The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2)

by Annelie Wendeberg

  Durham bade me to sit at the massive oak table, then cleared his throat, took position next to the door and stared at me until my breakfast was served. With a clipped voice and an air that tasted of bleach, the housekeeper introduced herself as Austine Hingston. Her movements were precise and swift; her rank below Durham did not allow her the freedom to show any of the disrespect she clearly felt for me. Only her eyes betrayed her. Whenever she gazed at me, the hint of warmth that seemed to be reserved for Durham only, disappeared. What had Moriarty told his servants about the new guest? Certainly not the truth.

  ‘What’s on the program?’ I asked Durham after Hingston had left.

  He lifted his eyebrows. ‘You think I am to entertain you?’

  ‘You have a peculiar sense of humour,’ I mumbled.

  His expression did not change in the slightest — very appropriate for a manservant. Today, he wore a slight sneer. I wondered what it would be tomorrow. Most likely the same.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk, Mr Durham? The sun is shining, the day is mild, the geese are calling to go south,’ I babbled, knowing that he did not care in the least. He shook his head.

  ‘Well, I think I shall go by myself, then. After all, one could easily get sick without regular exposure to fresh air.’ Shock touched his face as I rose to my feet.

  ‘I will accompany you,’ he announced.

  Good, a little leverage over the manservant could prove useful one day. Especially if he wouldn’t dare tell his master about this small slip in controlling the captive.

  Two hours later, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling as impressions of the morning flitted through my mind.

  Durham and Hingston appeared to have some kind of comradeship, and both seemed to agree I was a thorn under their fingernails. Clearly, neither of them would help me willingly. But if they had a secret romantic relationship, I might be able to put them under pressure. Yet somehow, I found it hard to imagine that these two could embrace anything but a cold pillow.

  I pushed the issue aside for now. Most pressing was the meeting with Moriarty. He would want to discuss the isolation of bacteria, probably the laboratory setup as well. All I wanted to discuss was the wellbeing of my father or, rather, beg for him to be released. What a waste of time this would be! I had to control myself and I needed help. Someone who could take my father to safety while I acted against Moriarty. There was only one person I knew, but how could I possibly contact him? Simply walking into the post office and sending Holmes a letter was out of the question. Ah! The name I had given him last spring! ‘Promise me that you’ll place an advertisement into The Times, asking for Caitrin Mae, when this case is either solved or threatens your life. I’ll find you then.’

  Would I ever get any opportunity to send a message? How much time would I have? It would take months to isolate bacteria, test their virulence, and produce a large enough amount to be used as a weapon. My stomach clenched at the memory of my human test subjects — paupers abducted from workhouses last winter. Men and women who happily accepted two sovereigns in exchange for their lives. They would have sold their children to us, if I had allowed it.

  Evening arrived and Durham led me down to the dining room. The table was set with porcelain and silver, and several candles were lit. The door closed behind me. Swallowing a breath, I stepped forward.

  The Professor sat in an armchair, bent over a book. The lit fireplace behind him made his silhouette flicker.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said, closing the book with a soft thud. He rose to his feet and walked to the table like a large cat, gleaming eyes focused on his prey. His voice carried a low purr underneath the hardness. A tall gaunt figure with a high forehead and greying temples — an ageing cat, possibly in his forties. His long hands closed around the back of a chair. Invitingly, he pulled it towards him.

  I obeyed, yet turning my back to him felt very wrong. My neck ached in anticipation of a blow.

  ‘You may breathe now,’ he noted and lifted the silver top off a casserole. ‘Allow me to be your servant tonight.’

  I wondered whether Durham was guarding the door.

  The bird was carved, with vegetables decorating its outlines. Moriarty arranged parts of the animal on my plate, peas rolling about until they were drowned in gravy.

  ‘Thank you,’ I squeezed out.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  We ate in silence, both assessing the other. When we were finished, I could not recall the taste of what I had eaten.

  ‘May I ask how you found me?’

