A juniper bush. What was its old German name? Kindsmord — child murder. I had no clue what dose would be the correct one. I would begin with a teaspoon full of fresh juniper tops.
When I walked through the entrance hall I heard James call. I turned and met him in the study. He sat in his chair, head in his hands.
‘Close the door, please,’ he said and I did so. ‘Sit.’ His hand indicated the armchair.
‘I have been married before,’ he began. ‘My wife and our son died within hours after his birth.’
‘I am very sorry,’ I said softly and even meant it. Whenever he showed his vulnerable side, he hurt me more than any of his cruelties ever did.
‘I beg you not to kill our child, Anna.’
Words were stuck in my throat, impossible to swallow, impossible to speak. I was torturing the beast before I attempted to kill it.
‘Look at me,’ he commanded and I obeyed. ‘I know you cannot imagine being a wife and a mother. But who says that you have to stay at home all day, have one child after the other, and not be able to work as a bacteriologist? You can have a nursemaid and another maid for yourself. You can get back to your research whenever you wish.’
It felt as though he had inserted a knife into my guts.
‘Why are you weeping?’ He rose and walked up to me, kneeled at my side and wiped my tears away. ‘Marry me, Anna,’ he pressed. So much pain and want in that voice. I would feel better if he simply punched my face instead.
‘My father would never allow it,’ I squeezed out, hoping that this one straw to cling to, the only socially acceptable objection I could have, would count at all.
‘He cannot want you to have an illegitimate child!’
‘I beg you, James, do not even think of asking my father.’
His heart would break, or rather, he would try to save his daughter by running a crowbar through James’s heart.
‘Very well, I will not ask him if that is your wish.’ He looked expectant and a little smug.
‘You want me to lie to him? That I’m not married? That he has no grandchild?’
‘It is none of my concern whether you lie to your father or tell him the truth.’
If not for Holmes, my father, and all these men knowing too many details about our germ warfare project, I would have closed my hands around James’s throat and not let go until one of us was dead.
‘Give me time, please.’ I said, taking his hand and pressing it against my forehead.
‘Of course,’ he answered.
— day 151 —
My days were marked with anxiety. I slept little and had excruciating nightmares about James and his child. Becoming a mother had never occurred to me before. I was convinced I was unable to bear children. The rape was so long ago. I had been nineteen and just defended my thesis as three of my fellow students wanted to check the size of my cock. How shocked they were, and how swiftly that shock had changed into a pleasant surprise. They knew I wouldn’t tell on them. After all, I would throw away my newly won career as a male medical doctor and bacteriologist. They had hurt me badly, and I had stopped menstruating for two years. After that, I bled only once or twice a year. How much bad luck must one have, to then be impregnated by James Moriarty? At times, I caught myself wishing it was Garret’s, only to admit to myself that what I truly wished was for it to be Sherlock’s.
For a week now I had been contemplating what toxin I would use and which dose might be best. I finally settled on my first choice — juniper, a toxic plant that caused symptoms a sloppy physician might confuse with severe influenza. It seemed so easy. I sent Holmes a message that I had the flu and might not be able to write for a week or two if a physician were to watch over me constantly. Then I told James I wasn’t feeling well, retreated to my room, and asked Cecile to bring me tea. After she had left, I placed the juniper tops on the saucer and mushed them with a spoon. I scraped them into the cup and poured tea over the remains to wash them off. I kept stirring until the tea had cooled, then drank it all and picked the few remaining twigs out and ate them, taking care not to leave any traces of what I had done.
Already half an hour later, I felt sick. Nausea hit quite ferociously and soon I expelled my stomach contents into the chamber pot, then examined them for any juniper twigs, collected them and threw them out the window. My muscles hurt and began to twitch. I pulled the bell rope.
Cecile entered and rushed to my bed. I hadn’t heard her knock. She had brought coals, too. It was around nine o’clock then and she probably was on her usual round through the house.
‘Are you poorly, Miss?’ she squeaked.
‘Yes, a little.’ What an understatement. She put her cold hand to my forehead and said she would get the master.
Another hand touched my forehead. It was James’s. Time must be flying.
‘James, don’t touch me.’ I cautioned. ‘I don’t know what this is and I…’ I coughed although I didn’t need to. ‘…and I don’t trust my own diagnosis too much. Might be influenza, after all. But…’ I coughed again. ‘Make sure you and Cecile wash hands. Thoroughly. Just to be certain. You know what I mean.’
‘Impossible,’ he said so low that I had to look up at him to ascertain he had spoken. Did I see mistrust or only concern? He turned away and left.
I couldn’t recall how often Cecile changed my chamber pot. The juniper poison urged itself through my pores, mouth, and anus. I was still anxiously waiting for blood. So far, my uterus only cramped, together with most other muscles. Trying not to moan too loudly, I shut my eyes and rolled up into a ball.
Footfalls woke me from my stupor. The first thing I saw of Dr Blincoe was his black bag. Then his hands, wandering all over my body, prodding my abdomen, opening my mouth, and feeling my pulse.
‘Disinfect yourself,’ I managed to say just before he stuffed two or three carbon tablets into my mouth and made me swallow them with water.
