The Devil's Grin - a Crime Novel Featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes

by Annelie Wendeberg

  The Devil's Grin

  Title Page

  Preface

  Part One - Anna

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Two - Anton

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part Three - Sherlock

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  The Devil’s Grin

  A. Wendeberg

  Copyright © 2012, Annelie Wendeberg

  Published by Annelie Wendeberg

  Kindle Edition

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without expressed written permission from the author/publisher. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson, and Mrs Hudson are characters by Sir A. C. Doyle. All the others are mine. Should you feel the urge to recycle my characters for your own work, wait until I’m dead for at least seventy years. Also, I should mention that this story is a wild mix of fiction and historical facts. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of my imagination, used fictitiously, or did happen a very long time ago. I herewith apologise to all the (now dead) people I used and abused in my novel, such as Broadmoor’s superintendent Nicholson, the entire board of Holborn’s Union, Dr Robert Koch, Dr Kitasato, Dr von Behring, and others. I also apologise to all Sherlock Holmes fans should they feel their Holmes got abused by me, too.

  Preface

  I never considered writing anything but science papers. Not until my family and I moved into a house with a history dating back to 1529. While ripping off all ‘modern improvements’ to restore some of the house’s historic charm, we found a treasure. Hidden underneath the attic’s floorboards, among thick layers of clay, sand, and larch needles were a dozen slender books bound in dark leather. These were the journals of Dr Kronberg.

  To Magnus - husband, lover, brother in arms

  Part One - Anna

  History is indeed little more than the register of the crimes,

  follies, and misfortunes of mankind.

  E. Gibbon

  I finally found the peace to write down what must be revealed. At the age of twenty-seven, I witnessed a crime so outrageous that no one dared to tell the public. In fact, it has never been put in ink on paper - not by the police, journalists, nor historians. The general reflex seemed to have been to forget what had happened.

  I will hide these journals in my old school and beg the finder to make public what they contain. Not only has the crime to be revealed, but I also wish to paint a different picture of a man who came to be known as the world’s most famous sleuth.

  ~~~

  Chapter One

  Summer 1889

  One of the first things I learned as an adult was that knowledge and fact meant nothing to people who were subjected to an adequate dose of fear and prejudice.

  This simple-mindedness was the most disturbing attribute of my fellow two-legged creatures. Yet, according to Alfred Russel Wallace’s newest theories, I belonged to this same species - the only one among the great apes that had achieved bipedalism and an unusually large brain. As there is no other upright, big-headed ape, I must be human. But I had my doubts.

  My place of work, the ward for infectious diseases at Guy's Hospital in London, was a prime example of the aforementioned human bias against facts. Visitors showed delight when entering through the elegant wrought-iron gate. Once on the hospital grounds, they were favourably impressed by the generous court with lawn, flowers, and bushes. The white-framed windows spanning from floor to ceiling of bright and well-ventilated wards gave the illusion of a pleasant haven for the sick.

  Yet, even the untrained eye should not fail to notice a dense overpopulation: each of the forty cots in my ward was occupied by two or three patients, bonded together by bodily fluids, oozing either from infected wounds or raw orifices. Due to the chronic limitation of space, doctors and nurses had learned to disregard what they knew about transmission of disease under crowded conditions: it spread like fire in a dry pine forest.

  However, everyone considered the situation acceptable, simply through habit. The slightest change would have required the investment of energy and consideration; neither willingly spent for anyone but oneself. Therefore nothing changed.

  If I had an even more irascible temperament than I already possessed, I would hold hospital staff responsible for the death of countless patients who had lacked proper care and hygiene. And yet, the ones who entrusted us with their health and wellbeing must share the guilt. It was common knowledge that the mortality of patients in hospitals was at least twice that of those who remained at home.

  Sometimes I wondered how people could have possibly got the idea that medical doctors could help. Although circumstance occasionally permitted me to cure disease, today there was no such prospect.

  The wire a nurse handed me complicated matters further: To Dr Kronberg: Your assistance is required, possible cholera case at Hampton Water Treatment Works, come at once, Inspector Gibson, Scotland Yard.

  I was a bacteriologist and epidemiologist, the best to be found in England. This fact could be attributed mostly to the lack of scientists working within this very young field of research. In all of London, we were but three - the other two had been my students. For the occasional cholera fatality or for any other victim who seemed to have been felled by an angry army of germs, I was invariably summoned.

  As this call came with some frequency, I had the pleasure of meeting most of the Metropolitan Police inspectors at least once. They were a well-mixed bunch of men whose mental sharpness ranged from that of a butter knife to an overripe plum.

  Inspector Gibson belonged to the plum category. The butter knives, fifteen in total, had been assigned to the murder division - a restructuring effort within the Yard in response to the recent Whitechapel murders and the hunt for the culprit commonly known as Jack the Ripper.

  I slipped the wire into my pocket and asked the nurse to summon a hansom. Then I made my way down to my basement laboratory and the hole in the wall that I could call my office. I packed a few belongings into my doctor’s bag and rushed to the waiting cab.

