The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  His face was a mask. Only his eyes betrayed the turmoil within.

  ‘You can make others believe that you don’t experience emotions. It fits your mask so neatly. But I don’t believe you. Cocaine is but one example. You took it because you craved it. Craving is a very strong emotion, is it not? Once the chemical hits your bloodstream, you feel intense pleasure, most likely you experience sexual arousal, too. You feel the rush of accomplishment, of being better and of higher intellect than anyone. You have the constant need to be the best, and this emotion controls you.’

  Heat rose up his throat, colouring his ears. ‘Interesting observation,’ he rasped. ‘But you ignore the fact that it is only my mind that needs stimulation. In absence of a case, I must invigorate my mental faculties with cocaine. Otherwise—’

  ‘The other emotion,’ I cut him off, ‘that seems to control you is your fear of me.’ Still his pupils were wide open; nothing else moved. I retreated to my side of the fire and sat down.

  ‘Not to forget curiosity and passion — the two driving forces of every brilliant scientist.’

  His jaws were working.

  ‘I will not talk about emotions anymore; it distresses you too much,’ I said.

  ‘On the contrary. I couldn’t care less.’ He rose, stomped on the cigarette butt, and walked away.

  — four —

  Sussex Downs, 1881. (4)

  We stood on a hilltop. The moorland spread before us, wide and soft and green, interrupted only by splotches of treacherous mud. The sea was a good eight to ten miles to the south, but I already imagined smelling it.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ I said.

  ‘No. You walk behind me.’

  ‘I’m lighter, my baggage is on my back, which gives me a better balance, and I know how to move over swampy terrain. If you walk first, you’ll only block my view.’ I pushed past him and walked downhill towards a place most people avoided like the plague.

  We walked in silence. Holmes’s feet made occasional slop-slop noises, telling me that he hadn’t always placed his feet where I placed mine.

  I listened to birds singing spring songs to their mates who probably sat on a bunch of eggs, their eyes half-closed, their feathery butts all fluffed out. Would they feel their chicks moving about and scraping their stubbly wings on the inside of the hard shell? My child seemed to be sleeping now. How would it feel when it had grown so large that I could barely see my own feet? When its head was lodged in my pelvis, feet kicking my—

  My foot caught on a hidden branch. I tipped forward and slipped. There was nothing I could steady myself with, nothing to hold the world in place; instead, it rushed past me without hesitation. So quick the fall; and yet, the descent, the sliding into the cold, wet bog, felt like an eternity — as though I had time to turn around and wave goodbye. My skirt billowed around my waist, then around my chest; darkening as the fabric sucked up water and mud, and growing heavier quickly.

  My neck was already immersed in water when I bent my head to see Holmes jump towards me. He landed on the clump of grass I had just been standing on. His eyes were wild, his cheeks on fire. I heard the sharp tsreee-tsreee of a bird warning its kin, when, Holmes shouted, ‘Your hand, Anna!’

  Where was my hand? My eyes searched for it. There, that small white thing was holding onto a clump of grass. Why not? whispered my mind. I looked up at Holmes, felt calmness washing over me, and let go of my only support.

  ‘Don’t you dare!’ he barked.

  Black water swallowed my vision. Here was the solution I had longed to find. An explosion of happiness and relief spread through my chest, down to my feet, tickling my toes. I would have cried out in joy had the swamp not sealed my lips.

  Pain shot through my head and down my neck as a hand grabbed my hair. His other hand snatched a fistful of my clothes and he hoisted me up on a clump of vegetation. I coughed. And I fought. One cannot easily accept life with death so near and so sweet. ‘Why?’ I cried, and he did, too.

  Grass prickled my wet face. Holmes’s hands clawed my shoulders. Sobs pressed against my ribcage.

  In an attempt to pull myself together and fix whatever needed fixing, I staggered to my feet. He reached out. My gaze followed his hand. Several buttons had popped off my dress where my stomach had grown too large. He picked at the loose threads, rested his knuckles there, then the whole of his palm.

  ‘We need to reach Littlehampton,’ he croaked. ‘The blankets and all your clothes are wet.’ He took the drenched rucksack from my back, grabbed my hand, and walked ahead.

