The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  How recent was the information of my supposed death? Was it Moran’s version of reality or that of James’s family?

  ‘We took the liberty of letting your solicitor, Mr Wright, inspect all of your late husband’s papers. If you wish, we can show and explain everything to you—’

  ‘The short version, please,’ I said.

  ‘Very well.’ He picked through the pile of papers that lay in neat stacks on his desk, then cleared his throat. ‘It is most unusual for a man of his standing. And considering his meticulousness, I cannot fathom why… My sincere apologies, Mrs Moriarty, but there appears to be no will. Without it, all of your husband’s possessions are to be transferred to his closest male relative, or, in the lack thereof, to his closest female relative. In plain English, his sister Charlotte already inherited everything. However, by law, you are entitled to a dower equivalent to one third of your husband’s estates.’

  ‘If there truly is no will, as you stated, Charlotte Moriarty cannot inherit a farthing. I am with child.’

  The man coughed in his hand. ‘We received intelligence of a miscarriage.’

  ‘Whose?’ I asked, feigning surprise and puzzlement.

  ‘Well, obviously the miscarriage of the heir-at-law.’ A dignified index finger rose to brush imaginary lint off an impeccable lapel. The man’s lips compressed; his eyes searched for evidence underneath the frills of my mourning dress.

  ‘You also received intelligence of my death, did you not? Do you believe I’m dead, Mr Palmer?’

  Blood rose to his face.

  ‘Do you wish to consult a physician, or would you like to conduct the examination yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘Well…’ He trailed off, swivelled his head, and said, ‘I need proof. Considering the amount of money that will change hands, I fear I must insist.’

  ‘Upon my honour!’ huffed Mycroft Holmes.

  Ignoring the affront, I rose and moved veil and frills aside, presenting the small bulge. ‘Would that be sufficient?’

  ‘I need to ascertain its authenticity.’

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘Outrageous!’ barked Mycroft and pushed between Mr Palmer and me.

  I grabbed the man’s hand and placed it on my stomach. The blood vessel on his throat bulged and his upper lip began to perspire. ‘You are obviously terrified of making a mistake, Mr Palmer. I wonder what troubles my late husband’s family is giving you.’ With that, I released him.

  When he wiped the palm on his trousers, I felt an urge to kick his groin.

  ‘Upon clarification of this delicate subject, I suggest we proceed,’ Sherlock said coldly.

  The air in the room changed at once.

  ‘Your late husband is, or I should say was, in the possession of a variety of estates and trust funds, plus a rather large amount of money in various bank accounts,’ Mr Palmer began. ‘As suggested earlier by your solicitor, Mr Wright, all money will be withdrawn, trust funds liquidated, and all estates sold. The money that has already been transferred to Mrs Charlotte Moriarty’s accounts will now be removed, if necessary through a court order that won’t be complicated to get. May I assume this meets with your approval?’

  I signalled yes and flicked my gaze to Sherlock, who now began to speak. ‘We will provide testimony by a certified physician. Should the court be as skeptical as you about the obvious state of my client.’

  A stiff nod answered his offer.

  ‘As for the estates to be sold,’ the solicitor continued, ‘we are unable, as yet, to give you an exact amount. It depends on the buyers’ motivation, of course. However, before we reach this issue, I have a question regarding the servants. In your house at Kensington Gardens, the servants are still under employ. Do you wish to keep them?’

  ‘No. Pay all of them two months’ salary. Except two: Jonathan Garrow, the coachman, and Cecile Gooding, the lady’s maid. Both shall receive five years’ salary. Then you can sell the house. It reminds me too much of my husband.’ I pushed a kerchief in my face and blew heartily.

  The man in front of me cleared his throat, polished his monocle, and inserted it in his left eye socket. ‘Very well,’ he said, flicking his gaze to the younger man, who instantly began hacking away on a typewriter.

  ‘Now,’ he continued. ‘Estimating the current market value of the estates and trust funds, plus the much larger value represented by your husband’s savings, minus taxes, we arrive at the following amount.’ He stared at a piece of paper in front of him. I could see a lot of numbers, slanted and upside-down.

