The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  Gooding shared the room below mine with both cooks. Their conversations circled mostly around the coachman. The maid seemed to be secretly in love with him; the other women pitied her. Apparently, Garrow had a prominent scar across his left cheek that everyone deemed unattractive, while Gooding did not care about it. Garrow always wore his muffler to protect him from the cold weather. Hence, all I had ever seen of him was a strip of nose and eyes. He, however, seemed either utterly ignorant of Gooding’s feelings or afraid of losing his occupation if seen flirting with the maid.

  A noise brought my thoughts to a full stop. I pressed the glass harder against the wall. Someone had just entered the house. The entrance door slammed; the strong wind must have torn it from Hingston’s hand. Then I heard the clacking of heels, soon cut off. Whoever it was must have entered one of the rooms just off the main hall. Anxious to identify the guest and the reason for the visit, I listened until my ears felt hollow from the strain. Complete silence filled the house. Durham didn’t even shuffle his feet. What made him tense?

  After more than three hours, I heard movement on the ground floor. I opened my door. ‘I need to use the water closet.’ Durham gave a nod and walked stiffly around the corner.

  Moriarty’s voice echoed in the hall. The other voice I recognised with a shiver — Moran. I could not hear what was being said. Only an occasional word made it up to the second floor. Among them was Ragpicker’s — so they were discussing anthrax. We were still lacking a diseased animal with clear symptoms of an anthrax infection. One could easily isolate the wrong germ if weakened animals contracted more than one disease. The two men were silent now; possibly they had heard our footsteps.

  I went into the water closet, bolted the door, sat on the bowl, and tried to rub the chill off my skin. Moran’s hard face, icy blue eyes, his obsession with guns. I pulled the chain, opened the door, and stepped out into the corridor. It was empty.

  Why had Durham disappeared? I noticed the faint odour of tobacco as I walked back to my room. It wasn’t like what Moriarty smoked in my presence. I opened the door and was certain I had switched the lights on before leaving, but had no time to finish the thought. A hand came down on my mouth and nose, cutting all air off. Only a grunt escaped through the nonexistent gap between my lips and Moran’s coarse palm.

  I had no time to wonder what he wanted. In one swift move he curled his other arm around my waist and hoisted me into the air and onto my bed. I tried to scream, but nothing would get past his hand. Kicking did not seem to bother him. All I could do was squirm, and that seemed to increase his excitement. His knee was pressed onto my lower back. A fist in my hair pushed my face into the mattress, muffling my protests. With my breath trapped between the sheets and my mouth, lights began to flicker on the insides of my eyelids. All of a sudden, Moran stopped dead. I heard the click of a revolver being cocked and Moriarty’s snarl, ‘Control yourself!’

  Moran let go of me as though I were dirt and mumbled, ‘You should be grateful for any man showing interest.’ Then he stalked out of the room.

  My tongue probed the inside of my mouth; I had bitten my cheek. The metallic taste of blood switched my brain back on. A hand was placed on my head, then moved away again. My senses were wide open. This scene felt wrong, the undertone of lies screeching like claws across glass.

  ‘My apologies,’ Moriarty said. ‘I should have known better than to let him out of my sight.’

  I pushed myself up. He did not move. What was he waiting for?

  I got to my feet and gazed up at him. His right hand was compacted to a fist. The other clutched the revolver. The half of his face lit by the lamp in the hallway showed tension.

  ‘Well,’ I choked, ‘you can’t see him now. Maybe he is trying his luck in the next room.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, for she is mine.’

  ‘I understand. No one claimed me, so he can. You disgust me.’

  Angry, he lifted his hand, pointing the weapon at my chest. I took a step forward — a stupid, pleading reflex. He misunderstood and jerked the gun farther up. Its mouth rested between my eyes. All I could think of was how awkward it was to gaze along each side of the barrel, how relaxed his hand seemed, how quiet the room was.

  Without a word, he turned and left the room. The door was slammed shut, the bolt snapped into place, and a key turned.

