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

by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘Isn’t that obvious?’

  ‘Because you believe you allow yourself a weakness and you don’t understand that reflex of yours,’ he observed.

  I offered him a compressed smile.

  ‘But does it not require, and even add strength, to explore all depths of one’s own character? The dark alleys, the filthy corners, the diseased limb we want to saw off,’ he said, his eyes intense.

  I held his gaze, trying to see behind the speckled grey of his irises. ‘And you lost yourself in that maze of your dark alleys,’ I replied. ‘You hate ferociously. You desire passionately. You take heedlessly. There is no giving, no loving, no smiling in you. Because you are scared of the susceptibility it may bring.’

  More time passed, time of observation and contemplation, until he finally said, ‘Am I correct in assuming that you did find a way to learn osteopathy?’

  ‘I cannot say I learned it well. I had to practice mostly on myself. But yes, I am able to at least set bones.’

  ‘Try it then.’ His voice lacked its usual commanding sharpness.

  How could he not know he presented me with his most vulnerable part? That fragile connection to his brain. The neck, so easily broken with the correct movement and acceleration, even by a woman. Perhaps, this was the reason — I was but a woman and therefore no threat to his life. At least I wouldn’t be able to take it by force, or so he must think. How very short-sighted.

  ‘Take off your cravat and loosen your collar, please’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Then turn around and place your head where your feet are. Lie on your back.’ My gut was quivering. If I killed him now, my father would be murdered in return. The risk was too high, but the desire so overwhelming I could barely breathe.

  He lay on his back, relaxed and a little expectant. What a curious situation. With him gazing up at me, being at my mercy without his knowledge.

  I knelt and took his head into my hands. The carotid artery was tapping against the pale skin of his throat. I pictured a quick slash with a sharp blade, the gush of hot blood, the gurgles, the jerking and twisting of a man’s body fighting death, long after his mind had given up. I closed my eyes and pushed my imagination away.

  ‘It does surprise me, though,’ he said quietly.

  It did surprise me, too. Although he apparently got what he wanted — my trust — he had to give me a little of his, too. But I had an inkling that even without this game of give and take, I would have treated him nonetheless.

  Without reply, I let my hands work around his cervical spine, pressing at numerous small knots. Now and again, he suppressed a wince. His head lay in my palms. I rotated it from left to right and right to left, my fingers probing the sides of his neck. His atlas — the first vertebra supporting the skull — appeared to be severely misaligned. I willed myself not to regard the identity of the man I held in my hands and focused solely on the matter at hand.

  His shoulders and neck were so stiff that it took me a good deal of time to work some flexibility into them. I felt him relax; his breathing grew regular and deep. It was time. With a quick clock-wise rotation I jerked his skull towards me. Two loud cracks announced the return of the atlas to its natural position. He sucked in air, producing a hiss, obviously realising the dangerous moment that had escaped his control. He stared at me with a mix of terror and amazement.

  He was about to push himself into a sitting position when I placed my hand on his brow and said, ‘Remain there for a little longer. Your body is so accustomed to the misalignment of your vertebrae; it will need time to adjust.’

  He made no reply, but did as I said. I excused myself and left the room, hoping he might even believe I was grateful that he had saved me from Moran. Hoping we would repeat this scene.

  — day 49 —

  ‘I heard you increased the safety measures in your lab,’ Moriarty said, his feet stretched out towards the blazing fire. A bottle of brandy flanked by two glasses stood on the coffee table. His was empty; mine waited in vain to be touched. He had begun to adopt a familiarity with me that gave me a peculiar mix of relief and disgust.

  ‘The danger of transmission is too great. I cannot let Goff or myself go in and out of that room without precautions. Did he complain about the inconvenience of the daily disinfection of his apron and gloves, or did he feel ridiculous at having to wear a cap and a mask?’ My voice carried just enough spite to let him know I wouldn’t back down.

