‘When he learns of the military purpose of the Central-Asian Railway, his plans change shape. He also hears of your lie about the Kaiser planning a war, so he sends his spies to Germany and doesn’t like what he learns: the German Empire is increasing its naval and military forces. Even her bacteriologists are excellent. So he must wonder how long it might take others to arrive at his conclusions — how long until someone else thinks of bacterial weapons?
‘That the Transvaal and the Orange Free State are regions of constant conflict potential is widely known, so he uses both, Germany and South Africa, as sources of impending conflict when talking to you about germ warfare. He keeps his plans about Russia to himself, for these are the only ones he is deeply concerned with. He learns more about anthrax from you and, together with Moran, decides that this disease is the perfect solution. It can be used to stop deliveries of soldiers and draft animals to India and China. Should there ever be a conflict, should Russia ever try to invade our colonies, he could stop them and keep his opium and cotton fields safe. And finally, he would be a hero. The man who saved our colonies.’
He rubbed his neck, then laughed out loud. ‘Imagine Moriarty being knighted by the queen for his accomplishments!’
He placed his pipe on the ashtray. ‘This is the first time I have to congratulate ourselves for ending a man’s life.’
I couldn’t say anything. My eyes took in the papers on the floor. The power of knowledge, rang through my mind.
‘I’ll verify the crucial points of our hypothesis with Moran, once we have arrested him. And I’ll not communicate our conclusions to my brother. Not all of them. Not as long as it isn’t absolutely necessary to share this information with the government.’
‘I thought you trusted him.’
‘Of course I do. I must think about that matter.’
I nodded, exhaling a sigh. ‘I’ll burn these.’ I pointed at our notes — a cookbook on how to wage wars with deadly disease.
While we watched flames lap up paper, turning white into crumply black, I wondered whether solving a case always felt like dropping into a void.
‘Two weeks until Koch reports me to the Berliner Tageblatt.’ It almost felt like a vacation. ‘I want to see my father’s home once more.’
He looked at me, and I knew he understood. About one in two hundred mothers died during childbirth or soon thereafter. Infections took the greatest toll.
We found my father’s house occupied by strangers. There were no chickens in the garden, no one cutting wood in the workshop. The old cherry tree was but a stump.
I was shocked. Apparently, I hadn’t yet accepted that my father was gone. For a moment, I wished I had bought the property from the landlord, just to cling to a memory I wasn’t ready to give up. When we turned away from my childhood home, I had no wish to ever return.
(18)
Katherina invited us to stay with her. She appeared older; her skin had given in to the gravity of grief. She had lost my father shortly before their planned wedding.
She had a small room for us. Her six children were long scattered throughout the neighbourhood, five of them married and surrounded by swarms of offspring. She couldn’t understand my apprehension towards my own child, but she didn’t say a word. What would your father think? was written all over her face.
Sherlock and I talked little during these days. It felt much like the moment of inhaling a deep breath just before an earth-shattering scream.
My thoughts were with Moran and James, with the future of Europe, and the sheer mass of information Kinchin hadn’t shared with me. The night before our return to Berlin, I waited until Sherlock had fallen asleep. Then I dressed and made for the door.
‘May I accompany you?’
‘I doubt Moran knows where we are,’ I answered, a little annoyed he felt the urge to protect me even here. ‘But yes, if you wish.’
Unspeaking, he rose and dressed.
We walked to a clearing half a mile from the village, where I sat down in the cool grass, placed my hand on my swollen abdomen, and closed my eyes. I could almost see my father’s face now; it didn’t look friendly. If he were still alive, he would despise me for even thinking of casting out a newborn.
I thought of all the young ladies — trained to behave neatly, to have no wants other than to get married and be mothers, and all the young gentlemen — trained to see women as the lesser men. It was hard to imagine that my own child should be brought up the same way and grow into a woman or man like all others.
The dawn of September brought an abundance of falling stars. We watched the night sky, and only the stalling of breath spoke of our astonishment when bright silver streaked across the dark blue.
‘I’ve never seen the Milky Way in London,’ I said. ‘Too much soot in the air. The ancient Greeks believed that this was Hercules’ doing. He supposedly spilled his mother’s milk.’
The forest around us was vivid with life. Scratching of paws and claws, calling and screeching. Why these sounds scared people was a conundrum to me. As soon as the lights were out, imaginations went rampant, fuelling fears. Wouldn’t one have to conclude then that people had little imagination during the daytime?
‘Sunrise is a puzzling thing,’ I continued. ‘I’m astounded that people say “Look! The sun is rising!” But the sun never rises and never sets. Every observation depends on who we are, what we know, and where we stand. If I floated right next to the sun, if I had never heard of the human race, the absurd thought of the sun going up and down wouldn’t even touch my mind. All I would see were circular rocks revolving around a ball of fire. I wouldn’t know anything about life on Earth.’ …and how short it can be, my mind whispered.
‘I live in my own small bubble of education, and my limited ability to see, smell, feel, and hear. No matter what I do, my viewpoint — my way of interpreting what I observe — is always tainted by what I have learned previously and who I am. Hence, I must doubt all that I see.’