  My knees had grown too soft to keep me upright for much longer. I sat down on the bed, slowly unbuttoning my dress. I closed my eyes, recounting facts, one button at a time.

  Moriarty and Moran had still been in the entrance hall when Durham and I walked to the water closet. Only two minutes later, Moran had sneaked into my room. Durham, the man who followed me like a shadow, had disappeared. I had heard no protest from the manservant. He must have been ordered to leave. Moran had caught me in my room and thrown me onto my bed, apparently to violate me. What had I heard during these short moments? Nothing. No running through the corridor, no footfall, no commotion at all. Moriarty must have been in my room, enjoying the show for a minute before stepping in and pretending to save me. Moran would not step over the limits set by Moriarty. The Colonel would obey his superior.

  If Moriarty’s aim was for me to trust him, I’d certainly do him the favour.

  I pulled my nightgown over my head. The soft cotton brushed my face and all of a sudden, I felt as though a blindfold had been lifted. Why had he not let Moran go any further than simply pressing me onto the bed? Wouldn’t the impact be much more impressive if Moriarty had saved me half-naked, half-raped, and out of my senses?

  If this was an attempt to make me sympathise with Moriarty, why was it done so hastily? Why had he been waiting in my room, risking discovery? Did he think me so blind? Or was it his intention to taint my senses with my own arrogance? If I were arrogant enough to believe I saw more than he could conceal, I would stop questioning my own observations. Doing so would certainly render me half-blind.

  How could I be so naive as to believe myself able to see behind Moriarty’s facade, analyse him, or even put my finger on his weak spots? He played with me while concealing the lie with another lie.

  Moran’s final sentence kept ringing in my ears. You should be grateful for any man showing interest.

  — day 40 —

  Goff stood behind me, hands clasped behind his back, feet on tiptoe, peeking over my shoulder. Even if we had been working together for twenty years, a woman for a superior would still shock him, I was certain.

  The petri dish in my hand contained golden-brown beef broth gelatin adorned with wrinkly white splotches — colonies of the glanders germ. I held a fine metal lancet in the blue of the Bunsen burner’s flame. As soon as it glowed bright red, I drove it into the gelatin. A hiss and the lancet was cooled down. I picked off a small piece from one of the colonies, spread it onto fresh media, then took another bit from the exact same dot and released it into a test tube with water. The white clump fell from the lance’s tip and sank to the bottom. I stoppered the tube and flicked it until the germs were homogeneously mixed with the liquid, then rose to my feet.

  Goff stepped aside, and I made for the six cages, sealed inside a glass cabinet. The mice within served as test subjects to ascertain that my pure cultures were indeed glanders germs and not contaminants. I drew the deadly liquid into a glass pipette, opened the hatch, and measured exactly two millilitres into each of the troughs. Once finished, I placed the contaminated equipment into a container filled with grain alcohol.

  ‘Can we expect the usual incubation time?’ asked Goff.

  ‘This is a fairly high dose. I believe the mice will display first symptoms much sooner, possibly within a few days instead of two weeks.’

  Bacteriology laboratory, early 1900s. (5)

  The germs had been obtained from the liver of a horse with glanders in its final stage. After testing various pure cultures on mice, I had found two that caused the typical symptoms. Now, it was only a matter of being certain, identifying glanders germs by the colour an
d shape of their colonies, and keeping them contaminant-free and alive. Meanwhile, we kept our ears open for any sheep or cattle infected with anthrax. We could then isolate bacteria from their spleens.

  Soon, my laboratory would be the most dangerous in the British Empire. One of the workbenches was lined with twenty pear-shaped glass vessels stoppered with cotton wads, waiting to be used as storage containers for large amounts of fatal bacteria. With the gaslight reflecting off them, they resembled Christmas tree decorations.

  Around the room were other, much larger flasks, all tightly sealed so as not to let the alcohol escape into air. I had explained to Goff that large amounts of grain alcohol were needed as a safety measure. If we contaminated ourselves accidentally, we could disinfect our hands with it, or even soak and burn our clothes if necessary. Although I had told him the truth, I had certainly not revealed the most interesting part.

