arms hanging limply down my side, trying to swallow that dry clump of despair that wouldn’t go down. Garret turned me around and pressed his face into the stubble on my head and told me that I was beautiful. Wrapped up in that bear of a man, who had always been honest with me – but whom I never told who I really was - I started hating myself with all my might. For a long moment he just held me tight, then pushed himself away a little to caress my face with his rough hands and fit his mouth onto my beaten up lips.

  Chapter Twelve

  I went back to my own quarters the same day. The moment I closed the door behind me, the realisation hit that I had jeopardised my own future.

  For three days I had been sick in bed. Garrets bed, to be precise. Colleagues may have wanted to contact me, to wish me a qui
ck recovery, or to enquire about my return to Guy’s. To make matters worse, I was a celebrity now, or close to. I had made a grave mistake by giving 24 Bow Street as my official address. If anyone would have tried to visit, they would have been puzzled to find my tiny dressing chamber above the cobbler’s.

  I lay down on my bed to rest a few minutes and after a while I knew my priorities for today: finding an apartment and going to the barber. A new apartment for my life as Dr Anton Kronberg, criminal bacteriologist, may be necessary soon anyway.

  I walked to Bow Street and had to rest there for a while before changing into Anton. A barber wasn’t far from there and it felt odd watching him work. With my hair cropped so short, I looked like a man no matter how I would dress. In a way it was advantageous. But it still felt like giving up part of my female identity and that hurt.

  After spending a good part of the day reading advertisements in papers and driving several cabs through half of London, I finally found a small place in Tottenham Court Road. It was in walking distance to my dressing chamber, which might be advantageous in case I hastily needed a hiding place.

  In the evening I sent a wire to Guy’s announcing my return to work the following day. It was probably too early if I would ask my head, but it could also be rather urgent if I wanted to avoid exposure.

  The prospect of a vaccine against tetanus had spread like a fire, thanks to several papers that had reported on my work, using various mixtures of truth and codswallop. Yet, news was spread and I should expect a visitor any day soon - someone who wanted me to provide deadly bacteria for experiments on humans. The thought made my skin crawl.

  ~~~

  Only two days later that visitor arrived at Guy’s.

  ‘Dr Kronberg?’ he said, approaching me with an outstretched hand, but after seeing my black eye he took two steps back again. ‘Why! What happened to you?’

  ‘A group of boys mugged me, not worth mentioning,’ I waved my hand.

  ‘Outrageous! These thugs get bolder every day! But, oh! My apologies! I am Dr Gregory Stark, Cambridge Medical School.’ He snatched my hand with both of his and shook it heartily. ‘We heard about your isolation of tetanus germs and I wanted to congratulate you personally!’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Stark. You honour me greatly with your visit.’ A strange feeling spread in my stomach - I had heard his name before; he was an anatomist if I remembered correctly.

  ‘I was in the area; I visited an old friend of mine - Professor Rowlands. He told me where to find you. I fancy myself as a hobby bacteriologist, because the study of anatomy alone does not provide much excitement and surprises these days.’ He chuckled lightly.

  The man had nerves saying things like that, considering Cambridge’s history in body trafficking, I thought. And only a second later, my brain gave an almost audible click and I took a very close look at Stark. He and I were almost standing at eye level, but his circumference was roughly three times mine. He was a little obese, but seemed agile, and was maybe forty-five years of age. His hair had a dark blond or brown colour, it was difficult to define. As was his character. He made an effort to appear warm-hearted. His handshake using both his hands was somewhat colliding with his calculating look. He smiled a lot, but it seemed to be the grin of an angler fish - always on display with a lot of teeth and a bait-like something hanging just in front of the death trap.

  My brain switched into battle mode. ‘Ah, my dear Dr Stark, I know exactly what you mean. I chose my field of research mostly because I found that there are so many discoveries awaiting us.’

  He made big watery eyes and I continued: ‘Imagine how far bacteriological research advanced with the invention of good light microscopes! It is our tools that limit us today and if we could only develop better tests and better methods for investigating germs - imagine what we could accomplish!’

  I poured all my passion for medicine into these words and saw Stark catching fire. ‘Indeed, Dr Kronberg, I feel exactly the same. And there are so few of us that still want to improve our modern methods; so few that see our limitations, the potential, and the solutions to so many problems of mankind just outside our arm’s reach!’ He stretched his arm to snatch at something imaginary and looked very happy to have met me.

  I nodded excitedly and he grabbed my shoulder rather too hard and I started to wonder whether he wanted to dislodge the joint.

  ‘I can see we are made of the same material my friend, if I may call you that?’ he said with his warm angler fish smile.

  I nodded and smiled back at him, trying not to think of my aching shoulder. The force of his grip made my broken ribs rattle a little. Or so it felt.

  ‘I hope we can discuss our research and our visions one day?’ he asked and I smiled and nodded more, now hoping desperately he would take that paw off me.

  And he did, just before he bade me farewell. He was about to leave my lab when he came to a sudden stop. It looked like he had practised this move.

  ‘Dr Kronberg, as I come to think of it now, I can just as well ask you. I am developing a tetanus vaccine together with a few colleagues in Cambridge and London and I was wondering whether you would like to collaborate with us? Your pure cultures could bring a swift success to our research project, I believe.’

  My stomach made a lurch. I faked a little surprise and said, smiling: ‘I am flattered Dr Stark. Thank you for your invitation! Of course I would like to work with you. I never heard of a project like that though? Since when are you working on the vaccine?’

  ‘Ah, well, only a few months now.’ He sounded evasive. ‘You couldn’t have heard about it as we are financing ourselves mostly through private sources. We did not get governmental funding, but you know these problems.’

  I nodded in agreement.

  ‘Good then!’ He said while approaching me again and giving me a clap on my sore shoulder. ‘I will have to leave now; I have other business to attend to here in London. May I send you a telegram to invite you to Cambridge some time soon?’

  ‘I would be delighted, Dr Stark!’

  Now the sick feeling spread freely though my chest. I had to talk to Holmes today, I thought while rubbing my aching shoulder.