  ~~~

  The bumpy one-hour ride to Hampton Water Treatment Works was pleasant, as it presented views London could not offer: bright sunshine, fresh air, and once in a while a glimpse of the river that still reflected the light. Once the Thames entered the city it turned into the dirtiest stretch of moving water in the whole of England. Crawling through London it became saturated with cadavers from each of the many species populating the city, including their excrements. The river washed them out onto the sea where they sank into the deep to be forgotten. London had an endless supply of filth, enough to defile the Thames for cen
turies to come. At times this tired me so much I felt compelled to pack my few things and move to a remote village. Perhaps to start a practice or breed sheep, or do both and be happy. Unfortunately, I was a scientist and my brain needed exercise. Country life would soon become dull, I was certain.

  The hansom came to a halt at a wrought-iron gate with a prominent forged Hampton Water Treatment Works sign arching above it, its two sides connecting large pillars of stone. Behind it was a brick complex made of two impressively tall towers on either side of a three-storey building.

  Londoners had been drinking their own filth for centuries whenever they took water from the Thames within the city. Recurring cholera outbreaks were but one of the many consequences. It took the progressive engineer Thomas Telford more than twenty years to convince the government of the imminent need for clean drinking water. Finally, in 1852 the Water Act was passed and Hampton Water Treatment Works were built.

  Roughly half a mile east from where I stood, an enormous reservoir was framed by crooked willows and a variety of tall grasses. My somewhat elevated position allowed me to look onto the water’s dark blue surface decorated with hundreds of small white splotches. The whooping, shrieking, and bustling about identified them as water birds.

  I stepped away from the cab and walked past three police officers - two blue-uniformed constables and one in plain clothes, being Gibson. The Bobbies answered my courteous nod with a smile, while Gibson looked puzzled. The other two men I was aiming for were, I hoped, water works employees.

  One was a bulky yet healthy-looking man of approximately seventy years of age. His face was framed by bushy white whiskers and mutton chops topped up with eyebrows of equal consistency. He gave the impression of someone who would retire only after falling down dead. And he was looking strained as if his shoulders bore a heavy weight.

  ‘I am Dr Anton Kronberg. The Yard called me because of a potential cholera fatality in the water works. I assume you are the chief engineer?’

  ‘Yes, I am William Hathorne. I found the dead man.’

  I noticed Gibson huffing irritably. Probably I was undermining his authority yet again. Although this would require a certain degree of learning ability on his part, I was still surprised that he obviously hadn’t yet become accustomed to my impertinence.

  ‘Was it you who claimed the man to be a cholera victim?’ I asked the chief engineer.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  He harrumphed, his gaze falling to his shoes. ‘I lived on Broad Street.’

  I wondered whether he had lost his wife or a child, since he apparently still remembered the haggard and bluish look of a cholera death.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly.

  He nodded in silent response.

  Thirty-five years ago, the public pump on Broad Street had infected and killed more than six hundred people, which marked the end of London’s last cholera epidemic. People had dug their cesspit too close to the public pump. As soon as both, pump and cesspit were shut down, the epidemic ceased. How many people would die when a cholera victim floated in the very source of London’s drinking water? I wondered.

  ‘Did you move the body, Mr Hawthorne?’

  ‘Well, I had to. He was floating face down in the trench and I pulled him out.’

  ‘You used your hands?’

  ‘What else would I use?’

  Naturally, Mr Hathorne looked puzzled. While explaining that I wanted to disinfect his hands, I bent down and extracted the bottle of creosote and a large handkerchief from my bag. A little stunned, he let me proceed without protest.

  ‘You kept your eyes open. I could see that as I came in. Can you tell me who else touched the man?’

  With shoulders squared and moustache bristled, he replied: ‘All the police officers and that other man over there.’ His furry chin pointed towards the ditch.

  Surprised, I turned around and spotted the man Hathorne had indicated. He was unusually tall and lean, and for a short moment I almost expected him being bent by the wind and sway back and forth in synchrony with the high grass surrounding him. He was making his way up to the river and then disappeared.

  I could hear Gibson’s footfall on the dry path and turned around.

  ‘Dr Kronberg, finally!’ he barked.

  ‘I took a hansom, I can't fly,’ I retorted acidly. He stopped and I held up my hand to make him wait.

  ‘Mr Hathorne, did you turn off the pumps?’

  ‘Course I did, but who knows how long the dead fella was floating in there!’