  He poured another brandy. ‘Do not worry yourself, please. I am not criticising you. On the contrary. I did learn enough about anthrax to appreciate your careful actions. And I do see that the small laboratory is now very limiting. We will relocate as soon as you can confirm the identity of the second batch of pure cultures.’

  ‘You have a warehouse we can use?’

  He nodded once and emptied his glass.

  ‘At what time did you find out that I was in fact a woman?’

  After some contemplation he answered, ‘I must confess that you had fooled me, too. I had seen you twice from a distance and was quite taken by your masquerade.’ Upon my enquiring look he added, ‘About a year ago. I wanted to see the new recruit before Bowden sent Stark to call on you. I was also at the medical school when you began working for us.’

  Back then, I hadn’t even had a clue he existed.

  ‘I should have guessed your identity then, considering the lack of facial hair and the high cravat to hide the nonexistence of an Adam’s apple. Your gait was a good imitation, though. Ha! And the bulge in you pants!’ He clapped his knees, laughing, before he caught my gaze. ‘My apologies. That was inappropriate.’

  ‘Indeed. But why did you send Colonel Moran to find out about that woman who had performed a Cesarean section when you believed I was a man?’

  ‘It had taken me a while and was the result of a series of coincidences. First, that acquaintance who merely mentioned that article in passing. Then, weeks after that incident, I remembered that Anton Kronberg had appeared somewhat feminine. Not enough to be talked about, but just enough to suddenly come to mind, when one wonders how a woman could possibly perform a Cesarean section so well.’ He smirked. ‘Discovering that you were a woman was quite delightful, I must confess. I suppose you would have been burned on the stake a few hundred years ago. Perhaps not. Your masquerade was almost foolproof.’ The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘You could just as easily play the fool,’ he said, gazing at me expectantly.

  ‘You could simply ask a question,’ I offered, bracing myself. ‘I will ask one in return.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I will start,’ shot out of my mouth. ‘Who is the woman in the room next to mine?’ I could not specify my question without revealing how much I knew about the movements in his house. ‘I heard her cry one night,’ I explained.

  ‘As usual, you combine a grain of truth with a great deal of omission. The art of lying.’ A hint of appreciation lingered in his voice. ‘Well, then. I will allow this little game. Can you guess why?’

  ‘Because you enjoy it.’

  He poured himself another glass and said, ‘She comes from the slums and is well cared for. Let me be more specific — she is treated much better than she used to be.’

  ‘Is she locked into that room?’

  He nodded, not taking his gaze off me, constantly observing, analysing, scrutinising.

  ‘What will happen once you are tired of her?’

  He barked a laugh, tutted, and shook his head in amusement.

  ‘You will dispose of her,’ I whispered. ‘No, you’ll let someone else do it. You wouldn’t dirty your hands.’ Moran’s hard face and cold blue eyes came to my mind.

  ‘Now it is my turn. How do you plan to murder me?’

  I had to snort. He had asked the most impossible question. How could he expect me to answer that one truthfully?

  ‘I thought the game was such that you answer my question to the fullest and only then can you ask one in return?’ I retorted.

  He laughed again, knowing he had n
othing to lose. Revealing his secret to the prisoner who would never be set free, who wouldn’t even survive long enough to share it, could do no harm.

  ‘Durham will take care of her. Very soon, I fancy,’ he said, assessing my reaction.

  ‘What will he do to her?’

  He put his hands behind his head and stretched out his long legs. ‘When he entered my employment, my dear manservant was not accustomed to this kind of… business. You might think him balanced, but he is not. You believe I am dangerous. Compared to Mr Durham, I am a lamb, my dear. Ah, you are getting impatient! I will tell you. Listen carefully: one of Mr Durham’s victims caused quite an uproar in September last year. People thought The Ripper had come back. Cutting her up and placing her torso under a railway arch! How could he do such a horrid thing?’

  There was nothing I could say in reply. My windpipe had collapsed.

  ‘Now answer me,’ he demanded.