  He seemed amused by my attempt to control my burning interest. The corners of his mouth twitched a little.

  ‘An acquaintance stumbled upon an article in the Brighton Gazette. Apparently, a simple woman had performed a Cesarean section with great skill. I took a chance and sent Colonel Moran to investigate. When he returned and described you to me, it appeared as though you looked like Dr Anton Kronberg’s sister. Oh, he did not make too much of it. But I wondered who this woman could be. Naturally, I paid a visit. It was unmistakable.’

  I dropped my gaze to my plate, silencing a groan. Such a small gesture had betrayed my father and me. After having ignored it for months, I was forced to finally pick up my doctor’s bag and run to my neighbours’ aid. Mary had been on her bed, moaning, rolled up protectively around her enormous stomach, blood seeping through her skirt. Her uterus had been hard as a rock, trying to push out the infant that refused to emerge. John’s pale face, sweat glistening on his forehead, his trembling hands helping with the ether and stroking his wife’s hair while I slit her open. I had peeled the child out of its enclosure, the shimmering water bag covered with a spiderweb of blood. A boy with skin so blue I thought he was dead. I had sucked the mucous from his mouth and nose, massaged his tiny chest, and blown air into his small lungs. After only a minute, he began to squirm.

  I looked up. ‘Can we take our discussion outside? I’d prefer a walk.’ I missed the countryside sorely.

  ‘But of course. The sunset will certainly be appealing.’

  Once outside, I started towards the large maples at the far side of the premises.

  ‘Tomorrow you will be inspecting your laboratory, or what remains of it.’ Seeing my surprise he added, ‘You will have your former space at the medical school.’

  A place I already knew. It made things easier.

  ‘My coachman will take you there and bring you back again. The same rules apply at the school as do here at my home. Your assistant will keep you under surveillance.’

  I nodded. ‘I need to know what germs you want me to isolate and how you are planning to use them.’

  ‘We will be discussing that in a minute, my dear. Germany and France are considering chemical warfare. So far, their attempts have been premature. The incentive is not great enough, I suppose; a war seems too distant.’

  ‘What is your incentive?’ I wondered aloud. He ignored me and kept walking. ‘Money? Ah, power. You don’t necessarily want to end or win a war? A man like you could live anywhere, sell his services to anyone?’

  ‘I see.’ He stopped in his tracks, took my hand, and kissed my vibrating fingers. ‘I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance, my dear.’ His voice was saturated with mockery.

  I couldn’t push the growl down. The man played with his food! My hands curled to fists, yearning to punch his arrogant face.

  ‘I am not your dear. I used to be England’s best bacteriologist until I ran into that incapable group of doctors you employed! If Bowden had had a brain, he would have trusted me earlier and this whole operation would not have come to its abrupt end!’

  With a sneer, he took a step forward and closed his hand around my throat. ‘I am aware that using Bowden was a mistake. But trusting you would be an even greater one. Attempting to wrap me around your finger is not only futile, it insults my intelligence!’ His face and mine were only an inch apart. I saw the brown specks scattered along the rims of his grey irises, the large pupils — two bottomless pits. My
stomach cramped and the sweat itched in my armpits.

  ‘It is your choice what you do,’ I huffed through my constricted windpipe. ‘However, I need to know how you plan to deliver fatal germs. How will the enemy be infected? What other weapons are going to be used? The vector and the pathogen have to be a perfect match; otherwise, you will fail.’

  He released me, his expression empty. ‘We will start with the obvious: soldiers and horses.’

  ‘How specific do you want me to target?’

  He looked at me quizzically and I explained, ‘Disease does not know who is friend or foe.’

  ‘You are a poet,’ he chuckled. I looked away from him, holding onto my hands. ‘You want to know how important it is to prevent collateral damage?’

  ‘Yes,’ I could guess the answer from his tone.

  ‘There are soldiers on both sides. Men march into battle and die. Collateral damage is acceptable as long as significantly more losses are reported on the other side of the enemy line.’

