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

by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he said, stroking my hair. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  Sitting next to him, I held his hand until he drifted off to sleep. I watched his expression relax and grow unguarded, his breath a ragged noise. The creases around his eyes, so typical for his way of laughing unrestrained, had got siblings between his eyebrows and under his mouth. Sorrow had marked him forever. I tried to smooth out the wrinkles with my fingertips, being careful not to wake him, thinking of my childhood and how precious it had been, thanks to him.

  What kind of woman would I be if he had been like any other father? His notion of not caring much for convention and social rules, his honesty and unreservedness had all made me what I was today. Ever since I had been able to walk and talk, I had a strong sense of justice and felt the urge to discuss everything with him. He had invested endless patience to inform this tiny person why God had made her short, why He had given her that squeaky voice, why she had to go to bed when she was tired, why she was growing so slowly, and why people spoke to her as though she were a child.

  On my fourth birthday I announced that from that day forward I would be calling him Anton instead of father whenever we debated important business like food supplies and money — both of which were in chronic limitation — or my future as the first female carpenter the village had ever seen. He had simply reached out his large rough hand and shook mine.

  My father stirred, opened his eyes and said, ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ With his bushy eyebrows pushed together, he tried to look behind my calm facade.

  I placed my finger over my lips and shook my head, then spoke loud enough for any eavesdropper to hear, ‘I’m staying here because the work I’m doing for Professor Moriarty is important. But please, father, don’t ask me any questions about it.’

  ‘I do hope you know what you are doing, Anna,’ he replied and wiped a tear from the corner of my eye.

  ‘Please, first tell me what happened to you,’ I said and added in a whisper, ‘what you heard, whom you met. Describe the men that gave you food and water.’

  He coughed again, a deep and rattling sound. ‘That is the oddest part. No one came to see me, no one ever talked to me. Food and water were pushed through a hatch in the door, as was the chamber pot. And later, your letters.’

  ‘They kept you in a hole for two months?’ I croaked.

  He dropped his gaze. ‘Today — I guess it was early morning — a servant let me out. I was provided with a hot bath, a haircut, and new clothes. He spoke English, I have no idea what he said. Then, the man pulled a bag over my head and brought me to a carriage to drive about for an hour. No one but me was inside so I pulled the bag off. Unfortunately, I could not tell where I was. Then this house appeared and you were standing at the door. I assume this is London? What will happen to us now?’

  ‘No one told you that you can go home today?’

  He sat bolt upright. ‘We are free to leave?’

  ‘You will take the ship to Germany tonight.’

  ‘What about you?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘What is this about, Anna? I can see you are suffering,’ he whispered and squeezed my hand. ‘I will not go back to Germany without you.’

  ‘I am quite safe, Anton. Besides, they will make you leave. They will make sure you go to Germany and I remain here. There is no discussing it with anyone. Knowing you are safe will make all this easier for me.’

  He huffed a sigh and leaned back on the bed, coughing again.

  ‘How long have you been coughing like this?’ I asked.

  ‘The past three weeks.’

  ‘Let me,’ I said and unbuttoned his waistcoat, pressing my ear to his chest for want of a stethoscope. I pushed my fingers into the sides of his throat, feeling the swollen lymph nodes. ‘Open your mouth, please.’ The view wasn’t pretty; his tonsils were oozing yellow pus.

  ‘You have bronchitis and tonsillitis. I’ll get you medicine. Rest a little longer. I will be back in a few minutes.’

  I rang for the maid and she arrived soon thereafter.

  ‘Cecile, I need a jar half filled with honey and a spoon. I’ll be picking herbs in the yard.’ With a glance back at my father, Cecile and I left. On the way downstairs I asked her whether they had an herbal garden, and she told me where to find it.

  Winter was the worst season of all for collecting herbs, but I found a handful of limp, yet green ribwort leaves, and a few twigs of oregano under a crusty layer of snow. Back in the house, I met Cecile and she handed me the jar.