  I coughed. ‘I have not decided on a course, but I have several ideas. It depends on the circumstances, but I would prefer to run a jagged knife through your throat. Have you ever cut a throat, Professor?’ I glared at him and rose to my feet. He remained in his seat, intrigued it seemed, and arrogant enough to assume I could pose no threat to his life. I stepped closer. Slowly, I placed my hand around his warm throat, moving my thumb over his Adam’s apple, stretching the pale skin. ‘The problem is that anything duller than a razor will require some effort to break the skin.’

  He looked up into my face. I lowered my voice. ‘The skin moves with the blade. Either I have to move it very fast, or I have to immobilise you and use the knife like a saw—’ He grabbed both my wrists and pulled me down.

  His eyes shining with great intensity, he spoke softly, ‘You believe what you fear to be true.’ With that he released me again.

  ‘Possibly,’ I answered. ‘But I am not so stupid as to believe Durham kills women for you. Moran is your man for such business. He would never attempt to violate a woman in your house had you not given him permission to do so earlier. He is the one who gets to have your mistresses once you are through with them and I can only guess what he does to those women.’

  I could have hit myself for revealing my thoughts on this matter. The trace of satisfaction in his face told me that this was precisely what he had intended — to provoke an honest reaction from me.

  ‘You are wrong on all accounts!’ he said. ‘Your view is clouded by fear and prejudice. None of these women have ever been violated or hurt. You are such a petty little creature. You believe your morals make you a better person while you never bother to ask what my morals are.’ His voice and presence were filling the room. Power seeped off his unhandsome frame. For once, he appeared to rest within himself, untroubled by rage and madness.

  ‘You are correct. I’m a petty little creature,’ I said, settling back into my seat. ‘But you are wrong when it comes to my morals. I’m not even sure where I stand. On the good or the bad side. I don’t even believe there is such a thing. I don’t believe in God or the devil. There is the church and its power, and the law with its executives. Religion and law are being used as tools to maintain a certain order. Our society, although soaked through and through with artifice to create and protect the illusion of normalcy, is highly diverse. There are cheaters, criminals, saints; people who belong to the masses and are considered to be normal, and people who don’t.’

  He considered that for a moment, then answered, ‘You changed your tactic. I wonder why.’

  Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? That I would trust him and expose my soft side? My eyes were glued to his, scrutinising every twitch. I wondered how someone could possess a mind that is at times wide open and nailed shut other times. I scrutinised myself, too. How far would the truth reach, and how far the lie? How far would I have to open up for him?

  He nodded then. ‘We will see,’ he said softly, as though he had read my mind.

  He lit a cigarette and offered me one, following my gaze all the while. I leaned over, took it, and he lit it for me. The match flared up and threw a blaze of light across his face, features marked by intrigue, a sharp intellect, and something else. Could it be hunger? Was that why he let me get so close to him and let me wrap my hand around his throat?

  I leaned back and sucked in the smoke, held it in my lungs. Light-headedness followed. Slowly, I exhaled through my nostrils and watched white clouds curl towards the ceiling.

  I knew he was observing me. And I watched myself getting comfortable in the lion’s den, as I considered burying my fingers inside the rich mane of the beast and make him purr. Did he know he had invited a cobra into his house? Was he enjoying this game?

  ‘What do you know about my morals, Professor?’ I asked lightly, and not without a trace of mockery in my voice. To me, it felt like a dance. Step forward, entice, then step back and watch.

  ‘You are not a virgin,’ he began and I snorted. The smoke burned the space between my palate and nostrils.

  ‘I mean that in every sense,’ he added calmly. ‘You cheat, you lie, you have even killed. But you did all of that for good reason. For good cause. And you think that makes you a good person.’

  I frowned at that.

  ‘Well, then you maybe don’t,’ he continued. ‘But it does not make too big a difference. The essence is that you believe my cause is evil. Hence, I am evil.’