Whenever I woke up, I saw Blincoe sitting in an armchair across from me. All he did was watch, occasionally feel my pulse, and urge me to drink. I tried to recall how often he had given me activated carbon, but my mind was too slow and my body ached too much. I drifted off again.
Juniper (18)
— day 152 —
‘How are you feeling?’ James asked. I opened my eyes. The morning sky was milky grey.
‘Weak,’ I whispered. Despair crawled into my heart. No blood wet my thighs. My uterus seemed to cramp only ineffectually. ‘How is my temperature?’
He placed his palm to my forehead. ‘Still high, but not as bad as yesterday.’
‘Could you help me to the vanity?’ I said, pushing myself up, fighting the urge to vomit. He helped me out of the bed and to the chair. I gazed into the looking glass and opened my mouth as though to examine it.
‘No lesions.’ I took his hand and he led me back to my bed. ‘Yesterday I feared it could be intestinal anthrax. What did Dr Blincoe say?’
‘He said you might have been poisoned.’
‘Impossible.’
‘Or that you poisoned yourself to abort the child,’ he added in a cold whisper.
‘You believe what you fear to be true. You said that to me one day.’
‘We will see,’ he said and stalked out of the room.
Soon, Cecile entered. She brought tea, helped me to wash and dress in a fresh nightgown. Exhausted and aching, I lay back down on my bed.
‘Cecile, I need your help.’
She sat down next to me. ‘What is it, Miss?’
‘Do you think you are brave enough to do something behind the back of your master?’ Her eyes widened, but then she must have remembered the secret messages between her and the coachman. She blushed, smiled, and nodded.
‘Cecile, I need to be ill for a few days and for that I need tops of the juniper bush down in the yard. Pick a few and hide them in your bosom. Take utmost care no one sees you. Don’t walk down directly now and don’t come straight to me after you have picked them. Do you understand?�
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‘Is it because you are with child and you don’t want it?’
I was thunderstruck. ‘Did you overhear Dr Blincoe and your master?’
She smirked.
‘What else did they talk about?’
‘Nothing much. The doctor said that it could be the flu or a poisoning. The master said he suspects the latter and Blincoe answered that under these circumstances you should be forbidden to leave your room. So as not to give you the opportunity to poison yourself again.’
‘Would you help me, Cecile?’
‘Will you not kill yourself, Miss?’
‘That was never my intention.’
She swallowed and said, ‘I will help you then, Miss.’
Grateful, I pressed her hands. ‘Cecile, I will hide the carbon tablets under my mattress. Ignore them when you put fresh sheets on my bed.’
She lowered her head, her posture tense with anxiety. ‘Cecile, I am a medical doctor. I will not harm myself beyond repair.’
Around noon, after I had refused a light lunch, Cecile came to stoke the fire. Before she tended to the fireplace, she slipped her hand into her dress and extracted a small bundle of slender green twigs.
‘Thank you Cecile,’ I said, hoping my face would show the gratitude I felt.
Her expression betrayed her anxiety. ‘Please, Cecile, do not fear discovery. In that case I will tell him I forced you and you bear no guilt.’
‘I fear for you, Miss,’ she pressed out, staring down at her apron.
‘You are very sweet,’ I said, wondering how I could possibly make up for her imminent unemployment. She and her lover would have to leave this house, as would all of James’s servants as soon as their master was either dead or arrested. New employment was hard to come by.
Cecile left and I started the same procedure of mushing twigs, stirring them into the tea, drinking it all, and removing telltale signs.
Everything contracted at once. My stomach expelled its contents, my guts, too. My lower abdomen cramped so bad that I couldn’t help but cry out. Soon, my room seemed crowded with people. Durham and Blincoe held me down while the latter pushed a tube down my throat. The resulting pain melted into yet another contraction. But all that did not matter. As Blincoe said, ‘She is bleeding,’ I could have sobbed with relief.
‘Miss?’ Cecile’s voice. I liked that lilt, although her fear made it a little squeaky.
‘Is she unconscious?’ James, a little bored, a little exasperated, and cold. How curious, no one seemed to have taught him compassion.
A hand on my forehead. My abdomen cramped. I was already rolled up in a ball, but tried to compact myself just a little more. The contraction slowly subsided.
‘Drink this,’ Blincoe commanded, lifting my head and pressing a cup to my lips. I obeyed, too exhausted to protest.
— day 160 —
I had spent my days in bed, guarded by the doctor’s watchful eyes. Occasionally, James came in to ask how I was doing. ‘Recovering,’ was Blincoe’s answer.
I recall Cecile having brought me sanitary towels, and I still felt them between my legs. I pushed my hand under my sheet, palpated my lower abdomen and probed for blood on the towels.
‘You are not bleeding anymore,’ said Blincoe quietly. I looked across the room. His expression was soft. He misinterpreted my anxiousness and said, ‘Do not worry yourself, you did not have a miscarriage. Your child should be alive.’
The room began to swim, I clapped my hand over my face and wept. Close to hysteria, I managed to squeeze out, ‘Thank God!’
Blincoe grew uncomfortable and rose to his feet ‘I will find your husband.’