  ‘Is it possible to reverse the direction of the water flow and flush it from the trench back into the Thames?’

  He considered my question, pulled his whiskers, and nodded.

  ‘Can you exchange the entire volume three times?’

  ‘I certainly can, and it won’t even take very long.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Hathorne, thank you for your help. Inspector Gibson, I will examine the body now, if you please?’

  Gibson flapped his hand like a fin and I followed him.

  ‘I will take a quick look at the man,’ I told Gibson who stomped along in front of me. ‘If he is indeed a cholera victim, I need you to get me every man who touched his body.’

  After a moment of consideration, I added: ‘Forget what I said. I want to disinfect the hands of every single man who entered the water works today.’

  I knew Gibson didn’t like to talk too much in my presence. He disliked me and my harsh replies. And I was having problems with him, too. I knew he was a liar. He pretended to be hard-working, smart, and dependable, while his constables backed him up repeatedly. Yet, he was still an Inspector at the Yard; and I was certain being the son of someone important had put him there.

  We followed a narrow path alongside a broad trench, which connected the river to the reservoir. I had seen it from the cab but now wondered about its purpose — why store water that flows past in great quantities every day? But I was not an engineer and dropped the issue.

  The grass was high; if I strayed off path, and I felt compelled to do so, it would tickle my chin. Large dragonflies whizzed past me, one almost colliding with my forehead. Obviously, they were not accustomed to human invasion here. I listened to the chaotic concert of water birds on the nearby reservoir. The nervous screeching of small sandpipers mingled with the trumpeting of swans and melancholic cries from a brace of cranes brought back memories of my life many years ago.

  The pretty thoughts were wiped away instantly by a whiff of sickly sweet decomposition. The flies had noticed it, too, and all of us were approaching a small and discarded-looking pile of clothes containing a man’s bluish face. A first glance told me that the corpse had spent a considerable time floating face-down. Fish had already nibbled off the soft and protruding flesh; fingertips, lips, nose, and eyelids.

  The wind turned a little, and the smell hit me directly now. It invaded my nostrils and plastered itself all over my body, clothes, and hair.

  ‘Three police officers are present. Why?’ I asked Gibson. ‘And who is the tall man who just darted off to the Thames? Is this a suspected crime?’

  The Inspector dropped his chin to reply as someone behind me cut across with a polite yet slightly bored voice: ‘Inspector Gibson thought the body must have been pushed into the trench. Obviously, a dead man could impossibly climb a fence.’

  Surprised, I turned around and almost had to crane my neck to face the man who had spoken. He was more than a head taller than I and wore a sharp and determined expression. He seemed to consider himself superior and exuded an amount of self-confidence that bordered on arrogance. His attire and demeanour spoke of a man who had most likely enjoyed a spoiled upper-class childhood.

  Keen light grey eyes pierced mine for a moment, but his curiosity faded quickly. Apparently, nothing of interest had presented itself.

  I was getting curious. The contrast between the two men in front of me could not have been greater. Gibson was lacking facial mu
scles and possessed a lower lip which seemed to serve more the purpose of a rain gutter rather than a communication tool. Almost constantly, he worked his jaws, picked and chewed his nails, and perspired on the very top of his shiny red skull.

  ‘Mr Holmes, this is Dr Anton Kronberg, epidemiologist from Guy's. And Dr Kronberg, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes.’

  Gibson made it sound as though I should know who Sherlock Holmes was.

  ‘Has the victim has been shoved into the trench, Mr Holmes?’ Gibson squeaked.

  ‘Unlikely,’ Mr Holmes answered.

  ‘How can you tell?’ I enquired.

  ‘There are no marks on either side of the Thames’s water edge…’

  Mr Holmes trailed off and I made a mental note to go and check the Thames’s flow to ascertain that a body could indeed float into the trench without help.

  Then I noticed Mr Holmes staring at me with narrowed eyes. His gaze flew from my slender hands to my small feet, swept over my slim figure and my not very masculine face. Then his attention got stuck on my flat chest for a second. A last look to my throat and his eyes lit up in surprise. A slight smile flickered across his face while his head produced an almost imperceptible nod.

  Suddenly, my clothes felt too small, my hands too clammy, my neck too tense, and the rest of my body too hot. I forced myself to keep breathing. The man had discovered my best kept secret within a minute. Others had been fooled for years. I was standing among a bunch of policemen and my fate seemed sealed. I would lose my occupation, my degree, and my residency to spend a few years in jail. When finally released, I would do what? Embroider doilies?

  Pushing past the two men, I made for the Thames to get away before doing something reckless and stupid. I would have to deal with Mr Holmes when he was alone. The notion of blackmailing suddenly appeared very attractive to me. I flicked the thought away for now and forced myself to focus on the business at hand.