The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  He blinked again, tipped his head, and looked up at me.

  ‘A hysteric child who threatens the good reputation of the family with his obsession of proving his innocence, or rather, with his poor version of a lie, had to be removed.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Five,’ he said.

  ‘A small child?’ My eyes stung and rage boiled beneath my skin.

  ‘It’s very long ago.’ He slapped his knees — a whiplash noise that split reality apart, leaving fake lightness behind.

  I kept swallowing, trying to force that clump down my throat. One tear rolled down my nose, hit my nightgown, and disappeared into the cotton.

  He regarded me with a scrutinising glance. ‘Will you be alright?’

  I nodded.

  He rose and wished me a good night before I could ask, And you, will you ever be alright again?

  Ticehurst private asylum for the insane, 1827. (5)

  — five —

  I woke to rain tapping on my window. Looking at Holmes’s closed door, I thought of the previous night, trying to put myself in his position — that of a highly observant and intelligent child with yet a lot to learn about good human interactions and with the need for motherly care and protection; none of which were likely to be offered in an asylum.

  It was common for people to be committed to lunatic asylums, should they have resisted adaptation to what was considered normal. But a small child? Whom did his father bribe to have his son taken away?

  I wondered what would have happened to me had my father not loved me and not placed my well-being above societal rules. What would I find if I searched all the asylums for the non-conforming, unadapted, and unaccepted? Would I encounter a group of people I could identify with? Would that label me mad, then, too?

  I pushed up from my bed and shed my nightgown. The fabric caught on my stomach ever so lightly.

  We took breakfast, then went for a walk. Sherlock was expecting his brother today or tomorrow morning. He had sent him a cryptic message, instructing Mycroft to meet us between nine and eleven o’clock roughly one mile outside Littlehampton, where a stone wall met a large oak.

  We spotted him from afar — a large man leaning against the low wall amid bramble and moss, appearing entirely out of place.

  ‘You are early,’ was Sherlock’s only greeting when he sat down on the wall next to him. Mycroft was as tall as his younger brother, but he carried about twice the weight. When he pressed my hand in greeting, his palm felt large but not muscular, his fingertips fine and soft — those of a man who used them for holding a pen or a newspaper and not much else.

  I sat in the cool grass across from the two, observing the movements of their bodies while they talked about what had happened since last they met. Small gestures were caught and answered in an instant, the lifting of an eyebrow, the stalling of breath, a blink of an eye. I wondered whether they ever missed this simple language when conversing with other people. It felt a bit foreign to see two sharp-minded and emotionally controlled people sharing a deep connection. Then, two sets of grey eyes turned towards me.

  ‘And how are you, Dr Kronberg?’ enquired Mycroft Holmes. His gaze dropped to my stomach. Very inappropriate behaviour for an upper-class individual. I frowned at him.

  ‘Unfortunately, the name is Moriarty,’ I said. ‘Mr Holmes, I know nothing about marriage laws, but I hope you can shed light on the issue. Do you see a possibility of making the entirety of James’s riches inaccessible to his family and former employees?’

  I didn’t speak of the other problem: my own resources would soon be gone. No one would employ me as a bacteriologist and I had little chance to gain employment as a female medical doctor. Marrying to avoid starvation was out of the question.

  ‘I’d also prefer to get my old name back, if possible,’ I added.

  ‘Hum…’ he said. ‘Does Moriarty have a son?’

  ‘I only know of a sister. Charlotte is her name. There were a bunch of children at his house on Christmas. They called her aunt, although they clearly weren’t James’s. Shouldn’t the family have read his will by now?’

  ‘Certainly.’ Mycroft squinted at his manicured fingernails. ‘I doubt he included you in his will.’

  ‘I doubt it, too. But your brother said there must be a dower.’

  ‘There is. Your dower will not only depend on the assets of your late husband, but also on other beneficiaries, descendants, and direct relatives. I’ll need a few days to discover the precise amount of money you should inherit.’

