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

by Annelie Wendeberg

  I couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Sherlock Holmes happily crawling through the sewage system, trying to find a message in a bottle.

  ‘Between six and eight o’clock at night I would think. When I drop a glove, a handkerchief, or the like in the morning when getting out of the brougham, a message will be sent to you that same evening.’

  He nodded, excitement shining in his eyes.

  How odd. The disquietude our sudden interdependency seemed to have caused him was flicked away in an instant.

  Then, his face hardened. ‘I read your will. I do understand your intentions, but why would you leave your cottage to me?’

  ‘My father wouldn’t want it,’ I said defiantly.

  He gazed at the door as though Goff could march in any moment. With a nod he readied himself to depart while his face collapsed into a wrinkled landscape, his shoulders hunched, knees bent slightly. Within seconds, Holmes transformed himself back to the old and tired woman I had encountered upon entering the lavatory.

  ‘One more thing,’ I said before taking my leave. ‘The torso case last year; I remember you investigated it. Did you have any suspicions?’

  ‘No. Why would you ask?’

  ‘Just answer me, please. Tell me what you know.’

  He replied in a quiet, machine-like rat tat tat, ‘It was a woman’s torso, a red-head judging from her pubic hair. Her skin was without blemishes and smelled faintly of patchouli. She had had intercourse. There was still sperm in her uterus, indicating that she had been murdered soon thereafter. I found one bite mark on her hip. It was a dog’s.’

  Upon his words, the blood sang in my ears. I was glad my back was towards Holmes.

  Once I had swallowed the nausea, left the lavatory, and walked through the corridors with Goff in my wake, I wondered whether I had just sold my father’s life. But for what? For the mere possibility of saving others with a great chance of saving no one at all?

  Why was it that Holmes caused such an imbalance in me? His words and actions could hit my sorest spots. How would I deal with that weakness next time we met? By shutting him out completely? But hadn’t I already tried that for a year?

  — day 57 —

  The brougham flew along the streets. The rattling of wheels was accompanied by the clacking and screeching of spiked horseshoes on ice-covered cobblestones. One week before Christmas, the winter had begun in earnest and sent snow and ice all over Britain. The woollen blanket covering my legs was of little help. The only warm part of me, too warm in fact, was my head inside a velvet bag.

  Moriarty had announced the inspection of a warehouse he wanted rebuilt for my tests on the spreading of glanders and anthrax. With a short apology and no further explanation, he had pulled the bag over my head. Certainly not to increase the pleasure of surprise for me.

  I wondered why he suddenly felt the urge for more control. Would I have to travel blindfolded every time I went to that place, or only during initial inspections of several different buildings until one fitting our needs was found? I failed to come to a logical explanation for his behaviour and slowly, the suspicion grew that he was merely experimenting with me.

  I listened to the clatter of wheels and noise from the streets, trying to gauge the distance we had travelled. No reappearing patterns were detectable, no going in circles, no detours to confuse my observations.

  ‘You are playing a game,’ I noted.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Moriarty said.

  ‘Hum… maybe you’re not playing. Merely assessing how well I observe, something you always do. I shouldn’t have asked,’ I said, hoping the boredom of my tone would seep through the fabric.

  ‘My dear, I cannot believe you would have asked without a purpose. There is nothing you do without purpose.’

  How I hated to be called my dear. I willed my hands to appear relaxed. He could not see my face, though. That was his disadvantage.

  ‘My purpose was to let you know how annoying I find your safety measures. Besides being useless, they are dangerous. You would never even consider the possibility of me wanting to work on germ warfare. And this mistake of yours threatens my father’s life and the swift success of our undertaking. It is a waste of time and resources. By the way, we are almost in East End.’

  He did not answer. My brow began to sweat. The bag clung to my skin. I wished I could borrow some of the heat to give to my frozen feet instead. Finally, the brougham came to a halt. My elbow was grabbed. I was pulled up and led out of the carriage, across a street, and through a door. Only as metal fell into metal with a creak of tortured hinges, did he pull off the blindfold.

  ‘Would this suit your purpose?’ he asked.