  ‘It pains me not to be able to bring you home safely,’ I said to my father upon my return. I rubbed the dirt off the ribwort leaves and stirred them into the honey, then passed him the oregano. ‘Chew this, please. Swallow only the saliva.’

  ‘Witch!’ he teased, grinning.

  ‘The oregano is to stop the inflammation of your tonsils. The ribwort would normally have to soak in the honey for a week. Obviously, you don’t have that much time. Take the first spoonful of honey on the ship to Germany, and the rest once every two hours. Eat the leaves, too. You’ll be astonished by the amount of mucous that will come out of your airways once the ribwort begins to work.’

  ‘Thank you, Anna.’ He placed his hand on my cheek, his expression heavy with the many things he wanted to say but couldn’t. ‘Katherina will be so worried.’ His hand covered his face, a sigh pressed through his fingers.

  Katherina had been his neighbour and friend for as long as I could remember. He had begun courting her a year ago. ‘I am so sorry for her, and for the two of you. Anton, I fear for your safety. You cannot stay at home, you must go into hiding as soon as possible.’ I gazed at him intently. ‘Will she understand?’

  ‘Of course she will,’ he said.

  ‘You never married her. Why?’

  His face fell. ‘We wanted to get married on Christmas Day. What day is today?’

  ‘The twenty-third.’

  ‘Oh God,’ he cried. ‘She probably believes I’m dead!’

  ‘You can send her a wire before the ship leaves. I don’t dare send it from here. He,’ I jerked my head towards the door, ‘mustn’t know about her.’

  My father turned his head away. Fatigue made his movements heavy.

  I bent down to him and whispered, ‘I must finish what I’m doing here. I might have to do things that you wouldn’t approve of. Criminal things. I might… have to kill a man. The one you met at lunch today.’ I didn’t dare tell him how I’d planned to accomplish this.

  He sighed in reply, staring at my hands.

  ‘Am I still your daughter?’ I asked.

  His chest grumbled a warning when he pulled my face closer to his and whispered, ‘I love you more than my life. But what are you thinking, Anna? You are but one small woman, and you want to fight these bastards?’

  I put my mouth close to his ear. ‘That is what I have been doing for more than a year, now. But I am not alone, and it’s almost over.’ Those last words were more hope than truth, and he must have realised it.

  ‘I don’t want to lose you,’ he whispered urgently.

  ‘And I don’t want to lose you. So please, leave without making trouble. Go home, pack your bags and visit your old friend Matthias. And don’t tell anyone where you are going.’

  He and his friend could take to the roads, as they did in their youth. Remote villages and small towns in the Swiss Alps would render him close to invisible for Moriarty’s men, I hoped.

  My father cleared his throat, blinked, and pulled me into a tight embrace. It felt as though it might be our last.

  Only two hours later, the two of us boarded the brougham. I was surprised to have Moriarty let me travel that far. On the way to Tilbury, we whispered, planning his journey. We reached our destination much too quickly and all we could agree on was that we could not write each other, as doing so would betray his whereabouts, and that he must be careful, take to the roads together with his friend, and stay away from home for at le
ast two months. I should have expected his response. ‘You want to stay that long with this man?’

  Ashamed, I gazed at my shoes. He sighed and rested his hand on my hair. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. I could barely hear it over the slowing rattle of wheels.

  Standing at the docks, I fought not to cry. But my vision blurred, my throat constricted, and my heart began doing its usual thing whenever it was about to lose someone beloved. The ship’s horn blared, the ropes were pulled in, and the figures on deck grew smaller. I would have to give him at least one week to get into hiding. Then I would be free to act.

  ‘La Marguerite’ leaving Tilbury, 1896. (8)

  Garrow waited patiently. I turned to him and he nodded at me; for a moment I believed I saw sympathy, but I could have been mistaken. It was dark and the glint of the street lanterns in the coachman’s eyes could be interpreted any way.

