The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘We should take turns,’ I said, eager to see if Moran was indeed coming.

  ‘Hum,’ he grunted and then said nothing while he searched the countryside.

  We passed Hodshrove and his body tensed like a spring, his telescope pointing west to a hill about half a mile or a mile away. ‘I cannot be absolutely certain. But two men and three dogs are walking precisely where we walked, and they look suspiciously familiar.’

  ‘Let me see,’ I said, and he gave me the instrument. The view was a little blurry, and the movements of the train didn’t make it easy to focus, either. The locomotive hooted and I saw both men turning towards us. His movements, the way he shaded his eyes, how he slapped at his companion, looked all too familiar.

  ‘It’s him,’ I said. ‘I even know the dogs. They are James’s Mastiffs. They know my scent.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ I asked.

  His eyes were shiny with excitement, his voice crisp. ‘He is faster than I expected him to be. We will reach Lewes shortly. I’ll dispatch a telegram to my brother. Tomorrow, we’ll return to Littlehampton. These two,’ he pointed at the window, ‘should need another three days.’

  ‘The miscarriage plan,’ I noted.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘It should provoke Moran to contact his men. Their identities will be revealed!’ He rubbed his hands and clicked his tongue. ‘I do hope he reveals the identity of the doctor in Dundee. But first we need to make sure you are sufficiently suffering.’

  ‘I need blood, a pale face, and a coat to warm my weakened body and, of course, to hide my stomach once the child is officially buried and we are leaving Littlehampton. A new dress would be practical, too, since I’ll be spoiling this one.’

  ‘Good. While I go to the post office, you get a dress and a coat. We’ll find an inn later.’

  ‘And bandages, a sharp knife—’

  ‘I have one,’ he interrupted.

  ‘I know. But I’m not using that dirty thing.’

  ‘You want to cut yourself? We can get blood from a butcher. Ah… no. It will congeal, of course. Good. We’ll use my blood.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We use mine. I’ll open a vein at my ankle. It’ll be easy to stop the bleeding. A little blood loss will make me convincingly pale and queasy. Besides, you need to be the one running about nervously, fetching ointments and medicine for your ailing wife. If you pass out every few yards—’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! But yes, we’ll do as you say.’ He grinned and appeared ten years younger. I wondered how he had looked when he was a boy. The images of a five-year-old in an asylum made me nauseous.

  ‘Are you afraid?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I was just wondering how you looked when you were a boy.’

  ‘Like a stick.’ He laughed, then leaned back and inspected the window.

  The train rolled into Lewes and we parted at once. I dashed to the chemist, to a second-hand clothes store, and then met with Sherlock at Lewes’s only inn half an hour later.

  ‘I’m starving,’ I announced as we stepped inside.

  With trotters, potatoes, cabbage, and ale on the table, we discussed our plans.

  ‘I instructed Mycroft to meet with us the day after tomorrow. He will bring a stillborn of appropriate size and freshness.’

  I nodded and poked at my trotter. The naked and gooey sheep foot suddenly looked rather uninviting. On the other hand, if it were hairy, it would be much less edible, I told myself, and began to suck the soft meat off the bone.

  ‘I’ll bleed myself ten minutes before we arrive in Littlehampton, then decorate my dress with a sufficient amount of blood, as well as your hands — you are my husband, and a doctor, after all. I’ll walk into town, moaning and heavily supported by you.’

  ‘Precisely,’ he said and plopped his jug with ale on the table. ‘How did you manage to poison Moriarty?’

  His gaze slid to my hands that now froze around fork and knife. I felt like retching. ‘I spread a mixture of essence of belladonna and arsenic solution on my lower lip, my breasts, and my vulva, knowing that James would lick it off eagerly.’

  ‘Exceptional!’

  The admiring tone was the last thing I had expected. Only a second later, he seemed to have arrived at the conclusion that his reaction was, perhaps, rather inappropriate. The light in his eyes flickered.

  ‘Can you really admire that?’ I said quietly, as not to snarl at him. ‘A murder? How can you not be disgusted by how I betrayed a man and destroyed his life?’