  Shock drove silence between us, muffling the ensuing three hours of brisk walking. Eventually, I had to break it. ‘I need to sit down for a few minutes.’ My clothes were steaming from my own heat and the warmth of the sun. My tongue stuck to my palate.

  I sat in the cool grass, stretching my aching feet and drinking the little water we had left. Holmes dropped the luggage and himself opposite from me.

  ‘I spent two years in an asylum,’ he said.

  I opened my mouth and closed it again. One swallow later, I asked, ‘What kind of asylum?’

  ‘There is only one kind.’ While he spoke, his eyes held mine. As though every twitch I made was placed under a microscope.

  ‘When was that?’ I asked.

  There, his gaze flickered. ‘Later. I promise.’

  ‘If you are thinking of sending me to an asylum—’

  His shocked expression shut my mouth. ‘Thank you,’ I whispered, lay down, and watched the wind herding the clouds.

  Attempting suicide was one of the many reasons for sending women to lunatic asylums. In fact, women could be committed for anything that indicated they didn’t behave in a normal and acceptable fashion. Strangely, the two sexes were measured with different gauges. If a woman laughed out loud in a teahouse, she’d be labelled inappropriate, perhaps even a prostitute. If a man did the same, he would receive no label at all. A woman who struck back when her husband beat her might end up with a fine, or even in gaol, depending on the injuries she inflicted. A man who defended himself against another man would walk free. What bothered me most was that which everyone accepted as normal and necessary bore no logic to me at all. I failed to see logic in many things humans did, especially when they acted as a mass.

  We began walking again and an hour later, we reached Littlehampton. Strangers that we were, and quite tattered ones on top of it, we drew everyone’s attention. Holmes enquired after an inn with guest rooms; people pointed and we found it within minutes: the George Inn.

  The landlord was a stout man sporting a mighty moustache and cheeks the colour of maple leaves in autumn. He eyed us with suspicion when Holmes said, ‘Good day to you, sir. I am Dr Cyril Baker and this is my wife, Mrs Clara Baker. We’ve run into a spot of bad luck. We require your assistance and will pay you handsomely.’

  The man opened his mouth, but Holmes kept chatting, emphasising his educated speech a little too much. ‘My wife and I were robbed, but we were lucky that the ruffians didn’t search her dress. Or worse! By Jove! I’ve just now come to think of it!’ He clapped a hand to his chest and turned to me. ‘Don’t listen to me, my dear, don’t listen. It’s but the confused babble of a husband who has seen his beloved wife in too great a distress.’ He turned back to the landlord and gave him a grim nod. ‘My dear sir, have you two rooms for us?’

  The man cleared his throat. ‘I have a room for people who can pay the rent.’

  I slipped a hand into the folds of my dress, extracted two moist pounds, and slammed them on the counter. The moustache broadened considerably, its corners pointing upwards.

  ‘We both need a bath, a good meal, and clean clothing. Would that be possible, sir?’ said Holmes, and with that started an avalanche of service by both the landlord and his wife.

  A too-large bed in an empty room, walls echoing my footfalls, and the shallow breath of my lungs. Devoid of birdsong and the rustle of grass in the wind, this place felt empty. Like myself.

  The
window dulled the chatter on the street below but could not entirely shut out the news of the strange doctor and his wife. Have you heard they were mugged and almost beaten to death? That poor woman, in the family way she is, yes, yes! Thugs have torn her dress apart! And so on. I was glad their vivid imagination had room for pity.

  My hair was wet from the bath, my skin still burning. After removing the layers of grime, I had tried to remove James. But no matter how hard I pressed the coarse brush down on my skin, no matter how much soap I used, all that scrubbing only cleansed the surface. The resulting pain, at least, was good. For once it was physical, explainable, logical.

  When I emerged from the tub, the stink of my clothes hit my nostrils. More than a week of walking, sweating, and never washing properly had created an odour reminiscent of a fox den. I poked my toe at the layer of grit on the tub’s bottom. It was thicker than expected.