  Then, something struck me. ‘Mr Holmes, I have another question. It’s in your area of expertise, I believe, but if you are not allowed to answer, I understand, of course.’

  One eyebrow went up, and I took that as an invitation to continue. ‘James spoke of the German Empire seeking conflict; he spoke of the Transvaal and the Orange Free State as well. In his opinion, there was a war coming, and that was his motivation to develop weapons for germ warfare. Do you have knowledge of an impending war?’

  He huffed, slightly amused. ‘A complex topic. Your question cannot be answered with a simple yes or no,’ he said and pushed his hands deep in his trouser pockets. ‘What do you know about the Transvaal?’

  I shrugged. ‘Close to nothing. Only that it’s in South Africa and a British colony with large gold mines.’

  ‘And that is where the problem lies,’ he said. ‘The Wiswatersrand area is so lucrative that the Boers alone cannot exploit it. Uitlanders immigrate in great numbers — mostly Britons, expecting to get rich. A clash of cultures and beliefs is the result. The Transvaal has a tradition of conflict. A second Boer War might indeed be on the horizon.’

  ‘What about a war in Europe?’ I pressed.

  ‘Hum… I doubt it very much, but I cannot claim to have sufficient information regarding possible aggression plans of our neighbours. Making a precise assessment of the situation is close to impossible. Britain’s espionage and counter-espionage is notoriously underfunded and undermanned. In case of a conflict, we are practically blind and deaf. Your late husband was, in this respect, quite progressive.’

  Mycroft Holmes’s face had reddened during his narrative. He dabbed a handkerchief at his forehead, then folded his arms across his chest. I stared at his expensive shoes. They stuck out of the vegetation — two shiny long things, abnormalities in a place like this. What had James known? He must have had more than mere suspicions. How else would he have been able to convince others? He had men from the government, and even a spy who worked on the continent. He’d gone to Brussels the one day—

  ‘May I speak frankly?’ Mycroft asked. I wasn’t certain whom he addressed, so I lifted my eyes and saw him looking at me.

  He didn’t wait for my agreement. ‘You would make for an excellent spy, Dr Kronberg. You are highly educated; you speak German and English fluently. You are intelligent and have strong nerves. Staying in Moriarty’s house, especially given the circumstances, and still being able to function, was an extraordinary feat. Should you be seeking an alternative employment, I’d be happy—’

  ‘No I’m not. Thank you very much.’

  ‘Of course, only after your child has reached an appropriate age to be left with a nursemaid.’

  ‘I’d very much appreciate if you’d stop talking about James’s brood. My condition is none of your concern, Mr Holmes.’

  He opened his mouth to reply when his brother growled, ‘Mycroft!’

  I couldn’t interpret what Sherlock’s face showed. Heaviness came to mind first. He wiped it away the instant Mycroft turned to him.

  ‘We need to find Moran,’ Sherlock said to him. ‘The man is known to use small children as tiger bait. If he cannot find his prey — me, that is — he will try to use Watson.’

  ‘I made enquiries,’ said Mycroft. ‘So far, he hasn’t been seen in London.’

  ‘Excellent!’ he said, tapping his fingers on the wall behind him. ‘I can feel it in my bones. Moran’s greatest urge is to h
unt. He must be on our heels.’

  ‘Do you really think he could have tracked us?’ I asked.

  ‘Should he be using dogs, it’s quite possible to follow our scent.’

  I thought back to our trip, the rain we walked through, the moorlands — all that would make it difficult for dogs to track us. And yet, every night we had left enough traces behind — bones of the animals we had eaten, a six by five feet area we had slept upon, not to speak of the regular intervals of urinating during the day. ‘You are correct,’ I said.

  He showed a twitch of his lips.

  ‘Why did you drag a pregnant woman across the Downs when you could have taken a train?’ Mycroft asked.

  ‘Because I want him to follow us by foot.’