  ‘The method is admirable, but more so the strength, calculation, and nerve to accomplish it. Morals are not helpful here; they will twist you either way. Was Moriarty an evil man who deserved death? Or was he merely a man who made mistakes that could be forgiven? Simplification of the utterly complex for the sake of self-accusation to hold up moral is not only stupid and invites self-pity, it is outright dangerous.’

  He was correct, of course. I began to wonder whether the logical mind would help the heart to heal.

  ‘There is no use in regretting the past,’ he said.

  ‘But that! How can I not regret that?’ I cried. ‘This is his child. It will be born in a few months.’

  I thought about the risk of dying during childbirth. The thought tasted like an option, not a threat.

  ‘You think of the child as his. But aren’t there parts of you, too? Isn’t it half you?’

  ‘Which part of me? The part that manipulates or the part that believes humanity is a mob of brainless creatures?’

  ‘My father used to tell me that I’m just like his father, a man whom he despised,’ he said. A deep laugh rocked his ribcage. ‘He told me I was a perfect copy of his father’s character and stature. He knew I adored my grandfather, a grumpy and irritating man whose snide remarks always hit the truth in the heart.’

  ‘And you mean to tell me what precisely?’

  ‘That your child could be like you, or like Moriarty, or like your father, or even your mother. But most likely, your child will be a person of his or her own.’

  I huffed at him. The chances that a second Anton would suddenly appear were minimal. A series of images flitted through my mind — a row of ancestors, a chaotic mix of Moriartys and Kronbergs.

  ‘I cannot tell you what the right thing to do would be. But should you choose to raise him, you can give him what he needs to be an intelligent and loving man,’ he said. ‘Or woman.’

  He bent forward, pressed my hand for a long moment before releasing it again. How empty it felt now. I curled it around the other to fill the void.

  ‘So, in essence, you try to tell me that the child might or might not show James’s characteristics and that I should raise him or her to ascertain the world will not be bothered by another criminal mastermind,’ I said, slamming the cutlery on the table. My appetite had disappeared.

  ‘You are terrified,’ he observed.

  ‘You believe that locking you up in an asylum one day would be justified,’ I retorted.

  He signalled yes, and so did I.

  Then he changed the topic. ‘The man who talked about the too-old horse has served in the Boer War. He took a shot in his right lower leg. The injury tilted his foot inward a fraction. The horse was too old to pull the plough, but the couple couldn’t afford a new one, so the wife had begun to work as a help in the post office. The constant sitting made her hips ache; her wrists had marks from the edge of the counter and her fingers were smudged with ink. She even had ink on her right temple. She must have rubbed it repeatedly. Perhaps a headache?’

  ‘An oncoming cold?’ I offered halfheartedly.

  ‘Her eyes didn’t look like it. Her voice didn’t indicate it, either. But then it could be early,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not convinced of that gunshot wound. He might have been injured while working in the fields,’ I noted.

  ‘He wore a small medal. It was tucked just above his waistcoat pocket; only its top was visible — a black suspension piec
e with simple ornaments characteristic of service medals from the Boer War. The ribbon was missing.’

  ‘But had he been injured at war or in his field?’ I insisted and the corners of his mouth twitched.

  ‘To be absolutely certain, we have to return to Littlehampton at once and undress the man,’ he said, whacking the table top.

  ‘It’s not too late. The next train should leave in an hour or two.’

  ‘Very well. Shall we wager?’

  I grew cautious. He was convinced he was correct. I closed my eyes and imagined possible injuries a farmer could suffer. The horse kicks him hard — fractures, perhaps with the bone penetrating the skin, could result in a tilted foot if the fracture hadn’t been set properly. How had he walked? No shuffling, no limping, and the hip had seemed straight enough, so a considerable shortening of one leg due to false setting of the bones wasn’t likely. A fall, perhaps? Or a carriage driving over his legs? All I could come up with resulted in fractures. The tilted foot. Slight inward angle. No limp. No torsion of the hip. On the inside of my eyelids, I saw a bullet pass through various parts of the limb, severing muscles, nerves, tendons.

