The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  Light rain tapped against the window. The morning sun peeked through cracks in the cloud cover, rays prickling through the drops on the windowpane and refracting into a hundred small rainbows.

  Our belongings were already packed. For authenticity’s sake, Sherlock carried both the rucksack and the large bag while I was to lean on him. We stumbled down the stairs, through the small parlour, out into the drizzle, and across cobblestones that were steaming with rain and horse manure.

  The station emerged from the mist, a red brick building, its roof streaked white from gull droppings. The birds called and circled while we waited for the train. Soon came the hooting and the wisps of steam, before the locomotive pushed into the station. The stationmaster saw us step into the train. None of the Littlehamptoners saw us exit on the other side. Even if we had been seen by passengers, they were all taken away to New Shoreham, Brighton, or London.

  Sprinkling camphor in our wake to spoil the tracking fun for Moran’s dogs, we walked to the river Arun. The chain ferry took us across. The ferryman thought we were early tourists. He had never seen us before, and the rumours spoke of a doctor and his ailing wife, who certainly wouldn’t be expected to walk about laughing, pointing at the scenery, and chatting as I was doing now.

  Once we reached the other side of the river, we went down to the dunes to set up our tent.

  ‘How long, in your opinion?’ I asked.

  ‘It depends on the dogs. How quick they tire, how often they lose our scent, and how quickly they find it again. It could be any time from this very instant to up to two days from now.’

  He pulled out his telescope and scanned the area where the river spilled into the sea. ‘Look. There.’

  I took the instrument from his hand and searched where he had indicated. On the other side was a small pile of rocks where the dunes softly rolled down to the beach. One of us would always be keeping an eye on it.

  Littelhampton Harbour, 1890s (6)

  — eight —

  We watched boats going in and out of the river’s mouth, heard fishermen praise their catch, oystermen haggle for a better price for their harvest, and gulls scream at the sea. The wind combed the grass; the tent’s oilskin flapped lazily.

  While he kept his telescoped eye directed to the other side of the river, I gazed up at the sky, one hand on my stomach, feeling the growing weight of the child and wondering what the next day might bring. ‘In two or three weeks, this stomach will be too large to hide.’

  ‘Hiding it won’t be necessary for much longer. We will go to London as soon as Moran discovers the grave. I need to know whom he contacts. After that, we’ll pay Moriarty’s solicitors a visit.’

  ‘Moran will be delighted to learn that the child is dead. No need to wait three years; he can take revenge immediately.’

  ‘Precisely.’ He lowered the telescope and rubbed his eyes, then turned to me. ‘If all goes as planned, Moran will take the train to London, believing we are already there. I have only one problem.’

  ‘What problem?’ I sat up.

  ‘Evidence against Moran and Parker is weak. If I try to convict them, they will probably win the trial. I have to find an alternative.’

  I leaned back and watched the clouds crawl across the light blue sky. ‘I have no problem shooting Moran in his ugly head.’

  ‘Unfortunately! You might be developing an unhealthy habit.’

  ‘Let me take the watch for a while.’ I moved to his side. He placed the telescope in my hand and retreated into the tent. During the day, we would stay hidden. At this time of the year, only the first handfuls of tourists trickled into Littlehampton, too few to conceal our presence, but enough to possibly discover us or disturb the grave.

  Night had fallen two hours ago. Moran hadn’t come. I walked along the dunes, chewing on two thick slices of bread with a piece of ham in between. The grass was soft under my bare feet. Blades tickled my ankles.

  A gentle slope led me down to the deserted beach, littered with small rocks and stones polished by millennia of water licking land. The rush of the sea was like a welcome song. I should have lived close by it; it might have healed my soul. Like pulsing blood, a heartbeat, the whisper of caresses — at times gentle, other times rough as passion; the music would have filled my void.

  I lifted the hem of my dress and sat down on a rock close to the water’s edge. The sea washed my feet and sand sneaked in between my toes. I closed my eyes, letting my ears take over my mind. Push and pull. Push and pull. The sea was reminiscent of Sherlock. An almost-embrace, then immediate retreat. A glance, gentle and caring, then his back turned towards me for the remainder of the day.