‘No! Please, don’t. Let me collect myself first. I don’t want him to be too worried about me.’
He sank back into his chair. ‘You did not use an abortifacient?’
‘No I did not. I confess, I considered it. But then I thought that this might be my only chance to be a mother.’ I rubbed my wet face with the bed sheet and was shocked how much control I was able to haul out of the depths of exhaustion. ‘You can get him now.’
Blincoe left and a long moment later, James stepped in.
‘You convinced Blincoe, but you cannot convince me. I know you attempted to kill my child.’
‘I planned to. But I couldn’t…’
He placed his hands on the bed, his face close to mine. ‘You called me a cold-blooded bastard. And here you are, unable to distinguish your truths from your lies. I have found vegetable matter in your vomit. You collected toxic plants from my yard, yew perhaps, and took it just before you fell ill.’
‘I collected oregano, James. The same plant I picked for my father who had contracted tonsillitis and bronchitis in that hole you locked him up in. I felt my tonsils beginning to swell and grow sore. I used oregano for its mild antibacterial qualities.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Get out of my room then.’ I glared up at him. A blink of his eyes and he turned away and left. The sound of the bolt sliding in place shouldn’t have surprised me.
I lay perfectly still, with only my mind moving about. Escape was the only solution. I would have to get my strength back, eat better, walk about, use my weakened muscles. Then I would destroy everything James and I had created. The first anthrax trial should be completed, and—
The sensation of butterfly wings softly brushing the inside of my lower abdomen brought my thoughts to a full stop. What a force this little touch had! I placed my hand there, eyes widened in terror, shoulders trembling. Moriarty’s child was moving.
A timid knock and Cecile entered. She rushed up to my bed. ‘How are you doing, Miss?’
‘I am fine, thank you Cecile. How is your master?’
Her head tipped forward. ‘He is…furious. Everyone is walking on tiptoe, the slightest noise upsets him. But I think he will be calmer soon.’
‘Is he smoking opium?’
She nodded.
‘Cecile, would you bring me tea and a sandwich, please? I’d also like to wash.’
‘Yes, Miss,’ she said quietly and left as though the slightest noise would send me into raving madness, too.
She helped me wash and get dressed and sat at my side while I caught my feeble breath. Surprisingly, the sandwich made me feel a little stronger, although I had to force it in. The tea helped to wash it down my dry throat. I was ready for a forward flight.
‘I will go down to see your master,’ I said and rose to my feet. My knees were weak and I had to hold on to the bed frame.
‘I will help you, Miss.’
Slowly, we made our way down to the study. I knocked and stepped in. James lay on the ottoman, eyes directed at the ceiling.
‘May I come in?’
‘I am tired of your lies,’ he answered.
‘Me, too.’
His head turned towards me, his face unable to conceal the surprise.
‘Thank you, Cecile,’ I said and closed the door.
The few steps towards him seemed very far. It took a moment for him to realise that I wouldn’t be able to walk all the way by myself. He caught my arms and walked me to the ottoman.
‘Just let me lie down next to you for a while. I’m quite out of breath.’ There wasn’t even a need to feign my weakness.
‘James, our relationship was based on control and manipulation. Neither of us relinquished even a fraction of power.’ I looked at him. ‘Can we agree on that fact?’
He nodded once.
‘Learning that I am with child tipped that balance. Suddenly, I saw myself being forced to give up every ounce of control. I felt I had no power at all, not even over my own life. Can you understand?’
His eyes scrutinised my face. Gradually, he lost his cold expression.
‘I took juniper to abort our child.’
‘I should have killed you the first time we met.’
‘Yes, that would have spared us a lot of pain,’ I whispered.
He did not react. Exhausted, I placed my he
ad on his shoulder. ‘Your child is moving.’ He stiffened. ‘The fact that I will be a mother soon changed my view dramatically, James. I will not take part in your germ warfare project anymore. I will only develop vaccines. I want to save lives, not take them.’
His ribcage heaved, as though it were constricted. Suddenly, his arm shot out and wrapped around my back. He pressed me to his chest and his face into my hair. I began to shake and promised myself that he needed a fair chance to become human again.
‘Marry me,’ he whispered.
‘I can only marry you when you abstain from murder.’
‘Is that all you ask of me?’
‘Yes,’ I answered, shocked by how far I had gone already.
‘A simple request,’ he mused. ‘I will certainly grant you this wish.’
— day 171 —
James had grown more and more obsessed with Holmes. My tension grew with his, but for a very different reason. I hadn’t spoken to Holmes for weeks and had no clue how far he had come in closing the case. Since the day James had proposed to me and I had consented, he freely shared sensitive information. I sent my water closet messages to Holmes every day, stuffed either with a few names and the nature of the connection between these men and James, or with observations of James’s everyday routine. I also learned that he had indeed attempted to influence a new draft of the Brussels Convention. Apparently, men were listening to him, but no new draft had been made thus far.
While I was working on vaccines, I kept a close eye on Goff. The man had turned into a maniacal germ-producing machine, brewing anthrax germs in small batches and developing variations of a spore-dryer that wouldn’t allow spores to escape into the surrounding air and infect us.
The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) Page 18