  His mouth formed the words with great reluctance. ‘Two million and four hundred thousand pounds sterling.’ His fingertips trembled. ‘More or less. Your dower would amount to approximately three hundred thousand pounds, considering that half of Mr Moriarty’s assets are in estates. The rest will be moved to a trust fund with you as the sole trustee and will be transferred to the heir-at-law when he or she attains majority.’

  Silence fell. I thought of Barry, who couldn’t even dream of such numbers, who would probably try to cram equivalents of eel pies and sheep trotters into his head. And Garret, whose freedom I could simply buy. I could buy the entire Newgate prison plus the ugly street it was built on. I could even pull sewers through St Giles—

  ‘Excellent,’ said Sherlock. ‘If you please, arrange for a transfer to the bank account we agreed upon.’

  Everyone looked at me. I nodded.

  There were papers to be signed, received, and kept. Before we left, I bent close to Sherlock to ask a question. He squeezed my arm and whispered, ‘Later.’

  The moment the brougham’s door snapped shut, I slammed my head against the wall and cried, ‘That idiotic stomach examination! Why is it that all these educated upper-class men cannot face the natural consequence of sexual intercourse? I feel as though I’m the only one who…’ I looked at Barry, who was severely red-cheeked. When my gaze drifted to Sherlock, I felt heat rising to my face. Mycroft’s bored look tried to not reveal a thing. I swallowed the mad urge to laugh out loud.

  ‘You were late,’ Sherlock said to me. Upon seeing my clueless expression, he added, ‘You didn’t meet Wiggins? Mycroft, we need to find the boy. Driver!’ He tapped his stick at the carriage’s roof. ‘To the Berkeley Hotel. Make haste!’ A flick of the whip and the horses clopped along the streets.

  I’d seen Wiggins, as well as a few other of Sherlock’s street arabs, only from afar. With Moran so close, it was indeed a bad sign that the boy had gone missing.

  Sherlock turned to Barry with a look of expectation. The boy woke from his rigour and opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again.

  ‘He is my friend and I trust him,’ I said.

  Barry finally found his voice. ‘Did that bloody devil leave you a lot of money?’

  ‘Two million and a bit.’

  He made a croaking noise. ‘Can you buy Buckingham Palace?’

  I burst out laughing. ‘I doubt it, Barry. But I can buy something much better.’ I turned to Sherlock. ‘Garret is in Newgate.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He burgled a house.’

  ‘Did anyone come to harm?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully. ‘I know him as a gentle and caring man. He can hurt people when he defends others. He was caught in the act of burgling a house, but what happened precisely, I cannot tell.’

  Sherlock’s eyes narrowed for a moment.

  ‘Yes, he’s a criminal,’ I added. ‘He’s far from innocent. But I will not let him die in Newgate. If you’d rather not help, I’ll do it alone.’

  His gaze flicked to his brother and it was as if a set of tiny cogwheels were put in motion. ‘The Lord Mayor. You know his weak spots.’

  ‘How much is your friend’s life worth?’ Mycroft turned to me and interpreted my cold stare correctly. ‘Good. Unlimited. His full name, please.’

  ‘Garret O’Hare,’ I answered. ‘I would like to accompany you.’

  ‘No, not to the mayor’s office, but you
are most welcome in Newgate.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Holmes.’

  We arrived at the Berkeley. Sherlock rose and opened the door.

  ‘Wait a moment,’ I said.

  He jumped onto the street and turned to me. ‘I’ll tell you everything upon your return. You’ll find me under the name of Eric Wright. I’ll book a room for your two friends as Thomas and Daniel Atkinson. You are Thomas, the son.’ He pointed at Barry. ‘Your room, Anna, is booked under the name of Olivia Saunders. I’ll also arrange for a physician’s testimony.’

  I turned to Barry, who still sat frozen on his seat. ‘Would you wait for me at the hotel? I might need your help once I’m back.’

  ‘Sure,’ he squeaked and peeled his buttocks off the expensive leather.

  ‘Thank you, my friend. Eat something and stay put.’

