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

by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘Garret, why did you propose to me at all?’

  He exhaled loudly; it sounded like a growl. He lifted his hands, as if to speak, opened his mouth, closed it again and I decided to answer for him. ‘You thought that after our marriage I would tell you all about me? All my secrets?’

  All air left his lungs and he nodded.

  ‘Let’s just assume I’m a pervert,’ I noted as neutral as possible while my intestines wrenched themselves up and around my throat.

  His eyes were full of rage now, knowing that I would not reveal myself to him. Then he growled in earnest, turned, and left without a word.

  I don’t know how long I stood there, watching the passing clouds reflected in the puddle before me. Eventually the cold crept under my coat and my head began to spin again, so I made to leave, too.

  After only a few yards I almost stumbled over a pile of clothes with a wreck of a beggar inside. ‘What are you doing in the middle of the street?’ I enquired. He coughed and mumbled something like ‘M’Lady.’

  ‘Come, stand up, and I’ll help you to the sidewalk,’ I bent down and offered my hand. The pile started moving reluctantly and a pair of piercing grey eyes gazed at me.

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ I shouted, pulling hard on his tattered coat, almost ripping it in two.

  ‘My apologies,’ said Holmes, rising to his feet and looking as if nothing had happened.

  ‘You spied on me!’

  ‘Excuse me, but you sent me a telegram!’ he said indignantly.

  ‘But I did not invite you to… to…, what’s the damn word again?! …eavesdrop!’ I punched his shoulder, ‘damn it Holmes!’ The hard shove hadn’t shown much effect.

  ‘I am sorry!’ He growled. ‘I tried to be discreet and give you some privacy. You two almost ran me over! I didn’t want to interrupt so I took cover and hoped you wouldn’t see me. And you wouldn’t have if not for your exorbitant philanthropy!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forget what I said. Why did you want me to come?’

  His swift change of topic didn’t go unnoticed and I made a mental note to get the rest out of him later.

  ‘Dr Gregory Stark from Cambridge Medical School is an anatomist who got bored. He invited me to take part in his so called privately funded vaccine development project.’

  I had to bend down now, my head was spinning badly.

  ‘I need to go home,’ I muttered and turned around to leave. Holmes was at my side instantly and offered me his arm. I took it with reluctance. Strangely, he walked me to my apartment without me ever having given him the address. I unlocked the door and he helped me onto my bed.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, lying down and closing my eyes for a while. ‘Could you identify the two men already?’

  ‘I am very close. I think in two or three day’s time I will have found out all there is to know.’

  Holmes looked around in my rooms. ‘May I ask why you chose to live here? You could easily reside in a better area and still come here every day to treat the poor.’

  ‘Ah, Mr Holmes, some things are so obvious and still you can’t see them.’ I looked up into his face and saw his eyes darken. ‘I live here because I like it. There is life here and real people. People who speak their minds, who quarrel openly and not behind closed doors. People who kiss on the streets and not at home after night fall. It's dirty, dangerous, and tough to live here, but I prefer this life to the controlled boredom of the higher classes.’

  I observed his expression but couldn’t tell whether he understood anything of what I’d said.

  ‘A wise decision,’ he noted.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘It was wise not to reveal yourself to the Irish man, although he was close enough to-’