  The maid served a light supper of beef soup and sandwiches. Moriarty and I took it in his study, next to the fireplace. His posture was stiff, his shoulders slightly drawn up, and he repeatedly rubbed his eyes and neck. I avoided looking directly into his face.

  ‘Mr Goff reported on your success with the isolation of glanders germs. Congratulations, Dr Kronberg.’ His voice was monotonous and strained.

  The isolation of glanders had been simple enough, not too great a leap for a bacteriologist. I wondered whether he still regretted the loss of his battle for the Plague, but then wiped the thought away. Surely this defeat had not brought about his foul mood. So then, what had?

  ‘Thank you,’ I answered in the same neutral tone.

  ‘The next thing I want you to do is test the germs’ storage tolerance. How long can we keep them, and how does the duration of storage influence the infection rate?’

  I had already planned on testing storage conditions. His background knowledge and how he placed the puzzle pieces of bacteriology and warfare together impressed me every time. It scared me, too. My room to manoeuvre was very limited.

  ‘I will let Goff procure more mice and an array of cages. It will be difficult, though, to study the spread of disease in such a small room.’ I thought about space, air circulation, and isolation of infected individuals. None of it made sense. The risk of transmission was too high. ‘It will not be possible,’ I said finally.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The laboratory is too small. If we want to study transmission, animals in control groups should be isolated from one another. We want to test the spreading of disease through wind, food, and water. But if the test subjects are all in one small room, sooner or later they will all be infected and we won’t know what exactly was the most efficient or the least controllable vector. Besides, if hospital staff suddenly contract anthrax, the project will be over before it begins.’ How curious that I could make it sound as though it bothered me to ruin our germ warfare project.

  He pressed his fingertips together and shut his eyes. His hunch worsened. ‘Would a warehouse be suitable?’

  ‘If it’s dry and its walls and ceiling are intact, yes. Can we guard it?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Some renovations might be necessary. We will probably need to pull up walls to separate rooms or seal doors,’ I added.

  ‘That won’t be a problem,’ he said in a strained voice as he rose to his feet. ‘To the smoking room,’ he squeezed through his teeth and walked ahead. I followed, wondering at how casual he appeared over financial issues. And then it hit me. So stupid of me! Who else would pay for research into novel warfare technologies if not the government and the military?

  How odd. Although one essential puzzle piece seemed to have been found, the whole picture had just grown so vast that I could barely see its outlines.

  Once there, Moriarty sat down on the ottoman. His hand shook slightly as he opened a tin the size of his palm, revealing a brownish cake. He took a knife and pried a piece off, struck a match and lit a lump of charcoal on a platter, occasionally blowing onto it. The brown substance stuck to the knife’s tip, was held half an inch from the red heat. I could hear it sizzling. Uncertain whether he wished me to stay or to leave, I remained and observed.

  Pungent smoke started to fill the room, and its odour felt strangely familiar. Much like the fireflies I had caught as a child.

  He used a slender pipe to blow air onto the brown lump, which I guessed to be opium. Then he sucked on the mouthpiece, blew at the drug, inhaled again. And so it went on, inhaling and blowing, until a minute or two later, he closed his eyes and leaned back, holding his breath.

  After a long moment, a thin sliver of fume exited his nostrils, curling upwards to disappear. The thought of a dragon brushed my mind.

  ‘Sit, please,’ he said softly, gesturing towards the ottoman’s end. I approached, my silk dress rustling a cautious whisper. He smiled and the change that came upon him shocked me. His expression was soft and friendly. His hand stroked his waistcoat as though this simple gesture gave him great satisfaction. Yet his mind seemed sharp and observant; he had noticed my slight hesitation.

  ‘You assume I am addicted? Well, maybe I am. Rheumatism creates the need for chemical relief.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ There it was again — the coldness in his voice that could cut through any conversation.