  The boy climbed out, the mutt on his heels. Mycroft and I left at once.

  — eleven —

  ‘May I ask how you plan to convince the mayor to release a convicted burglar?’

  ‘You may. I’ll tell him that your friend has information about a German weapon maker who is now in London and is suspected of planning an assassination. The target will, of course, be secret, meaning it’s open to wildest interpretation.’

  ‘And you need money to convince him?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. Either that or I’d have to threaten his career. I prefer the former.’

  ‘What are the chances he’ll release Garret?’

  ‘Since your resources are now unlimited, I should think the chances are close to one hundred per cent,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. I cannot… let him die,’ I stammered. ‘I’m deeply indebted to you—’

  ‘One day I’ll ask you for a favour and you will not decline,’ he interrupted me with a voice so quiet and full of conviction, it impressed more than a shout. I squinted at him, thinking of his request to work as a spy.

  The two horses came to a halt and he alighted at once.

  Waiting for Mycroft Holmes to return with Garret’s release papers tortured the thin sliver of patience I possessed. When he finally opened the brougham’s door, sweat glistened on his forehead. ‘Quick, driver! To Newgate,’ he called.

  ‘What is it?’ Fear crept in through my pores.

  ‘They decided to hang him early. Apparently, your friend is sick enough to make the judges fear he might die before they have a chance to wrap a noose around his neck.’

  I yanked the veil over my face and stared out the window. My eyes began to leak.

  ‘Old Bailey,’ he announced a few minutes later and opened the door for me. ‘I’ll introduce you as the sister of the convict, who wishes to see her brother one last time before he is taken into custody to the Special Branch. The police are of course hoping you will to help tickle dark secrets from your brother.’

  I nodded.

  Newgate, the central courtyard, London, 1896 (9)

  The unhappy building with its small, grated windows glared down on us. We went in through the governor’s house, entered a small office where Mycroft presented the papers, muttered a few words, and an officer was called to conduct us.

  We walked through a lodge, one of its walls decorated with heavy sets of irons — perhaps to scare the new arrivals. We passed a mighty oaken door held by cast iron bands, complete with studded nails and an armed guard, followed by a series of corridors, gates, gratings, and more guards yet. The maze of terror opened to a yard with a thick iron gate at its end. The turnkey on duty admitted us, and after a sharp left turn, we reached the condemned ward. Mycroft’s heels clacked steadily on the stone floor, as though this place didn’t touch him in the least. I held on to his steadiness, hoping Garret was still alive on the other side of the dark passage.

  We entered a room with cells on either side, each guarded by a turnkey. I counted twenty-four convicts, all waiting for the gallows. We continued. Yet another yard, framed by tall walls, a narrow and obscure staircase, then a dark passage ending in a massive iron door. The turnkey bowed and admitted us, and another opened yet another door for us. Hinges screeched, locks clicked.

  The “Graveyard” at Newgate Prison, London, 1896. (10)

  Pushing past Mycroft, I stepped into the stone dungeon and laid my eyes on a man I hardly recognised. His orange mane was matted, his clothes and bare feet blackened with dirt. His breathing was elaborate. I rushed up to him and tossed back the veil, so he would see my face. I took his hand in mine and pressed it hard. ‘Garret.’

  He blinked at me as though I was an illusion. ‘Anna?’

  ‘Don’t speak now. You are free. And please,’ I bent close to his face, ‘don’t ask questions now.’

  His eyes were round in shock and disbelief. He pushed himself up, staggered a little, and I was relieved to see him stand without falling. I offered him my arm and he gladly took it. His once-muscular frame had become bony. He felt like half of the man I once knew.

  I pushed forward; I would have run, but Mycroft slowed our escape to a casual walk, warning me with a flick of his finger and a sideways glance. My heart was racing. When we finally stepped out of Newgate and into the brougham, he snapped, ‘If I had known that you could barely control yourself, I would have strapped you to that bench and not allowed you to enter the premises!’

  ‘What was the problem?’

  ‘You walked into his cell,’ he said.

  ‘And what… Of course. My apologies. The guards will talk. It taints your reputation.’