I looked at him. ‘It is a maddening thought. To be trapped in a cell, and to see that everyone else is trapped as well, and to know that I’m the only one who can see her private prison.’
He gazed at me. A moment of two minds connecting; a moment so intense that the air began to vibrate and the heart to weaken. Behind his eyes, I saw the weighing of consequences, the testing of hypotheses, the wondering whether it was fear or simply logic that held him back. At last, a decision was being made. He turned away.
The forest surrounding Anna’s village (19)
— twenty-six —
Moran and Parker had arrived in Berlin. They’d found the trail of clues we’d laid to our hotel, and now they were waiting. Their plan was simple: wait for me to go from pregnant to non-pregnant, then harvest. Moran had picked a befitting term for his plans.
Perfectly on schedule, Koch had asked his housekeeper to report me to the papers. The article made it to the second page and had been published four days ago: one of Koch’s former students had appeared at Koch’s lodgings and demanded an explanation for the failure of the tuberculosis remedy. However, said student was in fact not a man, but a woman who had disguised her sex for years, and — to put a crown on her audaciousness — she was most obviously in the family way. The housekeeper gave a colourful account of how agitated the doctor was after said student had left, but he wished her no harm and thus refrained from making her name public. The reporter then provided his own and rather expanded opinion of the years of betrayal, the disrespectful treatment of the most respected German scientist (no matter his recent gaffe), and how wearing men’s clothing was utterly unacceptable for a woman of any social standing.
As anticipated, Koch had a visitor who fit the description of one of the two men I had given him — that of Moran. He had been on his best behaviour, as should have been expected when conversing with one of Europe’s best-known scientists. Koch had given Moran our address and then dispatched a wire to inform me of his latest visitor. He’d wished me luck and a safe
future.
Should all go well, I’d write him a letter.
On a mild and rainy September morning, we began pulling in the lure. Sherlock had informed the local police using his forged identity of Chief Inspector Nieme. Two inspectors now lodged in the rooms adjacent to ours. He suspected the Geheimdienst — the German Secret Police — had been informed as well: two beggars neither of us had ever seen suddenly appeared on the street below our windows.
My nerves had been pulled taut for days. My back muscles reacted, and so did my uterus. It was impossible for me to find a comfortable position and I grew restless and abrasive. Once all this was over, I’d spend a quiet month with rest, peace, and pondering Watson’s offer again.
Sherlock and I got ready for step one: Breakfast followed by a long walk with an unexpected outcome.
I kept my eyes on the pavement, occasionally leaning on his arm to pretend an urge to breathe heavily. He kept his face directed towards me, but his eyes searched the park. When his arm stiffened, I knew he had spotted our pursuers. I pressed his hand to signal understanding. After another half hour, we strolled back to our hotel. On the last hundred yards, I doubled over and produced a fake grunt. Sherlock’s grip tightened around my shoulders.
‘Excellent!’ he said once we stepped into our rooms. I pulled myself together, rang the bell, and ordered tea. ‘Second step,’ he muttered, swung the heavy velvet curtains closed, and knocked thrice on each wall facing the adjacent rooms. Then he got his revolver, checked the chamber, and slipped a surplus of ammunition in his trouser pockets. I did the same, but my fingers were trembling. One bullet escaped my grip.
Two swift strides and he had covered the distance between us, picked up the bullet, and pressed my shoulders. ‘All will be well.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered, feeling a band tightening around my stomach. My thighs and lower back were aching. ‘I’ll lie down for a moment.’ Clutching my revolver, I rolled up in a ball, hoping my uterus would calm down.
When the maid knocked to bring the tea, the sudden noise startled me. Sherlock threw me a quizzical glance, then went to open the door. I desperately wished he wouldn’t be so perceptive. If he would ignore my contractions, then I could possibly ignore them, too.
I kept telling myself that rest was the best aid against premature labor. If I could only find a little rest — if the space around me wasn't littered with guns, bullets, a missing index finger, an assassin and kidnapper, his footman, two police inspectors, and two men from the Geheimdienst — I could make this overeager uterus stop being so busy.
When I pressed my face into the pillow, a hand settled gently on my head. ‘Is it time already?’ he asked.
‘No! It’s another month, dammit!’ The cry of distress surprised even myself. ‘I’ll lie down for a moment,’ I huffed, trying to soften the panic, but noticing instantly that I was already on my side, curled around my cramping abdomen.
He retreated to the window, peeked through a crack in the curtain, then returned. ‘Trust me now,’ he urged and disappeared.
The door clicking into its frame and the ensuing solitude didn’t feel safe at all. I rose, keeping a good grip on my revolver, walked to the door and locked it, then pushed a chair under its handle.
I threw a one-eyed glance down to the street. Nothing moved. Footfalls in the hallway passed my room, but no one tried to force entry. I exhaled, struggling to rid myself of all this tension. The contractions were bearable; I still hoped they might subside.
Pushing all thoughts of Moran aside, I paced the room, careful to stay away from the curtains and trying to calm myself.