  ‘Get out!’ I hissed. His head jerked back a little as if I had slapped him. Then, he rose to his feet, gave a single nod, and left with a quiet ‘Good night.’

  ~~~

  Stark called again a week after his first visit. He meant to stay in my lab for only a few minutes to enquire about the bacterial pure cultures. I told him I would not give out any cultures as long as the research paper in the Lancet wasn’t published. I explained that I was still in the process of characterising several different bacterial strains of the same species, as they seemed to show varying aggressiveness. That was when his eyes lit up and his hands started vibrating slightly. He wanted to know how the course of the disease differed and was delighted to hear that I had germs that could kill my test rabbits within only three days instead of two weeks. It was a lie, but served the purpose. I also mentioned that additional security measures had been taken to prevent the pure cultures from falling into the wrong hands, which could result in them getting contaminated. Or even worse - they could cause harm. But I would keep the details a secret, only I knew where and how the cultures were stored and how they were labelled. He tried to hide his disappointment and renewed his invitation. My hooks were in deep and I was satisfied.

  I went home and noticed that my door was unlocked. I pushed it open with my index finger and slowly peeked in. Holmes sat on my only armchair.

  ‘Do you want me to die prematurely of a heart attack or something?’ I cried.

  ‘I think you are working on that quite effectively yourself,’ he answered calmly, and I decided to ignore his snide remark. ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘I could identify the two dead men.’

  I closed the door with a bang and approached him.

  ‘Pray proceed.’

  ‘The first one was a Scottish farmer, Dougall Jessop, who had moved to London roughly four months before his death. His wife died, he lost his farm, and ended up in Fulham Road Workhouse. He was on a come and go basis as he had the occasional employment outside. In London he had no friends and no one missed him. The last they saw of him in Fulham Road was beginning of summer last year. The second man is also a Scotsman, Torrian Noble. He lived in London for the past five years and spent most of his time in Gray’s Inn Road Workhouse, but disappeared, too, at the beginning of last summer, and has since not returned. Jessop has never set foot into Gray’s Inn and Noble is unknown to the Fulham Road Workhouse.’

  ‘So they met in Broadmoor?’

  ‘I consider it as very likely,’ said Holmes.

  ‘How exactly did they get there?’ I wondered aloud.

  ‘Well, I have a theory. Both workhouses belong to Holborn Union, which means they all are being watched by a single board of guardians, headed by a chairman. I heard from other inmates that a surgeon had visited and offered free treatments. That was at the beginning of last summer.’

  I interrupted him. ‘That is extraordinary, Holmes! No such thing as medical treatments for paupers has ever been provided in any workhouse. At least not that I know of.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Holmes. ‘My theory is that this surgeon examines the inmates, interviews them about their family situation, and chooses the ones that have no family, no close friends, and are comparatively healthy. The chairman of the board of guardians must be involved. A surgeon can't just walk in and examine paupers at his liking.’

  ‘So both had been abducted independently and later managed to escape together. Any idea how Noble got to Guy’s?’ I asked.

  ‘Unfortunately not. I interviewed a cab driver who takes that route regularly. He said that one day a man approached his hansom; he was unable to walk properly and couldn’t speak. He grabbed the horse’s reigns and sank to the ground. That’s what made the horse whinny and rear. The driver, who thought the man was intoxicated, had had enough, cracked the whip, and left in a hurry. He had no idea where the man came from and he could not remember whether there were any onlookers whatsoever.’

  I made us tea and sandwiches and we were quiet for a while. Then I remembered Stark.

  ‘Stark paid me a second visit today,’ I said and Holmes looked up.

  ‘He wants the tetanus germs very badly. I can expect an invitation to Cambridge any day soon.’

  ‘I had
hoped this wouldn’t be necessary,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’ll move into 13 Tottenham Court Road tomorrow and will give up this place for a while,’ I said waving my arm at my apartment, ‘but how will we communicate?’

  ‘Simple. You put a vase or the like into the window of your room whenever you have information that you need to share, or when you are in danger. I’ll come as soon as I can.’

  ‘When I’m in danger? Well, that means that vase is constantly in the windowsill I guess,’ I noted sarcastically.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘If you say so. And how will you contact me when you need to? By just walking into my rooms?’ I asked, and he nodded.

  ‘So you are tailing me?’ I asked and he looked up again. ‘Because how the heck will you know when that vase is in the window if not for someone seeing it?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll tail you.’

  ‘Holmes, did you tail me before?’ I asked grossly.

  ‘No I didn’t’

  ‘How come you know where I live?’

  ‘I asked your Irish friend.’

  ‘Garret would have never told you!’

  ‘He didn’t need to tell me anything. I suggested to him to get clean clothes for you after the mugging and he led me to your place without his knowledge,’ Holmes stated happily. How very simple, I thought.

  ‘And why the deuce would you want to know my address?’

  ‘I was curious,’ he noted simply.

  ‘Next time just ask,’ I murmured.

  ‘You wouldn’t have told me.’

  ‘Probably not, no.’

  We were quiet for a long moment until Holmes grumbled: ‘I don’t like it that you throw yourself into the lion’s den.’

  ‘I don’t like it, either,’ I said quietly, trying to hide my fear. It probably didn’t work very well.