  Sherlock didn’t seem miffed by his brother’s blunt choice of words. With child would have been appropriate, while pregnant was a term used among the medical establishment, but never, under any circumstances, uttered in society. The word alone implied that a woman had had sexual intercourse, which was almost as good as saying that she was a whore. But neither of the Holmes brothers appeared to have the patience for such useless charade. I was glad of it.

  Mycroft scratched his chin and turned to me. ‘I will return to London and learn all about your financial situation. If you are lucky, your former husband didn’t anticipate your attack on his life and hence, had no chance to arrange for revenge in his will.’ He turned to his brother and continued, ‘I will see to Watson’s safety. Do you wish me to tell him you are alive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well, then. If you’d give me the names of Moran’s accomplices, brother?’

  ‘A German engineer with the name Heinrich von Herder. He is an excellent weapon maker and might be in Hamburg at this moment. He had, as far as I could ascertain, nothing to do with Moriarty’s crimes, but you might wish to keep an eye on him. Another is a comparatively harmless footman by the name of Thomas Parker. A garroter by trade who frequents every public house in Whitechapel and should presently be with Moran. The third is an elusive creature. An as-yet unknown physician at the Dundee School of Medicine.’

  ‘You couldn’t find him yet?’ I asked. That man had been involved in medical experiments on paupers. We hadn’t been able to identify him for more than two years now.

  ‘No,’ answered Sherlock.

  ‘Is he still in Dundee?’ Mycroft asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, are these all?’

  Sherlock nodded.

  We parted right there and then. Mycroft’s fleshy hands pressed mine for a moment. What a contrast to his wiry brother.

  After his broad back had disappeared, Sherlock turned to me. ‘For two years now, you love a man who doesn’t offer anything in return. Yet you seem to believe you wouldn’t be able to love your own child. This appears—’

  ‘Illogical?’ Behind my eyes, something stung. ‘How could I have not loved my husband?’

  One sharp nod. ‘You chose neither husband nor child.’

  The question burned in his face. I spoke for him. ‘Why choose a man who will not love me in return? Is that the point of loving? To expect something in return? I don’t think so.’

  We started towards Littlehampton and I said, ‘Last night, you wanted to make me believe that your past doesn’t bother you anymore. But I believe the one thing bothering you most, besides the stupidity and ignorance that surrounds you, is that you might end up in an asylum once more. You have an almost unnatural urge for self-control.’

  Without showing the slightest reaction, he marched on. We walked almost the entire length of the stone wall when he finally stopped. He pinched a cigarette between his lips, struck a match on a rock, and said, ‘Is it only moving objects that constantly beg for your attention?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m being cryptic. My apologies. I observed that most of the time, your eyes seem to dart every which way. For example, when crossing a street, normal people look at their feet, if they want to avoid puddles, or they look at other people to avoid collision. You, on the other hand, seem to be highly sensitive to many things at once, especially moving objects, no matter their size. Carts, people, dogs, flies.’

  ‘Sound… sound, too,’ I muttered, my gaze dropping to my shoes. How could he leaf through my pages like this? His analytic mind tickling secrets I didn’t share and no one ever observed.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said.

  — six —

  James smiled at me. He slid his hand down my neck, curling his fingers around my throat. His smile changed to a fanged grin. He bent down to kiss me. My tongue slid over his incisors as I felt his hackles rise. He sank his teeth…

  ‘Anna!’ A voice cut through the dream. Fingers dug in my shoulder, sending a hiss up my throat.

  I discovered Sherlock by my bed, bending over me. The light from his room illuminated one side of his face. His brow was crinkled.

  ‘Thank you.’ I coughed. ‘I’m good now. Go back to sleep.’

  Slowly, he rose and walked away. ‘Good night,’ he said before closing his door.

  ‘Good night,’ I answered after he was already gone.

  Why was it that I felt so… so hollow and transparent? As though I weren’t there. Every night, James invaded my dreams and forced himself on me before he killed me or I killed him. And every morning, I woke up and still felt him between my legs and smelled his death on my skin. It bore no logic. He was dead and I am alive. But I never felt so. I felt as though he were more alive than I.