  ‘I doubt your physician made the correct diagnosis.’

  ‘Intriguing,’ he replied, appearing genuinely interested. ‘What is your diagnosis, Dr Kronberg?’ The lack of derisiveness in his voice confused me. I gazed at him, a little afraid of this new side of him, a little surprised and even relieved to see a part that I did not despise and fear at once.

  ‘It is not rheumatism that causes your pain, I believe. It is not aggravated by cold weather, for example. From what I was able to observe, it is brought on solely by disappointment. The instant you want something badly but cannot have it, your strong will bends your body. Your neck and shoulders clench, you hunch and develop a severe headache that causes you to be oversensitive to light and sound.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he replied and I could hear warning in his voice. ‘And very observant. How did this escape my notice?’ he mused. ‘If you were correct, it would mean there is no cure. Only alleviation.’

  I found myself smiling at him to conceal the confusion. Did he mean he should have noticed that I was observant, or that his symptoms had not been diagnosed correctly?

  ‘How could that possibly amuse you?’ His voice gradually regained the familiar coldness, but he still caressed his waistcoat slowly. How curious! Opium seemed to make him revel in his own touch. Or was it touch in general?

  ‘The fact that you are in pain should amuse me, should it not?’

  ‘One would think so. But I don’t believe you could ever leave your compassion behind. Even if it is for a man who abducts, imprisons, and blackmails you. And that empathy, I fancy, is your greatest weakness.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ I said. ‘It is my greatest strength. I might be the only person who is trying to detect a human being behind your facade.’

  He cackled and I felt my blood rise.

  ‘What a waste of your time, my dear.’

  ‘I am not your dear.’

  Silence fell. His arm shot forward and grabbed my wrist. Before he could open his mouth I replied, ‘I believe you have a problem with your spine that can be solved with physical therapy.’

  Part of me wondered why I offered this to him. Why would I try to help him at all when I wanted him to die on the spot? Was it only because of the terror he caused every time he transformed into rage itself? Or was he correct? Could I not let go of my compassion? The other, calculating part of me leaned back to enjoy the show. One step further into the lion’s den meant getting closer to the exit on the other side.

  He watched me with narrowed eyes, waiting for a response.

  ‘Did you begin hating everyone when they beat the left-handedness out of you?’ I snarled. The coldness in my voice had the desired
effect — that of a slap on the cheek. The blood vessel on his temple bulged, his eyes turned black, his hand now painfully clamping down on my wrist. But all I saw was a little boy, once defenceless and now possessing all the weapons of mankind. I turned my head away, thinking how very naive I could sometimes be.

  ‘I know that bone-setting is not a widely accepted treatment,’ I said quietly and felt his grip loosen. ‘Mostly because bone-setters are more reminiscent of butchers than surgeons. However, I still think that manipulating the vertebrae in your neck will improve your symptoms greatly.’

  He exhaled slowly and let go of me, pushed himself farther up, and with a voice straining for control he asked, ‘What drives a bacteriologist into the study of physical therapy?’

  It felt like stepping away from a cliff.

  ‘During my time in Boston, I met Dr Still. He is a physician and a surgeon with great insight into human anatomy. He invented a treatment he later coined osteopathy, which is essentially a gentle manipulation of tissues and bones to stimulate the body’s self-healing capabilities.’

  ‘But you could not have been his pupil,’ he noted, his eyes glazed over and his mind gone to some other place. A second later he returned and said, ‘Because you would have to work in pairs to practice and study. But none of the good doctor’s students had the need to masquerade as a man. Only you.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I whispered.

  ‘How much hatred you must feel for us,’ he muttered.

  ‘For men? You think I hate men?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘No. Yes. Sometimes maybe,’ I said, wondering why I had volunteered this information.

  ‘What a most peculiar situation. Here you sit, next to a man who threatens your life and that of your father. A man you despise. A man you want to kill as soon as the time is right. But you don’t feel threatened now. You even offer your help. This makes you feel guilty. Why?’