  He harrumphed and brushed at his waistcoat.

  ‘Garret, how are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Alive,’ he simply said, staring at me and Mycroft before his head fell in his hands. ‘When I saw you, I thought I was dead. A whole damn year I was convinced you were dead, Anna.’ He sat erect, then groaned, ‘For Christ’s sake!’ before falling silent again. The raggedness of his breath was alarming.

  ‘I will answer all your questions, but first I need to examine you — find out what ails you and what cure I can give you.’

  ‘There is no cure. I have consumption,’ he rasped.

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘The turnkey said so. His wife had it. Half of London has it. It’s hard to miss.’

  He exaggerated; perhaps twenty percent of the Londoners suffered from every form of tuberculosis. But yes, when the frigid autumn fogs rolled in, it felt as though the deep rattling coughs came from all directions.

  ‘We will part here,’ Mycroft said when we reached the Berkeley.

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Holmes.’ I pressed his hand and climbed out of the brougham.

  ‘You owe me two thousand pounds. You should receive your inheritance in about a week. My brother will bring me your cheque. And you, Mr O’Hare,’ he called after Garret, who exited the carriage, ‘will not be admitted to the hotel in such a state.’ He shrugged off his coat and handed it to him to hide his worn and dirty clothes. ‘I want it back,’ he said, muffling Garret’s flood of gratitude.

  I pulled the veil over my face, wrapped one arm around Garret’s waist, and together we entered the hotel. Money bought silence and smooth service. A bath for Garret, new clothing, food — all were delivered to his room.

  I excused myself for a moment and knocked at Sherlock’s door. When no answer came, I returned to Garret and Barry. Both fell silent when I entered. ‘Is it true what Barry said? You are rich now, Anna?’ His face was that of a stranger; there was anger in his voice.

  Was that how money changed the world? By sowing mistrust? ‘I have been rich before, when I had you and very few problems. I was happy and earned enough money to sustain myself. Now it appears I’ll lose your friendship over the shine of my newly won riches. To answer your question: Yes, I have an obscene amount of money now.’

  ‘Good,’ said Garret, picking at the immaculate fabric of his dressing gown. ‘Then I don’t need to feel bad about wasting some of it. This place,’ he waved at his room, ‘is… is…’

  ‘For rich people,’ I s
upplied.

  ‘Why did you leave?’ he asked.

  I slumped on the armchair closest to me, all strain peeling off me. That tension had kept me upright; now gone, it left me tired to the bone. I hugged my knees and smiled at my only family. It appeared as though my unconventional behaviour reminded them of my old self. I got two lopsided smiles in return.

  ‘I had to hide. And I never told you about my past, or that one part of my life as a…’ I began, then shook my head. ‘I should explain from the beginning. I wanted to be a medical doctor since I was a child. It was heartbreaking to know that, as a woman, I’d never be admitted to university. I didn’t understand the logic behind shunning women from higher education. Don’t all men have mothers they adore? Do they all think them stupid and shallow, not wanting a life that is fulfilling? Or do they believe a fulfilling life for a woman is childbearing and serving the husband?’

  I had got a little too loud. Barry was scooting about on his armchair. Even the freshly bathed mutt folded his ears. Time to rein myself in.

  ‘Anyway,’ I continued. ‘In order to enter medical school, I cut off my hair and masqueraded as a man. Strangely, I succeeded.’

  Garret sat still like a rock, his eyes as large as saucers.

  ‘I’m still amazed that no one suspected me for more than twelve years,’ I muttered. ‘Until I met Sherlock… Holmes. It took him only two minutes to realise I am, in fact, a woman. That was on a day Scotland Yard called me in to provide an expert opinion on a corpse found floating in one of London’s drinking water reserves. The man had died of cholera.’

  ‘What?’ shot out of Garret.

  I waved at him dismissively. ‘It was no threat to the Londoners. At least, not for their drinking water. But he was one in a series of victims, tortured and murdered by a group of medical doctors. They were experimenting on workhouse inmates and infecting them with tetanus and cholera, with the ultimate goal of creating a weapon.’