  ~~~

  Two hours before leaving Guy’s I prepared a cryptic wire for Holmes: ‘Dare to dance with a Saxon? Eight o’clock, Wilson & Bow. Bring your disguise. AK. PS: Got a name for you.’

  Once at home I quickly ate a sandwich, grabbed the three loaves of bread and two bottles of brandy I had gotten for tonight, and went to one of the neighbouring houses. We were to have a party. Although I wouldn’t be able to dance yet, I could still enjoy the music and the company for a little while.

  A small crowd had already gathered on the ground floor of an old warehouse and everyone had brought a little food and drink. The Irish were sitting on wooden boxes behind a makeshift table. There I placed the bread and the brandy, noting that I may come back for a small gulp.

  ‘Sure,’ they said in unison, all wearing a wide grin, before chucking down each a large glass of their newly won refreshments. Then, they started tooting and scratching a little on their two fiddles, the one accordion, and the tin whistle. Grinning, I recalled an Irish proverb ‘What butter and whiskey won’t cure, there is no cure for’ and wondered whether I should try that as a new treatment for my patients. Then I remembered that I may not have any patients at all if I got to work for Stark and his colleagues. I would have test subjects instead, I thought with a shudder.

  About fifty people were assembled. It was still very cold but the fire in the centre of the large hall and the dancing would soon warm up the place. The music started abruptly and everyone was on his or her feet, dancing, clapping, laughing, and singing. I got the feeling of standing on an active volcano. Despite my sore head and rib cage, I enjoyed myself. Then I spotted Garret; he stood in a corner and observed me before giving himself a push forward.

  ‘Anna,’ was all he said. He looked rather serious today and I wondered what the matter was with him.
>
  ‘Garret,’ I answered, smiling warmly.

  ‘What ‘bout a dance?’

  ‘I can’t,’ I said rolling my eyes and regretting it instantly as my head started spinning.

  ‘No bother, jus’ wanted ter talk to ya. Besides, we can dance slowly.’ He led me outside, took my hand into his and placed the other on my waist. Then we danced oddly slow to the fast Irish folk music that seeped through the warehouse walls.

  ‘So I was thinkin’ tha’… tha’…’ He stopped there, stared down at his boots, then squared his shoulders and spoke. ‘Ya told me ter never ask ya, but… I thought screw it. So… Would you be my wife, Anna?’

  That punched all air out of my lungs.

  I pushed myself from him and quietly answered: ‘No.’

  ‘Because I’m a feckin’ hobbler?’

  ‘I have always known you as a thief, Garret. And yes, this would probably hold me back if I’d ever thought of marrying you. But there are things in my past and present life that make it impossible for me to be someone’s wife.’

  ‘Right, sure. Ya jus’ want ter fuck,’ he said coldly.

  For a moment I felt like slapping his face, but then took his hands into mine and said softly: ‘You have saved my life and you are my best friend. I am so very sorry, Garret. I do love you, too, but not how a wife should love her husband.’

  ‘So that’s it? Yer never goin’ ter tell me who you are? Why you have that thing in your doctor’s bag?’

  I grew very hot suddenly. ‘Thing?’

  ‘Ya have a cock on straps in your doctor’s bag, Anna. I wonder why ya have a doctor’s bag at all. Yer are a nurse, or that’s what ya told everyone. What are ya doing all day long, Anna?’ He had taken two steps back, extracting his hands from mine. The distance between us had grown so much now, it felt as if we’d never be able overcome it.