  I pushed away from the rock, shed my clothes, and walked into the water, moonlight glittering on its black surface. Coldness stung my belly and my uterus hardened to protect the child. Seaweed curled around my wrists as though to pull me asunder. Foam danced across the gentle waves, up and down, lapping at my belly. I gulped a lungful of air and dove. With the sound of the sea in my ears and the blackness embracing me, I grew calmer.

  Walking back to our hiding place, I spotted a slender silhouette next to the tent. He had his hands in his trouser pockets. I remembered the first time I’d set eyes on him. He had walked through tall grass, just as tall as it was now. The wind had bent it, just as it did now. I’d had the fleeting impression that his body was about to be bent by the wind, too.

  I walked up to him, my hair dripping saltwater onto my shoulders and soaking my dress. ‘I’ll take the first watch.’

  He lowered his head in agreement. ‘Moran is unable to cross the river at night. On this side, you are safe.’

  I nodded. He had interpreted my shiver correctly. ‘He’ll not be able to send a wire at night, either,’ I said. ‘This isn’t London.’

  Even if Moran arrived this very moment, found the grave, and interviewed the few Littlehamptoners who were still awake, and then learned we had left for London, he couldn’t do much. He would have to wait for the post office to open at eight in the morning and for the first train at nine twenty.

  The wind gushed through my wet hair and I began to grow cold. He slid into the tent, retrieved a blanket, and laid it around my shoulders. My gaze was trapped by his and I didn’t know where to put my hands. My heart began to gallop and I could feel it in my throat and ears, in my legs and stomach.

  ‘I’m not tired yet. Let us sit here for a while,’ he said and waved at the grass to our feet. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you this for a while now: how could you afford to study medicine? Your father was a carpenter. His earnings could have barely been enough to feed and clothe you.’

  ‘A handsome man helped the damsel in distress.’ I smirked at him and explained, ‘Carpenters in Germany and Switzerland, and I don’t know what other countries, have a funny tradition. As apprentices, they take to the roads, then find a master but do not remain with him for any extended period of time. Half a year at the most, I believe. Then they take to the road again. There are some rules they have to adhere to, but most of them are secrets of the trade. All I know is that they are allowed only a certain amount of money while they travel, a maximum time with each master, and a minimum time of apprenticeship. They have their own secret language, even. They live the life of nomads for three years or longer. During his apprenticeship, my father met Matthias, a Swiss carpenter’s apprentice. They took to each other like a fly to shit.’

  Upon his low chuckle, I added, ‘Not my words. It was their own joke, but they never told me who was the fly and who the shit. As it happened, Matthias was not only charming and intelligent, he was quite handsome, too. Tall, fair hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders. Almost every woman craned her neck when he walked past. At least that’s what my father kept saying. He and Matthias were offered work by a wealthy man in Bavaria. He had a beautiful daughter who, upon seeing Matthias’s shapely figure every summer day, did not even dream of rejecting his advances. Naturally, her father had several screaming attacks. He wanted her married t
o a well-bred gentleman. She, however, had her own mind, and the two became husband and wife after only three months of courtship. Her father threatened to disown her, but in the end, he didn’t. Before he could change his will, he died.’

  Sherlock’s breath stalled for a moment.

  ‘Are you suspecting a murder, Mr Holmes?’ I teased him.

  ‘Always. Pray continue, although it is clear now who your benefactors were.’

  ‘The two friends parted but kept writing, and once in a while they visited one another. Matthias was the one who stood by my father’s side after my mother’s death. He paid a wet nurse; otherwise, I would have died, too. When I was older, I spent several summers at their house. He and his wife never had children, so they took to me and, I believe, both loved me dearly. Before I turned ten, I told everyone with a pair of ears that I would be a physician. This wish made me rather unhappy, because fulfilment would never come. As a girl, I would never be admitted to university, nor could I afford the tuition. One fine summer day, however, Matthias asked me whether I’d like to dress up. I laughed at him, believing I was supposed to wear pretty dresses, which I never liked. They were just plain uncomfortable! He brought me a shirt, a waistcoat, and a pair of trousers in my size. You cannot imagine how delighted I was!’