  I walked around, avoiding the mud encrusted with thin ice. Daylight fell through grimy windows, dirtying itself on the way to the ground.

  ‘The framework of the roof appears rotten and tiles are missing, but that can be fixed. A few windows need a new sash and almost all panes have gone missing,’ I said. ‘But the dirt floor is a problem. Sewage seems to be flowing around and underneath the warehouse, then seeping up from the ground,’ I said, pointing at the stinking brown puddles. ‘Do you see the salt in the walls?’ I beckoned him to me and brushed some of the white flakes from the withered bricks. ‘Saltpetre.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘This place is useless.’ His shoulders began to clench. ‘The geography of the surroundings is the problem,’ I hastened to explain. ‘If I am not mistaken, the warehouse is built in a slight depression or precipitation and above it must be the slums. All sewage flows past and underneath the warehouse. We cannot use it, because this place is probably already contaminated with half the diseases of Europe.’

  ‘Pity,’ he rasped and jerked the cloth back over my head.

  The Thames at Grosvenor Road, London, 1893. (7)

  We returned to Moriarty’s house and he bade me to follow him. He seemed a little more relaxed now, the wrath lurking only in a far corner of his mind.

  ‘Hingston, the tea!’ He barked before entering the study. He pulled an assortment of maps from the drawers of his bureau and spread them out on a coffee table. Impatiently, he clawed his neck and stretched his shoulders.

  ‘Shall I?’ I offered and received a growl in response.

  Hingston entered, slightly nervous. She, too, knew her master well enough to be quick and accurate now. With a soft clatter she placed the china on the desk, owing to the lack of space on the coffee table. Quieter than one would expect of her, she left and closed the door.

  I straightened up. He seemed torn, not wanting to forgo even a fraction of his power and control. I did not move. In this one battle I was making the rules, and I was curious to see how far I could go.

  ‘I would feel more comfortable,’ I said, lowering my gaze and offering him the opportunity to safe face.

  He froze, then gathered up the maps. ‘We will retreat to the smoking room, Durham. Bring the tea,’ he ordered while we passed the manservant who silently guarded the door.

  After Durham had left, I bade Moriarty to lie down on the ottoman. He did so hesitantly.

  ‘Would you like me to ask Mister Durham to cut me into pieces, should I emerge from this room without you?’ I offered.

  He smiled unwillingly, but then appeared to relax a little. I would not break his neck, for I had other plans. Today, I would take my time and I would not think of him as the criminal so dangerously close to insanity. Instead, I would think of him as someone who occasionally made an effort to be friendly.

  My hands were warm and my eyes shut. All there was to see was through my palms. The slight bulge of blood vessels on his temples, the tapping of a pulse within. His forehead was creased, but smoothed gradually with my hands resting there. The bridge of the nose, a sharp inward bend. My finger pressed down there would send tingles through his eyeballs. I heard him exhale slowly. His cheeks, clean shaven and smooth, the skin stretched too tightly over the bones. I dug my fingers into the muscles there, found the
knots and pressed them hard until they vibrated, begging for mercy.

  The heels of my hands slid back to his skull, over thinning hair that thickened towards the crown. Pushing gently I noticed the stiffness of his cranial bones. Flexibly connected during infancy to allow the head’s passage through the birth canal, the bones grow less pliable in an adult cranium; his skull, however, was unnaturally rigid. I undid the cravat and opened the upper buttons of his shirt. He tried to protest, but I wasn’t open to discussion, and kept working on his collarbones and shoulders. My hands slipped beneath his scapulae, searching for tension, probing ribs and vertebrae, pushing, shifting, kneading. By now, he was mine. Without looking at him, I could tell his eyes were closed. He obeyed my hands and seemed to have no need for control. I pushed my arm underneath his neck and let his head rest in the bend of my elbow, my hand on his lower jaw. All I needed to do was twist once. Pushing all thoughts of triumph away, because they would only taint my senses and hinder my work, I gently manipulated bones and flesh until it felt as though all that was twisted inside him came back to where it was meant to be.