  A narrow door separated my room from Holmes’s. Light seeped through a crack in the thin wood. Earlier, he had dispatched a message to his brother; then we had dinner in silence, the unspeakable heavy on our lips. What thoughtlessness to attempt suicide in front of his eyes. What thoughtlessness to have kissed him two years ago. What thoughtlessness…

  Quietly, I moved around in my room, picking up my few belongings and packing them in my rucksack. I would have to wait until he was sleeping.

  The candle began to flicker. I blew it out; darkness fell.

  A knock disturbed my thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I come in?’ His voice was soft and strangely controlled. As though he walked on raw eggs.

  ‘Yes.’ I sat up and lit the candle on my nightstand when he closed the door behind him.

  ‘May I sit here?’ He pointed to the edge of my bed. I nodded. ‘I see that you packed.’

  I didn’t answer.

  ‘Did you plan this, Anna?’

  ‘What?’ I asked to gain some time, or to prevent me from having to answer at all.

  ‘The suicide.’ A bare whisper. He was still shocked. But what else was to be expected? Shame crawled up my cheeks, scorching my skin.

  ‘No,’ I answered truthfully.

  He sighed. ‘How can it be so easy for you? One minute you don’t think of it, the next minute you let go, ready to drown yourself. Did I cause this, Anna?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ My heart slammed against my ribs and I wanted him out of this room. His presence caused a rawness of nerves I could barely endure.

  ‘But I could have prevented it,’ he said, more to himself.

  I searched for words, but my brain wouldn’t provide anything useful.

  His eyes darkened and he rose to his feet. ‘I allowed you to stay in that man’s house for months!’ He ran a hand across his face as though to scrape off the anger. His fingers trembled slightly, his shoulders clenched.

  Seeing him like this let me surface from my own self-pity. ‘Sit, please.’

  He did as I asked, and so I continued, ‘I’m a grown woman. The path I choose to walk is my own. But I would be lying if I said I knew what I was doing or where this would lead. Every single day in captivity, I made countless decisions. After my father was set free, I chose to stay with James. It was the only logical next step. After all those days, all those decisions amounted to one horrible thing. Should I have foreseen the outcome? Perhaps. But I didn’t. Even if I had, I believe I wouldn’t have turned around. The price to pay would have been much higher than simply taking the next small step forward. At the end, James and I broke each other. None of this was your doing, Holmes.’

  But what would I have done had I known that James would impregnate me with his brood? I could see myself happily accepting the bullet the day he and Moran broke into my cottage and held a gun to my head.

  ‘What made you let go today?’ He pressed the words out. Was there still anger in his voice? To him, watching me escape life must be a defeat. Holmes, the do-gooder.

  ‘Opportunity,’ I answered. ‘A solution to all my problems presented itself, and I took it.’ I meant to say something soothing, but all I could think of was how easy it was to let go, how wonderful to sink.

  ‘So all I need to do is wait until the next opportunity presents itself?’

  I didn’t answer. He rushed to his room.

  When he returned, he placed a revolver on my bed. ‘Spare me the torture, woman.’

  I flung the covers aside and rose to face him. ‘You want me to shoot myself while you are watching?’

  His hands clenched to fists and he bent closer. ‘You wanted me to watch you drown. Where is the difference?’

  ‘You wouldn’t have seen me die. You would have only seen me disappear. This,’ I pointed to the gun, ‘is an ugly death.’

  ‘Yes, it is indeed. Should you choose to insert it into your mouth and point upwards, pieces of your brain, skull bones, scalp, and hair will soil the wallpaper.’ He waved his hand towards the wall behind me. ‘Perhaps lying on your side instead, and shooting through your temple, would reduce the mess. If you would be so kind?’

  ‘Stop it,’ I groaned. My windpipe constricted.

  ‘Ah, I see. You are worried about the aesthetics. A blown-out brain is disgusting. A floater isn’t. Most impressive logic.’

  ‘There is no need to shout.’ I began to tremble. ‘Leave my room, please.’

  ‘In a moment.’ He picked up the revolver and pulled back the hammer. ‘Perhaps you need help?’

  His hand shook ever so lightly. His knuckles whitened. Candlelight reflected off the weapon’s mouth.