  ‘There is no way of knowing whether he was shot or cut in the leg. The cut could have been done with a scythe. Or,’ I interrupted myself, theatrically poking my index finger into the air, ‘her lover attacked her husband in the middle of the night, tried to cut the man’s throat but ended up slicing the calf muscle instead.’ I laughed. ‘Or he chopped wood and drove the axe in his leg. Either way, scarring of the calf muscle resulted in a shortening of the same, and ultimately, in a slight inward bend of the foot.’

  He looked at me as though I had lost my mind.

  ‘But then it is rather complicated to cut oneself with a scythe or axe at that angle.’ I rose and made a sweeping gesture, trying to hack at the flesh on the back of my leg. The clientele regarded me with puzzled looks.

  ‘The man was lucky he didn’t lose his leg,’ I noted and sat down. ‘Battlefields are awash with germs.’

  A satisfied smile flared up, accompanied with a nod.

  ‘I rather opt for a mild case of polio,’ I added.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘As the cause for the man’s slightly tilted foot.’ All I got as a response was a pluck of his hand and a mischievous grin.

  On the following day, we boarded the first train to Littlehampton and, as planned, I began the procedure a few minutes before our arrival. I took off my left shoe, pulled the stocking down, and opened the knife. ‘The cup, please,’ I said, waving at him.

  A sharp pain, then the tinkling of thick liquid hitting the metal cup’s bottom. The cup began to fill and soon, my tongue felt dry and my ears sang quietly.

  I fastened gauze over the small wound, pulled up my stocking, laced my shoe, and stuck my fingers in the cup. My blood was warm and was already congealing. The amount and its metallic odour felt alarming. I poured the liquid on my dress and rubbed it over the front and hem while Sherlock smeared it on his hands and cuffs. We looked as though we had butchered a piglet.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  I nodded. He slung the rucksack over his back, the bag over his shoulder, then stepped forward, offering me his free arm. I slumped against him and began moaning.

  And so we left the train, called a carriage, and arrived at the George Inn only a day after we had left it.

  The landlord carried our luggage up the stairs, constantly calling for his wife and most likely thinking us idiotic for taking yet another trip through the moorlands and then returning, yet again, all bashed up. Obviously, Londoners hadn’t much brain in their funny heads.

  When the landlady finally arrived, she left with a long list of things that needed to be arranged. Towels, hot water, cold water, disinfectants, and surgical instruments for the poor doctor who had left all his tools and supplies in his practice. Who could have known that the short trip to the countryside would have such a detrimental effect on his wife? While buzzing around in the most nervous fashion, Sherlock let everyone in Littlehampton know that his wife was at the brink of a miscarriage and that she should not, under any circumstances, be disturbed.

  It seemed Littlehampton walked on tiptoe. People didn’t even dare talk when passing outside our window. Only the sparrows and finches and swallows dared say a peep.

  ‘Well done,’ I whispered as he returned.

  ‘Likewise. And now, my dear wife, you haven’t done any moaning for at least ten minutes.’

  ‘Make me,’ I said.

  Did I see him blush? I believe I did. Hiding my face, I doubled over and began to moan loudly.

  The sun had begun to set. I watched its descent while producing ailing noises every few minutes. He had bled himself to stain the white towels red, then sent them down to the landlady. Littlehampton’s practitioner had asked whether we needed his help, but of course we didn’t.

  ‘Very good,’ Sherlock whispered after he had shuffled the doctor out of our room. ‘Should Moran ask questions, he will learn that a doctor and his wife had a miscarriage. He’ll conclude that you helped yourself, considering your medical knowledge.’ He lowered himself on a chair with a huff of accomplishment. ‘After all, a miscarriage is nothing but a birth.’

  Yes. And a stillborn is considered nothing but waste, I thought. Should Mycroft make the mistake of offering money for a stillborn, people would throw them at him.

  Around seven o’clock, Sherlock went down to fetch supper for both of us, saying that I was sleeping at last, but should I wake in the middle of the night, I might need sustenance.