  His voice was like a low hum, soothing and far reaching. He could make it crawl under my skin. I rubbed my tingling arms.

  ‘You are a woman. One day you might be a mother. Would you not kill to defend your home, your husband, your children?’

  My stare had grown cold. I would never be a mother. But I could imagine killing.

  He narrowed his eyes. ‘What caused that? Something happened to your mother? No, you do not stir now. But you did before, when I said that one day you might be a mother…’ He observed me, predator-like and about to pounce. ‘You will never have children. Why?’

  My hand moved to my stomach, protectively resting there before I could command it to retreat. His eyes followed.

  ‘Violence,’ he stated quietly. It hadn’t been a question. ‘I am sorry. That must be devastating,’ he added without empathy.

  I looked at my hands trembling in my lap, wishing I could wrap them tightly around his neck. Then increase the pressure until the pulse quickened, and after a few minutes, feel it slow to a stop.

  ‘Yes, I can imagine killing,’ I said quietly, and the intensity behind my words made him blush. ‘This excites you?’ I asked.

  ‘What a magnificent opponent for intellectual combat!’ He rubbed his bony knees. ‘I can imagine you greatly enjoyed doing this with Sherlock Holmes.’ His eyes turned dark.

  I denied him the pleasure of an answer.

  — day 52 —

  ‘Excuse me, Miss?’ a soft voice called as Goff and I entered the library. ‘I’ve come to notice your fancy for historical literature.’ Stunned, I came to a halt. After weeks of subtly indicating that my life, nonexistent virginity and doubtful honour were being threatened by my companion Goff, this quiet librarian had finally opened his mouth.

  The man stood behind the counter and his eyes, enlarged through the spectacles, offered me a friendly twinkle. He must have noticed my hesitation and I was relieved he did not approach and hand me the book directly. Goff was not quite that dull.

  ‘Oh,’ I said timidly.

  ‘Excellent! We’ve just received a copy of The Select Works of Antony van Leeuwenhoek. It was delivered yesterday and I was about to put it on the shelf just now. If you wish, you could be the first to read it.’ He patted the large volume on his desk.

  One of van Leeuwenhoek’s many illustrations, 1700. (6)

  ‘That is very thoughtful and kind of you, Mister… oh I am so sorry, I do not even know your name,’ I said, taking two steps forward and offering my hand, ‘Anna Kronberg.’

  ‘George Pleasant, at your service,’ he answered with a small bow.

  �
��Thank you, Mr Pleasant,’ I said softly, letting my eyes dart to Goff and back at the man facing me, hoping he would understand.

  He did. ‘Ma’am, let me put this book where it belongs; you may read it whenever you find the time,’ he said, pushing past us.

  I turned to Goff and raised my eyebrows, as though not quite understanding what the man had wanted. Goff shrugged and we made our way to our preferred desks.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw the librarian shelving the book in the section for illustrated science literature.

  I spent the following hours reading every recent report on vaccine development to be found. Pasteur’s anthrax vaccines were made for cattle, goats, and sheep. There were none for humans. I found nothing that would protect against glanders, either. All the while I was trying to decide whether or not it was wise to trust Mr Pleasant. He was a stranger. Overwhelming was my desire to peek into the man’s heart and mind to insure he was uninfluenced by Moriarty. Putting my own life at risk was acceptable, but leaving my father’s life at stake was an entirely different matter. Torn between the danger of being betrayed and the danger of never being able to contact Holmes, the zeal for action got the better of me.

  Goff had grown tired by now, and his attention was not as sharp as it had been earlier in the morning. Gradually, the library emptied. I walked along the aisles as though searching for something in particular, then passed the illustrated science section, stuck my hand into a shelf and pulled out Leeuwenhoek’s book. It had one dog ear. How much pain must it have caused Mr Pleasant to mar one of his books? I quickly slipped my hand between the pages, found a small note, and hid it inside my sleeve. The place where it touched my skin prickled with excitement.