  We had been travelling for a while when a thought hit me. I knocked at the roof and called for Garrow to stop, opened the door and jumped onto the dirt road.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I pointed up at the space next to him. He moved aside a little, and I noticed that he had just pulled his hand out of his coat pocket. The bulge remaining there must have been a revolver. So that was how Moriarty made sure I would not run away. Would Garrow have shot me or only threatened me? I pushed the thought aside. I had a promise to keep.

  ‘My apologies. It was rather boring down there,’ I explained as I climbed up and wrapped the blanket around my cold legs.

  ‘Ma’am, you will catch a cold up here,’ he cautioned.

  ‘What did I study medicine for?’ I snapped back. ‘Oh, Mr Garrow, I’ve always wondered what your scar looks like. If it is really this… er, large, as my maid keeps telling me. Would you mind showing it to me?’

  The man froze. In one stiff move he turned towards me and pulled his muffler down, showing me his whole face for the first time. He looked friendly, and his scar was mostly covered by a stubble, giving him a slightly dangerous touch.

  ‘Tut-tut! Miss Gooding really does not know what she is talking about. She never truly looked at you, I assume.’

  Garrow pulled his muffler back up, but it couldn’t conceal his anger. He needed another shove.

  ‘I wonder why she keeps telling me that your scar makes you look quite unattractive. I find it rather—’

  ‘She certainly said no such thing!’ he grumbled without looking at me.

  ‘Mr Garrow! Are you saying that I am a liar?’

  It took him a while, but he finally turned back to me. ‘Yes! That is precisely what I am saying, Ma’am.’ He yanked the horses to a halt. ‘This is the driver’s seat,’ he noted with a nod down towards the carriage’s door.

  I smiled at him apologetically. ‘Mr Garrow, please forgive me. I needed to be certain you would be more loyal to Cecile than to me. She likes you very much, but doesn’t dare show it, for she’s afraid of losing her assignment.’

  The reins slackened. The man seemed disarmed. Unspeaking, he turned back to the horses and gave them a gentle smack.

  ‘I offered to act as a messenger, should you agree to take the risk. I see both of you every day, and no one else needs to know that you write each other.’ He nodded, apparently deep in thought, and did not speak until we had reached London.

  ‘I am unable to read and write,’ he confessed.

  ‘I will read her letters to you and write down your words for her, if you wish. One day she can teach you how to read and write.’

  He laughed at that, a bitter mix of happiness and sadness, then pulled his muffler down and said, ‘Thank you.’

  When we arrived, the view of the large house hauled the facts back into place — Moriarty had kept my father in a cellar for two months, with only cold stones, mould, and spiders for company. Without asking permission, I entered the study, rushed up to him, and hit him with all my might. He groaned, pressed one hand onto his bleeding nose, and slapped my face with the other. I wanted to claw his eyes out, but forced control upon myself. Taking two slow breaths, I lowered my fists to my side.

  He produced a single nod, I answered with one in return and left. Durham asked me whether I needed something. I declined and walked up to my room. No one accompanied me. No one bolted my door. But I was not relieved. Bolt and gaoler merely served the purpose of decoration; without them, the prison still existed.

  — day 63 —

  On Christmas morning, the quiet and empty house was filling up with Moriarty’s family. Until that day, I had not wasted a single thought on him having siblings or even parents, let alone that he had hatched from a womb. The children especially, with their bouncing curls, bubbly mouths, glowing faces, chubby hands, and stomping feet, seemed so out of place here. There was a happiness flooding the house that made my months of dread appear unreal.

  Quiet ladies went here and there, touching Christmas ornaments, ooh-ing and aah-ing, and occasionally slapping an overly-wild youngster over the head. Men were gathered in the smoking room, where aromatic tobacco fumes crawled out through the half-open door, to be stirred up by children running past every so often. Why I had been asked to take part in this celebration, I could not fathom. Only the fact that it might be hard to hide me, given all these curious eyes and noses, served as explanation.