  ‘That makes things easier,’ I noted. We had now reached the maple trees and I picked up a leaf — blood red flowing into orange — a souvenir from the outside world.

  ‘What diseases were you thinking of?’

  ‘The Plague,’ he answered.

  ‘The Black Death? You are out of your mind!’

  ‘You can choose to abandon our agreement at any time,’ he said coldly.

  ‘The wolf does not make an agreement with the rabbit, Professor. A predator may play with its prey. But ultimately, prey always ends up the same way.’

  ‘It is a pity you see it that way, Dr Kronberg.’

  ‘How else could anyone see it? Even if you would not treat me the way you do, if we were to grow bubonic plague germs we could unintentionally wipe out the whole of London.’

  Without reply, he turned and walked away.

  ‘I know nothing about warfare,’ I continued after having caught up with him, ‘but I assume that whatever weapon you hold in your hand should be controllable. At least to some degree.’

  ‘And you claim to be unable to control the Plague? Well, maybe I erred,’ he muttered. ‘I will find one of your students. Someone should be willing to do what I ask.’

  ‘You can choose to walk through life and pay people for the opinion you want to hear. Truth exists nonetheless.’

  ‘Interesting theory,’ he answered, now walking faster.

  He started hunching a little, with his left shoulder pulled up more than his right. When we had supper together, he had held the fork in his right hand. His handwriting also looked as though he were right handed, but I had seen him using his left hand for most other tasks. He must have been born left-handed and I wondered whether little James Moriarty had complied quietly, or whether they had to break the boy to make him behave “normally”.

  I scrunched along the walkway and did not see it coming. Moriarty wheeled around. His pupils were pinpricks, and spittle sprayed onto my cheeks as he hissed, ‘Be very careful. Your choice of words may one day cost you your life.’

  He turned and walked stiffly back towards the house. I noticed how much more crooked he suddenly appeared.

  Walking up the stairs towards the entrance, I considered what I had witnessed. He was controlling and possessive; I had learned that two days ago. Curiously, though, a sign of opposition appeared to cause his muscles to clench, as though his mind were bending his body. Wondering whether I had found his weak spot already, I stepped into the house.

  ‘Come here!’ his voice shot through the hall. I saw him walk through a door opposite the dining room, and I followed. It was large, its walls covered with bookshelves. The massive desk bore piles of books and papers. He sat down, rubbing his neck, blinking often. I wondered how severe his headache was. He did not invite me to sit, so I remained standing, feeling the rage ooze off him like a rabid dog’s saliva.

  ‘Is it not true that the Black Death would be the most dangerous weapon to hold in one’s hand?’ he asked, his half-closed eyes directed at the desk.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why do you think you know better? Or is it that women are generally incapable of murder? The weak sex? The ones who faint when an inappropriate word is uttered?’

  ‘Interesting. You seem to know nothing about me after all,’ I replied.

  A moment of harsh silence later, I continued. ‘In the 14th century, the Tartars catapulted thousands of corpses — their own soldiers — over the walls of Caffa. The bodies carried the bubonic plague. Imagine mountains of plague-infested flesh enclosed by a city wall, Professor. It was the stench of rotting cadavers and the fear of the disease that drove the people out of Caffa. They took the Black Death with them; onto trading routes and into Mediterranean ports. This is the first historical account of using the bubonic plague as a weapon, and it resulted in the greatest health disaster in the history of mankind. Twenty-five million victims. Half the European population.’

  The Black Death, Europe, 14th century. (2)

  Silence fell yet again. The tension was sharply visible, straining the space between him and me and driving itself into the flesh between his shoulders.

  ‘You chose me because I am a skilled bacteriologist and a thinking one,’ I added quietly. ‘Developing germ warfare is a creative process. You don’t want a soldier-type who indiscriminately does what you command. You want a scientist who has her own mind and uses it continuously.’ He did not move, but his rage and resistance seemed to dampen a little. ‘I need access to a library, to study historical accounts of germ warfare. I haven’t been reading any scientific publications for several months now. There must be an alternative.’