  ‘Rest now,’ I said softly and walked over to the mantelpiece, retrieved a cigarette from his silver case, and sat down in the armchair. I hoped he would not open his mouth for a few more minutes. My mind was empty. For the first time in weeks, I was at ease.

  Ever so slowly, I began to feel the gentle tug of sympathy towards Moriarty. Ambivalence followed suit. Yet there seemed to be no alternative. I would have to approach him with open arms and embrace him, only to drive the knife into his unguarded back.

  — day 58 —

  The maid stood at my window, her hands resting on the sill, lips slightly parted. The pale morning sun refracted on the frost, casting small rainbow prickles over her skin. She looked out over the bleak premises; her profile was vivid with longing, sadness, and, I believed, hope.

  ‘You are in love with Mr Garrow.’

  She jumped, clapping a hand over her mouth.

  ‘I will not give you away Miss Gooding,’ I said softly.

  Poodle-eyed, she swallowed, shocked that I knew her secret.

  I tried to distract her. ‘How long have you been working here?’

  She heaved a sigh, walked over to me and knelt down at the side of the bed. ‘Two years.’ She swallowed a sob, pressed her face into my mattress, and began to cry. ‘I will lose my assignment if the master finds out.’

  I stroked her bony shoulder. ‘Please, Miss Gooding, do not worry yourself. Why in God’s name should I tell anyone?’

  ‘Will you not?’ She rubbed the moisture off her cheeks.

  ‘Certainly not! Besides, what is there to tell? That you gazed out my window?’

  She took my hands. ‘Thank you, Miss. Please, call me Cecile, if that is acceptable.’

  ‘Cecile then. Does he know?’

  ‘Jonathan?’ A longing whisper. ‘Oh, he is… Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think he notices me. Even if he did, he and I would have to leave if we were ever caught.’

  ‘Don’t you think Mister Durham and Miss Hingston are having an affair?’ I asked and she blushed scarlet. The good girl was such a wonderful source of information without her even knowing it.

  ‘Does he really not look at you at all?’

  She smiled timidly. ‘Sometimes he does.’

  ‘What do you see in his eyes?’

  ‘Warmth.’

  I gazed at her, wondering whether I should take the risk. I decided I must, not only for her, but also for myself, to invite a little happiness into this dreadful place. ‘Cecile, I think it is time for a secret messenger.’

  Her head tilted upwards, brow in furrows. ‘What do you mean, Miss?’ That squeaky voice, stuffed with hope and doubt, made her appear more fragile yet.

  ‘You write a letter to Mr Garrow, Jonathan, I mean. And I will deliver it. If he reciprocates your feelings, you two can write each other in secret. Later we will figure out how you can meet without anyone noticing.’

  She dropped her gaze, produced a weak cough, and snatched my hands to squeeze them hard. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  After her sniffling had subsided, she pulled herself up.

  ‘Cecile, may I ask whether you know the woman in the room next to mine?’

  ‘Know her? Well, a little. She arrived the day you did. I am her lady maid, too, but she doesn’t speak much. She sleeps a lot.’

  ‘Is she his mistress?’

  ‘I think she is much less than that,’ she whispered to her hands that lay flat on the bed.

  ‘Does she suffer?’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Cecile shook her head. ‘She needs opium and he gives it to her. In return, she is… they are…’

  That would explain the lifelessness in her face. ‘Were there others before her?’

  She nodded, with shame in her face and her hands rigid. ‘They only stay for two or three months. Then they leave.’

  ‘Where to?’ I pressed.

  ‘Wherever they came from, I believe.’

  ‘The slums?’

  She nodded, a leftover tear skidding down her nose.

  ‘Do you see them leave on their own, or being taken away?’

  She shook her head. Would Garrow know what happened to them?

  ‘Thank you, Cecile.’

  Footfall approached from the corridor and Cecile jumped up.

  ‘What is taking you so long, Gooding?’ Durham barked through the door.

  I walked up to it and jerked it open. ‘I felt sick and she helped me. Thank you very much, Mr Durham,’ I snarled, and slammed the door shut. That man had unacceptable manners.