  Trying to shut out the chattering about the royal family, I leaned my head against the frosted window, and thought of my own childhood Christmases. The tallow candles we had made, the neighbour’s goose in the oven, the talks over hot goat’s milk (for me) and coffee (for my father). The presents we gave each other had been small and useful: a pocket knife he had made for me, or socks I had knitted for him. The quality of my handicraft was an insult to all knitters. My father wore the socks anyway, although not for long, for all died an early death by disintegration.

  I coughed to release the tension in my throat, wishing my father were safe already, and then turned back to the merry congregation of spoiled upper-class individuals.

  The women had immersed themselves in talk about the weather, the latest news blaring from the front pages of the papers, fashion in London or Paris, or — God forbid — America. Suddenly, all eyes turned towards me.

  ‘Miss Kronberg, James told us you lived in Boston for two years? Oh please, come and sit with us.’ A hand patted the chaise longue, a large gem wiggling on the index finger.

  I obeyed, and two ladies moved aside just a little so I could squeeze in between them.

  ‘Tell us about women’s fashion in America. Don’t you think it outrageous?’

  I really had no idea what they were referring to. ‘I could not say.’

  That caused a little consternation.

  ‘I never purchased a single dress in Boston,’ I explained, satisfied with the shy gasps that followed.

  The woman who had invited me to sit had been introduced to me as Moriarty’s older sister Charlotte. I guessed her age to be close to fifty. Her facial features revealed their shared blood, but the rest of her was probably four times as wide as her brother. And just like James Moriarty, she manipulated the behaviour of her company with ease, made them agree or disagree to her liking, bent them like grass in the wind.

  When Charlotte started laughing artificially, everyone else chimed in. ‘What an extraordinary dislike for American fashion you must entertain, my dear.’ Her voice was a little too high-pitched, but the my dear sounded exactly like her brother’s. Perhaps it was routinely used in the family to express depreciation. Now, everyone else joined in the polite exhilaration, fingertips half-covering their mouths. Then, silence fell and their big-eyed attention was directed at me.

  ‘Not quite. I had no particular like or dislike for women’s fashion in the States. My lifestyle was such that I could only wear…men’s clothing.’ My chest almost burst with provocative joy, but I forced my face into naiveté and innocence.

  Shocked silence followed suit; one could have heard a flea hop, if there had been any.

  Some faces turned a shade
of pink, others pale, and I continued, ‘At the age of sixteen I cut off my hair, put on trousers, and enrolled at the University of Leipzig. I studied medicine and bacteriology, was awarded a fellowship by the Harvard Medical School, and later worked at Guy’s hospital here in London. I masqueraded as a man for twelve years, and I must say doing so was quite refreshing. I almost regret that by now, women can study and practice medicine without criminalising themselves.’

  I was certain that none of the ladies had ever met a female doctor. As a matter of fact, the only one I had ever seen was my own reflection.

  All that was audible besides my audience’s shallow breaths were the children at play, scattered throughout the hallway, the stairwells, and the drawing room. Even the men had ceased their conversations and it was only the tobacco smoke that dared to move.

  ‘What an adventure,’ Charlotte quipped, dismissing the topic to turn towards her company and chatter about some Lord I had never heard of and his mistress I didn’t know either. The men commenced their discussion on politics and the Kaiser, while the children started making plans on which of them should venture into the kitchen to steal candied fruits.

  Hands in my lap, shoulders and waist buried in my neighbours’ fashionably buffed sleeves, I tried to appear somewhat lady-like — indifferent to all the droning about insignificances. Half an hour later, lunch saved me from this brainless torture.

  A delicate soup and turtle was handed around, eaten, and taken off. A turbot with lobster and sauce, oysters, patés, sweetbread, duckling, green goose, accessories of salad and vegetables were marched in, taken apart, ingested and their remains carried away. The sheer amount of food, how it was stuffed into mouths shining with grease, mouths that ate more than the stomach could take, chewing and talking and stuffing in more, made me feel nauseous. The corset’s grip grew unbearable; my lungs tried to expand in vain. Even eating the little I had managed proved too much for so constricted a space.