  ‘Holmes?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know who you are,’ I said softly. He didn’t reply, so I turned towards him. He was staring at my ceiling and on first glance seemed relaxed. But his face was too still and his hands were rigidly flat on the armrests. Whenever I got too close to him, be it physically or emotionally, he got uncomfortable. It had started immediately after the first time we met and had gotten worse as the distance he needed seemed to be getting greater every time we talked. He would disappear as soon as the crime was solved, I was certain. Surprised, I noticed the pain that accompanied the insight.

  ‘You don’t know me yet, but soon you will,’ I told him.

  Slowly his face turned in my direction and I added ‘I will have to shed most of what I am to serve the lie. You may not recognise me anymore, but whatever you’ll see is a part of me.

  Part Two - Anton

  And since you know you cannot see yourself,

  so well as by reflection, I, your glass,

  will modestly discover to yourself,

  that of yourself which you yet know not of.

  W. Shakespeare

  Chapter Thirteen

  March, 1890

  Dr Anton Kronberg sat in the train to Cambridge. His shirt was starched and crisp, his black coat new from the tailor, and his brain sharp. Wisps of steam from the engine flew past the window, occasionally clouding the view onto the bleak countryside. The snow had melted two weeks ago, leaving a muddy black surface behind. No green had dared to hatch yet while the freezing drizzle poured down from an ever present blanket of grey clouds. Anton had the impression the sun would not return this year, but that suited his mood. Upon thinking it over for a second, he decided he was in no mood whatsoever. His controlled mind did not allow for such luxuries.

  This was a day of greatest importance. He would give a presentation on tetanus and its cures. His audience, a group of medical doctors from London and Cambridge, awaited him. Anton had his goal painted right in front of him, a scarlet bulls eye only he could see and aim at. And he would not rest until his bullet would find its centre and blow it apart.

  Anton’s train arrived at Cambridge Railway Station. He walked to the next cab and ordered to be driven to Cambridge Medical School. Once inside, he closed his eyes and sat as still as a statue.

  Precisely fourteen minutes later he arrived, opened the door, and paid the driver without looking at him. As he turned around he saw Stark crossing the street in a hurry to greet his guest. Anton was lead into the Great Court of Kings College where he noticed the mighty vaulted ceilings with delicate fans of stone, crisscrossing like the arteries of a large organism.

  Before the feeling of being swallowed alive could overwhelm him, Anton swept his surroundings away with a blink of his eyes and focused on the imaginary scarlet spot straight ahead.

  Stark opened a door to a small lecture hall and Anton counted fifteen men, all wearing a stern expression, aged mostly above fifty, and some of them sitting in comfortable armchairs. Then he scanned the room. This was no ordinary lecture hall. Dark and intricate wood panels decorated the walls and pictures of more than twenty haughty looking men, wigged, robed, and framed in gold, hung all around the room.

  Stark coughed and all heads turned into his direction. All but Anton’s, who kept looking straight ahead.

  ‘Gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce Dr Anton Kronberg, England’s leading epidemiologist. He studied medicine at the University Leipzig and took regular internships at the Charité in Berlin, where he also defended his thesis. After that, the Harvard Medical School rewarded him with a fellowship for four years.’

  A few men nodded approvingly and Stark continued with a smile on his lips. ‘Then London had the honour to welcome him. His work on infectious diseases at Guy’s Hospital made him a well known scientist in all of London’s hospitals. But his visit to Dr Koch’s laboratory in Berlin with his breakthrough in the isolation of the tetanus bacteria made him an internationally renowned bacteriologist. His colleagues describe him as driven, hard working, and highly intelligent.’ Stark turned to face Anton as he said: ‘He came here today following our invitation, and will give a presentation on his recent work - tetanus and the isolation and characterisation of the causative agents.’

  Anton nodded in acknowledgment and entered the podium. He was used to giving presentations for much larger audiences. His nervousness usually peaked just before starting his talk. But once he stood in front of his always exclusively male listeners, he felt calm washing over him. He was in disguise. But today he felt no nervousness whatsoever; there was nothing but cold drive.

  With a determined, yet silken voice he started his presentation: ‘My dear colleagues, it is a great honour to speak to you today, here in this lecture hall were the greatest anatomists spoke before me.’ Anton made a sweeping move with his right arm, indicating the men in the paintings. ‘Yet, the topic of my talk differs very much from those of my predecessors.’ Here he took a few seconds to let the information take effect. ‘My field of research is young but advancing at unimaginable speed - bacteriology. We bacteriologists deal with the greatest evils for mankind - diseases like tetanus, cholera, typhoid, and pest, to name but a few. We study how diseases spread and how the battle against their causative agents, namely bacteria, can be won. I will focus my talk today on tetanus and its recently isolated germs.’

  Anton turned to the blackboard and drew a plot of the numbers of tetanus fatalities in London during the last thirty years. As long as he spoke, Anton’s audience was glued to his lips and to his hand leading the chalk over the slate.

  After one hour he had finished his presentation. The men rose to their feet and clapped. Several of the older men shook his hand and congratulated him. After some small talk, they agreed to meet up with him in a more private setting back in London in three days time.