  And yet, I preferred these dreams to the ones about my dead father.

  The morning sun shone through my window and through my eyelids, prodding me awake. I blinked and heard a knock. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We must leave soon,’ Sherlock called through the closed door.

  After we had eaten, we bought provisions and supplies and boarded the train to Brighton. I had a new dress that could be adjusted at the waist to accommodate my growing stomach. Buying it was almost as painful as putting it on. It felt as though my fate was to be sealed again and again.

  When the train followed a sharp eastward bend, my nose was dipped against the window. I wiped the print off the glass and watched the dark blue sea coming into view, the green countryside littered with small farms, villages, cattle, and sheep.

  ‘I wonder how you observe, or rather, what your eyes see and your mind analyses,’ Sherlock mused. ‘Is there anything in particular that you tend to focus on? How loud does a sound have to be? How fast does an object, an animal, or person have to move to attract your attention?’

  He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes lit up with curiosity. It wouldn’t surprise me the least if he’d pulled out his magnifying glass to attempt a brain examination through my ears or nostrils.

  ‘While we walked to the station,’ I began, suppressing a smile, ‘we passed an elderly couple. The man was talking about their too-old horse while she told him that the pain in both her hips had got worse. Three children, a few yards to the left, had an argument about a single piece of candied pineapple, the artificial kind that is so very yellow and sticky sweet. The cobbler on the other side of the street moved a crate out of his shop; it caught on a stone that stuck out of the pavement a little. It must have become loose only recently. The man swore into his beard while a woman in the room above him was about to tip cabbage leftovers out the window. The sash needed oiling; it squealed as she opened it. She must be doing this every day, always at the same time, for a flock of sparrows was already waiting for the food to hit the street. They fought over it while a buzzard called high above the town and a goldfinch snuck past us quietly, flying low. A pair of swallows switched places on their nest that stuck to the house behind us and you chatted nonsense about our new home in London. All that happened in merely a minute. Do you want me to go into detail?’

  ‘An example, if you please.’

  I closed my eyes, recalling the scene. ‘Naturally, my view is somewhat sharpened
for injuries and disease. The man had a slight limp, but I cannot tell what the cause might be. It was an old injury or illness. The shape of his shoe had adapted to his way of walking; the slight inward tilt of his foot wore the heel flat on that side.’ I opened my eyes again. Sherlock was listening attentively. ‘The aching of the wife’s hips was not chronic, I believe. She walked carefully, but otherwise placed her feet almost normally; her legs weren’t bent outward. I assume her hipbones were not arthritic. Whatever she did to reach this state, I would recommend her stopping it at once to save her from more pain.’

  ‘Intriguing. Hum…’ He leaned back, stretched his long legs, and pushed his hands in his trouser pockets and said, ‘You never take morphia to shut them out?’

  ‘Shut out what? People?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No,’ I answered. ‘But it is indeed tiresome. Sometimes I feel like screaming to muffle the noises that constantly scream at me. I feel the urge to scream at all these people who are constantly buzzing, chatting, and behaving utterly illogically and insensitively. Keeping my hands busy keeps me sane. Healing people keeps me sane.’

  Silently, he watched the countryside fly by. As the train slowed to a stop in Brighton, he said, ‘There are moments when I despise everyone. That is why I’m not in the habit of carrying a revolver.’

  He rose and slung the bag over his shoulder. I watched his back, wondering whether this was the reason for him to avoid humans: we were emotional, uncontrolled, loud, and dumb. We had a tendency to drive a man like him into madness.

  We took the train to London. As soon as we reached our compartment, he extracted from his bag the telescope he had purchased in Littlehampton.

  ‘That’s why you led us along these hills,’ I said. ‘To watch Moran, should he be tracking us.’

  ‘Precisely,’ he said and leaned against the window.