  Irritated, he jerked his chin down and waved me away.

  I exited to find Durham waiting in the hall. He led me to my chamber, where, exhausted, I undressed and got ready for the night. I took my pillow and blanket and sat next to the door with the glass to my ear and my eyes shut. For a long time I heard nothing. The glass sank into my lap as I drifted off to sleep.

  Footfall awoke me. I glanced at the clock — past midnight. Just like the night before, Durham locked my door and Moriarty went into the room next to mine. Weary, I rose and listened at the wall to his room.

  The rustle of him undressing, the clonk of his watch on the dresser, followed by a female, ‘Oh!’

  The bed creaked and I heard him grunt. My ear felt as though it wanted to rot off my head, but I kept listening. I needed to know whether the woman was there of her own free will, but she made no other sound. Then, I heard him climax and pushed myself away to sit by the door again.

  Not long afterwards, the door to the room next to mine closed with a snap. Moriarty reached my room. Two black shadows cut through the sheet of light underneath the door. I felt as though I were drowning. After a too-long moment he finally left. I sprang to my feet, opened the window and sucked in the cold night air.

  The moon gazed down upon me. La Luna. I’d always liked that name more than The Moon, or Der Mond.

  My thoughts drifted back to the Sussex Downs, to the day I had remembered my true calling. All because little Peter had needed help hatching from his mother’s womb. Soothing my mind were the images of softly rolling hills and a sunset that appeared, that evening, to be so much more beautiful than ever before. My hands had seemed different, then. I had realised they weren’t the hands of a farmer, but of a woman who practised medicine. When the sun had dipped into the horizon, wisps of clouds were splashed with orange, pink, and violent purple just before the sky darkened. The stars had begun to pinprick the black velvet cloth that stretched above me. And just like every night in the Downs, my thoughts had wandered to the man I loved, and still did.

  — day 3 —

  The maid clacked up the stairwell. Hastily, I collected my blanket and pillow and rushed to bed, pretending to sleep.

  The sliding of a bolt, a quiet knock, footsteps approaching my bed. I wondered if she ever questioned the bolt. Would she find it perfectly normal that I was locke
d into my room? Perhaps, if the woman next door was imprisoned, too.

  I opened my eyes and we exchanged pleasantries. She left me a jug of warm water and announced that my new clothing had been delivered.

  ‘Miss Gooding, last night I thought I heard a woman cry in the room next to mine.’ Her face snapped shut. ‘It might have been a bad dream,’ I added and saw her relax a little. Did she think Moriarty mounted me, too? The thought that he could expect that of me stopped my heart. I forced my gaze and thoughts out the window.

  Miss Gooding left without a word. Her knees crackled a little as she curtsied.

  She returned with a pile of clothes, placed them on my bed, and invited me to inspect. I noticed the quizzical look she tried to hide.

  There were silk and wool walking dresses, wool skirts, lightly laced cotton and silk shirts, and a collection of undergarments and accessories. The pants, shirts, a coat, and cravats must have caused the confusion.

  At the bottom of the pile I found a cloak. I knew very little about fashion, but this one must have cost a fortune — it was made of finest black wool, richly trimmed with silvery fur I could not identify. It looked like fox, but I had never seen one in that shade of grey. Was it Moriarty’s wish to turn me into a lady? How ridiculous! Obviously, he wanted me to masquerade as a male medical doctor during the daytime and be a decorative female in the evening. I shot a glance at Gooding, wondering whether she shared his bed, too. If so, she probably believed he loved her.

  I dismissed her and picked a dress, feeling very revolutionary. I had lived as a man for so many years among a then exclusively-male medical establishment. However, women were now allowed to enrol at British universities. That suited me well, because there was no urgent need to hide my sex any longer. But most importantly, I could visit the lady’s lavatories at the medical school without my assistant’s company. That gave me the much needed space for planning an escape. I did wonder, though, how many female medical doctors had found employment at the London Medical School. Possibly none except myself.