  ‘If you stooped but a little, you could take me in your arms.’ The words were out before I could control my mouth.

  ‘I’d rather not,’ he croaked.

  ‘You’d rather shoot me?’

  ‘You cannot bind yourself to me, Anna.’

  ‘I bound myself to you long ago.’ My gaze slid from the weapon up to his face. My hand closed around the muzzle. Two hoarse clicks and he had uncocked the gun, then loosened his grip. I placed it next to me on the nightstand. ‘Holmes, I know you don’t…’ I dropped my gaze. ‘I’m not stupid enough to believe I’m not… I’m not…defiled.’

  Odd, how heavy one’s limbs grow when the heart is full of shame. I couldn’t tip my head upward, couldn’t tear my eyes off his legs. Unmoving, they seemed cemented in a pair of sharply pressed trousers, framed left and right by a half-open dressing gown. Time crawled agonisingly slowly.

  ‘Go away,’ I breathed.

  His hand approached and took mine in his. His feet took a step closer, his arms wound around me. I had the fleeting impression I would come undone. The taste of blood in my mouth told me I was biting my tongue. I tried to relax my jaw.

  ‘Stop calling me Holmes.’

  I couldn’t utter a word.

  ‘Say my name, Anna!’

  ‘Sherlock,’ I whispered.

  My plan of sneaking away that night was forgotten. Exhaustion burned in my eyes. Listening to his slow breathing, the whispering of his hand in my hair, I tried to calm myself. To no avail. I was vibrating.

  He exhaled a growl and said, ‘You are not defiled, Anna. What you did to stop Moriarty was a great sacrifice.’

  ‘I know, it all sounds so reasonable,’ I said. ‘One can look at a collection of facts from many different angles. Mine is simple: I was his whore.’ How curious that hearing my own words made them suddenly sound false. In the dark loneliness of my thoughts, I had fancied myself much wiser.

  ‘Well, yes. You could certainly see it that way. But what does it help to do so?’

  ‘Was that ever a reason? Choosing the most helpful interpretation?’ I pushed away from him. His one hand slid off my back, the other off my neck. My skin felt cold there.

  ‘I usually choose the one that makes sense,’ he said. His expression was relaxed, soft, even. And yet it sounded as though he wished to mock me.

  ‘Are you that distanced?’ I asked. ‘The automaton Sherlock Holmes?’

  ‘Wh
y, in your opinion, was I holding you?’

  ‘Because you feel guilty,’ I said.

  ‘How does that fit your automaton theory?’

  I had no answer.

  ‘Is that why you tried to kill yourself while I was watching? Because you believe I don’t feel and hence, it doesn’t matter?’

  He stooped at little until we were at eye level. I didn’t like the belligerence I saw in his posture.

  ‘I simply took an opportunity,’ I said. ‘I told you already.’

  ‘That is correct. But for you to do so, you must have established earlier that it wouldn’t matter to me, that I wouldn’t care.’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered. It was true. It was precisely what I thought.

  ‘You make surprisingly little sense these days,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’ Life made surprisingly little sense these days. I watched him for a long moment. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘Why have you been in an asylum?’

  He sat down on my bed and exhaled one rattling breath. ‘My mother fell ill after giving birth to my sister,’ he began. ‘She starved herself. At times, she clung to her newborn daughter as though she were drowning and her child the last straw to cling to. It took only minutes until the child fussed and cried and she rejected her again, telling her what a terrible girl she was. It wasn’t long before the wet nurse quit her appointment. The lady maid helped taking care of my sister while father tried to find a replacement. One morning, Mother left her room, the child in her arms. She sang for her. It was the first time I heard mother sing. About to go downstairs, I stopped in wonder and listened. She walked past me, smiled at me, and I was convinced she was well again. She lowered her head to smile at her daughter. The girl began to stir and woke up with a cry. My mother’s face distorted as if in pain, and she flung…’

  Silence fell. I followed his gaze across the room, imagining every detail he described.

  Eyelids flickered. He cleared his throat. ‘She looked at me with a face so empty that, for a moment, I forgot the sounds of my sister dying on the stairs below. Then she whispered, “You tripped me.”’