  He lit the candle on the nightstand and we ate in silence. ‘I’d like to wash,’ I told him when supper was finished. He retreated to his room.

  I undressed and removed the bandage from my ankle. The cut was small and pale. I cleansed myself at the washbowl, disinfected the wound, wrapped the cotton strip around it, and dressed in my nightgown. Then I knocked at his door.

  ‘Yes?’ he called and I entered. He had already washed and changed as well.

  ‘I need to disinfect your cut,’ I said.

  He saw the iodine in my one hand, the kerchief in the other, and nodded.

  He placed his foot on the bed, I sat next to him and unwrapped the bandages. ‘You washed it already. Good,’ I said, dabbing disinfectant on the small wound, and then lightly wrapped the cotton strip around it again. ‘We can take the bandages off tomorrow as long as the shoes don’t rub on the cuts.’

  He remained silent, staring at my hand holding his foot. I cleared my throat and rose to my feet, wishing him a good night.

  Back in my room, I hoped not to cry out in my dreams. I wanted him here when he wished to be here, not when he believed I needed consolation.

  — seven —

  I produced more noise the following morning while Sherlock met with his brother. As soon as he returned, I began screaming in earnest.

  ‘We will need more blood for this.’ I indicated the two packages he brought. He nodded and, without comment, bent down and opened a vein on his other ankle. ‘Enough!’ I warned when the cup was half-full.

  I spread the liquid on my nightgown and on the sheets, then asked him to give me the first package. Reluctantly, my fingers peeled off the layers of wax paper. Inside lay a tiny girl, wrinkled and grey. A newly hatched moth. The odour of decay didn’t come off her yet; she must have been only a few hours old.

  I had helped mothers give birth. Mothers from the lowest classes who were suffering from malnutrition and hadn’t had the strength to carry a child to term. I had seen many stillborns in my life. And yet, this dead girl hit me in the chest at full force. I pressed my hand over my mouth, growled, and put myself back together.

  ‘You should go down and spread the news,’ I said to him. He tipped his chin, took his hat, and left.

  I placed the foetus on the sheet among the red smudges, poured blood on her, unwrapped the other package, took out the placenta and umbilical cord, laid them out, then tossed the paper
under the bed. I smeared the last of the blood on my nightgown, then curled up in the mess, warming the small body with my own, and bending and massaging her limbs to loosen the rigor mortis.

  A timid knock announced our first and only witness. Sherlock and Littlehampton’s practitioner stepped in. The latter saw that I was alive and comparatively well, and the child was not. He touched her lukewarm skin, nodded at the missing heartbeat, and seemed convinced she died an hour ago.

  Then he left, for his help wasn’t needed. Too normal a sight, even here, far from London’s grime, disease, and poverty.

  ‘The landlady will soon bring us water. We can clean up. She informed me that there is no open grave at the moment. I told her that under these circumstances, we will bury our daughter down at the beach.’

  ‘We can build a small grave with a mound of stones and a small cross. Easy for Moran to see. He will dig her up to make sure there is indeed a dead child,’ I said.

  ‘Will you be alright?’

  ‘Of course.’

  We sat on the bed, I staring at my hands and he staring at his knees, chewing on an imaginary pipe until a knock interrupted the grim scene and water, fresh towels, and sheets were delivered.

  ‘I will go alone,’ he announced after he had washed his hands and put a fresh shirt on. ‘Everyone will expect you to remain in bed for a few hours at the least.’

  I nodded and watched him carrying away the girl, the placenta, and his blood wrapped in a towel.

  One-eyed, I peeked out of the window, careful not to move the curtain. His slender figure crossed the street. People stepped out of his way, eyeing the package under his arm, quickly drawing their fingers across their chests — up-down, right-left — then hastily turning away. Bad luck. I longed to get away from here, but the charade needed to be played to its end.

  I used the rest of the water to wash the blood off my skin. The red in the bowl reminded me of my days in the slums. So often had I placed my hands into someone’s wound. To stitch them up, sometimes to saw off a limb. I had been tougher back then.