  As I turned back to Cecile, she was grinning into her hands. Then her face fell. ‘Oh, I forgot!’ She said, extracting a small package from her apron pocket. ‘The master wants you to have this.’

  After she had left, I tore the blue crepe off. The small box inside revealed a crystal bottle with a note attached: Essence of Ylang-Ylang.

  I stared at the flask, thinking of the patchouli soap. Moriarty’s footmen came and went, but some of them appeared to be strangers. The dogs merely barked at them, showing that they weren’t trained to indiscriminately kill trespassers. There was but one explanation: the animals knew my scent, hated and feared it even before I had arrived at this house. But that was impossible. The scent had been given to me.

  I suspected the soap and thought it likely that a man beat the animals while wearing patchouli-scented clothing. Another alternative was that Cecile or Hingston had been instructed to wash my clothing with a special soap or to scent it afterwards. But doing that would involve too many people and invite errors.

  Gazing at the crystal phial, I wondered what kind of murder weapon was hidden inside. Not wearing the perfume would be seen as an offence, or worse, could reveal my suspicion that scent was the catalyst for the dogs’ killing instinct.

  I washed and pulled the stopper to apply a few drops between my breasts. Patchouli and Ylang-Ylang harmonised well.

  I was surprised to see Moriarty waiting at the table, with breakfast already set. His shoulders were relaxed, and he appeared particularly well-groomed. I tried to unclench my stomach with the good smell of scrambled eggs, warm toast, and tea.

  ‘Ylang is derived from Tagalog, the official made-up language spoken in the Philippines, where blossoms of Ylang-Ylang are harvested. Do you know what it means?’ His deep voice softly curled around my throat, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ylang means wilderness.’

  ‘Trapped in a bottle,’ I noted and walked around the table to take a seat. His expression darkened. I would not make it easy for him, but I couldn’t make it impossible either.

  Sharp-eyed, he held my gaze and replied, ‘The question relates to whether it is merely trapped in a bottle as you said, or whether its essence—the purified form—is held there to prevent loss.’

  ‘It does not matter. Wilderness fades away in captivity. There is no exception to that rule.�
��

  He tilted one eyebrow but did not reply. We ate in silence, interrupted only by the crunch of teeth sinking into toast and the clink of cup against saucer.

  Once I arrived at the medical school, I dropped a glove into a frozen puddle, stepped on it, stumbled, swore quietly, and picked it up without glancing around.

  It was approaching seven o’clock and supper would be served soon; I had only a little time left. With a pencil I scratched a message for Holmes on a small piece of parchment.

  “Tomorrow, I will deposit a crystal perfume bottle in the library, behind Antony van Leeuwenhoek. I require an exact copy of the flask, filled with an aqueous solution of arsenide and belladonna, final concentration of 1% and 10%, respectively. Investigate the following warehouse locations, owners probably involved with M — (A) Limehouse Dock, at the end of Fore Street. (B) Cuckolds Point. (C) Tunnel Pier, very close to the river. (D) Langley Place Basin close to the reservoir. (E) At the docks at Shad Thames, close to the river. All should be two-storey buildings and in better condition than neighbouring warehouses, if there are any. Yours, A.”

  I rolled it up, placed it into a glass vial I had taken from the laboratory, and sealed it thoroughly with candle wax. After it had cooled in my hand, I slipped it inside my stocking and opened the door.

  ‘Mr Durham, I need to go to the water closet.’

  He nodded and walked me around the corner.

  I bolted the door and sat down to urinate — too suspicious if flushing were the only noise I produced.

  I held on to the pull chain, pushed my fist with the vial far down into the ceramic tubing, and flushed. The water level in the bowl rose quickly and just as it threatened to overflow, I yanked my arm back and let the flood carry my message to Holmes.

  Later in the dark, I assessed the situation of the woman next door and how her and my fate might be connected. Moriarty was playing with my fears. He knew that he, his manservant Durham, and his friend Moran scared me. He used this fear and fed me more of it, only to deny the danger seconds later. I wondered about Moriarty’s style — was he a murderer? Moran surely was. But would Moriarty command Moran to kill for him, or would he manipulate him into doing it? Probably both.