About half an hour later, someone knocked. I cocked my revolver.
‘Madam?’ The voice of a male stranger. ‘Your husband informed me of your premature labour. I’m Dr Lehmann. May I come in?’
‘One moment,’ I huffed, thinking fast. It didn’t sound like Parker, but the man had already proven that he could imitate even a female voice.
I looked down at my feet — no shoes, good. Tiptoeing, I reached the door, quietly removed the chair from the handle, and softly placed it aside. Then I retreated to the bed and aimed the revolver. Get it over with, was all I could think.
‘My apologies, Dr Lehmann, I’m unable to walk. The door should be unlocked; you may enter.’
The tip of my gun was steady; one straight line from my pupil, along the revolver’s barrel, to where the heart of a medium-sized man should be once he entered the room.
The door opened and a too-young looking blond man made half a step forward, then froze, big-eyed shock directed at my gun. ‘Why are you pointing this at me?’
If that wasn’t an inexperienced physician, I’d eat a broom handle. ‘My apologies. I believed you were someone else. Come in and lock the door.’ I lowered the revolver, but left it cocked; I leaned against the bedpost and huffed through another contraction.
Obstetric instruments, 1830s. (20)
The man sorted his utensils on the nightstand, muttering, ‘And I didn’t believe the porter’s warning.’
I tried to ignore the large forceps, the dilator and speculum, the cranial perforator, and the blunt hook — tools to extract the child at any cost, no matter the bloodshed. ‘What warning?’
‘He said the police are involved. What have you done?’
The next contraction demanded my attention. Once it subsided, I barked, ‘What have I done? Wouldn’t you think the police to be present if it was I whom they sought?’
Embarrassment heated his face. ‘I’ll examine you now.’ His hands were compacted to fists, his knees vibrated.
‘Who called for you?’
‘The hotel manager. He said your husband—’
‘How many births have you attended so far, Dr Lehmann?’
He cleared his throat. ‘Four.’
‘And how many of these were demonstrations during medical school?’
‘Four.’
‘You will not examine me. Pack your things and make yourself comfortable on the other side of this door,’ I pointed him out of my room. ‘I’ll let you know should I need you.’
‘Madam, the labor overwhelms your delicate constitution. You are out of your mind should you keep rejecting the help of a trained medical—’
‘Remember the revolver, Dr Lehmann.’ I held up the gun.
He straightened up, declared me insane, shoved his utensils back in his bag, and left the room.
I uncocked the gun and placed it on the nightstand, after having blocked the door again.
Despite him leaving me in peace, my restlessness grew. Soon, the room seemed too small, the air too stuffy. I lay down, only to peel myself from the bed a few minutes later. I urgently needed to use the lavatory.
I cocked the gun again and opened the door. The good doctor sat on the floor leaning on the wall opposite my room.
‘Excuse me,’ I muttered, then waited for the next contraction to come and to go so I’d be able to walk faster.
Down the corridor I went and into the bathroom. The wood panels on the wall swallowed my groans. The slick edge of the washbasin cooled my sweaty hands. I hurried to open the window. It faced out into a courtyard. With the breeze cooling my face, I felt better at once.
When the weight on my lumbar region grew too heavy, I leaned on the reveal, shutting my eyes and listening to the chirping of sparrows, the chatter of children. As long as I heard them, I told myself, Moran couldn’t be down in the courtyard. With each contraction, the band around my stomach seemed to pull in tighter and more painfully.
One of Berlin’s many courtyards and back alleys. Berlin, 1891. (21)
I paced, sat on the toilet bowl, paced again, then leaned on the reveal, swallowing fresh air, laboured pacing, laboured resting, until the toilet bowl took all contents of my stomach and then those of my bowels. Staring down at the mess, I finally accepted that my child was on its way. What impeccable timing!
With labor picking up speed and force, I wanted to be back in my room wh
ere I could lie down and be comfortable between contractions. The gun in my hand provided only small reassurance while I walked along the corridor, expecting Moran and Parker to appear from nowhere. Lehmann sitting cross-legged, his face showing annoyance, indicated that all was quiet. I reached my room without surprises.
After having blocked the door once more, I undressed completely and slipped into my nightgown. The loose cotton felt wonderful on my taut body. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. Contractions were washing over me, through me, taking me away, up to frightening heights, only to leave me stranded and panting in anticipation of the next contraction.
The pain wasn’t what I had expected. It didn’t feel like hurt, like an injury. It felt more like very hard work while falling off a tall building. And I learned quickly that pain came fast when I didn’t move about. I pictured the child descending more easily when my hips rolled from side to side from my restless pacing.
I felt as though hours had passed when a noise pulled me out of my rhythm. ‘Anna, it is I. Can you unblock the door?’
It took a while for me to cross the room.
‘Are you alright?’ Sherlock asked.
‘Where’s Moran?’
‘Gone. Don’t think of him now. I’m here. You are safe.’
‘You seem more nervous than I.’
He laughed and said that I might possibly be correct.
The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) Page 19