  ~~~

  In a small single-room apartment in Tottenham Court Road, Anton sat on his tattered armchair, leaning far back with his feet on the scarred coffee table. He stared at the ceiling with half closed eyes. It was the only flat surface in this room that had no wallpaper pee
ling off. He hated distractions. The ceiling, though, was perfectly homogeneous.

  ~~~

  Three days later Stark called at Anton’s apartment and both men took the waiting brougham. Anton noticed that the two chestnuts looked fresh. Their destination must not be far away. It did not bother him that the thick velveteen curtains were to remain drawn, he knew London well enough as he had walked it almost every day. The journey lasted fifty minutes. Stark made small talk and Anton answered while following his own thoughts and listening to the noise the wheels made on the ground. It sounded like the broad and flat cobblestones of High Holborne, a large and busy street. They turned right, a smaller street now, followed by the sounds of Blackfriars Bridge and Great Surreys Street. A sharp right turn told him this could only be Waterloo. And yes, they crossed the river. Anton used to pass this bridge at least three times every week. He would recognise it in his sleep. A left turn brought them onto The Strand with all its bustling and clattering. Then the hooting of a leaving train - they must have reached Charing Cross. Now they turned into Regents Street, Piccadilly, St James, Pall Mall, and again, and again. They were going in circles. The pattern changed after a quarter of an hour. At first, Anton could not sense any familiarity. Maybe he had never been here or at least not for a long time? But the ducks, the hungry, burred up, freezing ducks begging for an evening meal from passers-by told him the brougham was passing James Park on its south side. Then they made a left turn and soon stopped. They must be somewhere around King’s Road and south of Palace Gardens.

  The carriage came to a halt at a large Victorian villa. Light was pouring through all its windows onto the brownish lawn. The wind was stiff and the old sycamore trees clawed each other with scrawny twigs, their mottled torsos shiny from the ice cold rain. The only green came from the artfully trimmed conifers lining the walkway to the house and the lichen covered fountain with water lazily dripping down its rims.