  ‘On the contrary, I can very well imagine,’ he said in calm amusement.

  ‘Well, it turned out I looked quite boyish and if I were to cut my hair, I could certainly make people believe I was a boy. He taught me how to walk like a man, how to burp like a man, how to laugh and talk like a man. I found it utterly amusing until the day I enrolled at university. I was so scared, I must have trembled the first semester without interruption.’

  ‘Did they ever ask you to return the money you owed?’

  ‘They did. But they didn’t want me to pay it back to them. I was to return the favour to people in need,’ I answered.

  ‘Is that why you chose to live in the slums?’

  ‘Hmm… yes and no.’ I pressed my palms against my tired back. ‘It’s a bit more complicated. I guess I would have ended up there, anyway. I needed a safe place to be me. Besides, I wasn’t the only medical doctor who provided free treatment to the poor.’

  He waved his hand. ‘In all my years in London, I have heard of only three physicians who would offer their services for free. You are one of them.’

  ‘Well, yes. But there were a lot of nurses who did that. Besides, the slums were a good place to hide my short hair and my big mouth. Nothing outrageous about that among all those criminals, prostitutes, and beggars,’ I supplied.

  ‘Your mouth is not big. I measured it two years ago,’ he said dryly.

  — nine —

  Pale morning light brushed across Sherlock’s profile as he poked his head through a crack in the oilskin. ‘We will separate,’ he said. ‘Moran must not see either of us and I’m faster without the luggage. I’ll follow on his heels while you’ll send a telegram to my brother. Then, you follow. But you cannot be seen in Littlehampton.’

  ‘He’s here?’ I was suddenly wide awake.

  He shook his head. ‘But we should pack and be ready.’

  I answered with a nod. We rolled up the blankets and collapsed the tent while hunching low enough as not to let our heads show above the grass. He folded the oilskin and stuffed it in his bag. ‘Can you carry all this?’

  ‘Of course I can,’ I answered.

  Then we waited. He flat on his stomach, the telescope in his hands, and me perched on my heels, surveying the surroundings while cutting slices of bread and ham.

  We ate and washed our breakfast down with the cold and bitter tea from the previous night. The wind let the grass tickle our faces, held the gulls high above us, and carried their cries and the salty air over our heads. The sun hid behind a thin sheet of clouds.

  ‘Are there any good memories from your time in the asylum?’ I asked.

  ‘Hum…’ he answered, one eye directed at the grave. A boyish smile lit up his features. ‘Ha!’ he said and I was all ears, expecting wild stories to be revealed.

  ‘Two ladies taught me a vast diversity of German swearwords.’ He turned to me, eyes shining. ‘Miss Glücklich and Miss Meier.’

  I almost spat out my breakfast. ‘Glücklich? You found a Miss Glücklich in an asylum? Do you know that glücklich is the German word for lucky or happy?’

  ‘Of course. I speak German fluently.’

  It took me a while to digest this information. ‘You never told me.’

  ‘On what occasion precisely should I have done so? There was none. Besides, your English is excellent. No need to help you with translations.’

  A dry remark and completely logical if one had possessed all information beforehand. ‘Why were they there?’

  ‘They were Sapphists.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling a pang. ‘What you people from the upper classes have to endure is… madness. I have no other word for it. Locking up two women because they love each other. Locking away a boy who, even if he had made a horrible mistake, was but a small child and hence, innocent. All these useless rules go against logic, compassion, and instinct.’

  Feeling quite hot from anger, I rubbed my hair and let the wind cool my scalp and my thoughts. ‘If I had abided by those rules, I’d never have been a medical doctor. I would now sit at home, would have given birth to eight children, of which four would have died of undernourishment or disease. And I would have a husband who believes that beating his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb is appropriate only because the law allows him to!’

  I threw a handful of sand in the wind. It was blown straight back into my face. ‘Shit, I have sand between my teeth.’

  A low chuckle rolled up his throat. I pressed my knuckles in his ribs and said, ‘I was kissed by a woman once.’

  ‘Me too,’ he answered and turned back to observing the surroundings for any signs of Moran and Parker while I inspected the grass for any signs of six-legged fauna.

  ‘We drank all of the tea,’ I said somewhat involuntarily, feeling rather dry in my mouth. ‘The water is gone, too.’

  We didn’t speak for the ensuing two hours. Only the wind whispered in my ears, the gulls screamed, and the sea rushed up against the shore, again and again.

  ‘I changed my mind,’ he finally said. ‘You’ll leave now. A trap can take you from the ferry to Bognor. Take the train to London from there.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I will not discuss it!’ he warned.

  ‘Good. Because I won’t, either. There is no reason for me to leave, other than you wishing to tuck me away safely.’

  His face showed annoyance. I smiled at him and said, ‘I know you care. But don’t make me smaller now. You know what I’m capable of.’

  His set chin didn’t relax. ‘It is only logical for you to go to London immediately. You are too slow to help me track Moran, and the next instance your presence is needed will be at the solicitors’ office to receive your dower.’

  ‘It would only be logical if I would expect you to do everything and think everything for me. And you know I don’t. I need to see with my own eyes how Moran reacts to the child’s death. I want to see how hungry he is. I collect my own data and analyse them with my own brain. You may do as you seem fit.’ With that, I turned my attention to the grass and the sand as though they needed inspection.

  Around noon, he knocked the sand off his trousers, took our two bottles and the one water pouch, and dashed off to the ferryman.

  With the telescope held up against one eye, I watched the pile of rocks and the dunes farther up.

  A hat appeared, then another. Shoulders emerged from the tall grass. One of the men turned enough for me to see part of his moustache. My skin prickled. Moran! I turned my head to see where Sherlock was. I thought of warning him, but then decided against it. He would keep an eye out for the two and would approach our hiding spot with utmost care. The sun was still behind the clouds. No strong reflections could be
cast off the telescope and betray my location. I lifted the instrument to my face again and watched their progress.

  Three dogs sniffed eagerly, urging the two men ahead. Moran’s companion appeared younger, perhaps in his thirties. His clothing was cheap. His demeanour showed how low in the rank he stood — he obeyed Moran’s waving hand in a flash. The man squatted next to the pile of rocks, flicked the makeshift cross aside, then moved the rocks.

  He stopped, scooped sand with his hands, stopped again. Moran bent down, pointed, and his footman, Parker, picked up the package.

  Did I see reluctance in his moves? The girl must have begun to stink. Both men stood still for a moment, gazing down at the bloody towel and its contents. Moran waved; Parker dropped it back in the sand and tossed a few rocks back on her. Callousness, whispered my mind.

  While they stood with arms crossed over their chests, I heard Sherlock approach. Sand whispered under his shoes.

  ‘Did they swallow the bait?’

  ‘It appears so,’ I said quietly and gave him the telescope. While he observed the two, I told him what I had seen.

  ‘The next train leaves at three twenty,’ he noted.

  ‘That will be the last train today.’

  A few minutes later, he rose. His knees were crackling. ‘They are gone. Come.’

  While we hurried to the ferry, he said, ‘Enquire for a trap to Worthing. As soon as you arrive there, send a telegram to Mycroft Holmes, Diogenes Club, Pall Mall. The message “now” will suffice. He’ll know what to do—’

  We ducked when we saw Moran and Parker on the other side of the river.

  ‘I’ll keep a very close eye on these two. He’ll dispatch telegrams from the post office. You and I will meet at Victoria Station tomorrow morning. Should I be unable to arrive in time, leave the luggage with a porter, then hide at your Irish friend’s home at once.’

  ‘Garret? Are you serious?’