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

by Annelie Wendeberg

  Every day, I had rearranged the laboratory setup, explaining that I was worried about his spores and wished to increase our safety. The changes were small; but gradually, I turned the warehouse into an oversized bomb.

  The brougham waited, James held the door open for me. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m making sure my fiancé and my child get enough to eat. You are working too much, my dear. Come, I reserved a table for us.’

  Surprised, I climbed in. Just before he closed the door I spotted one of Holmes’s street urchins. Wiggins was his name, I believe. He looked hurried.

  Garrow drove us up to Richmond and opened the door. James exited the carriage, then froze. I followed his gaze. Holmes! Without disguise he stood just across the street, looking me full in the face. I forced my head not to shake. He was too early!

  ‘What does this man want now?’ snarled James.

  With pain in my chest, I took his hand, and gave Holmes a cold stare, hoping he would understand. James tucked my hand in the bend of his elbow and marched us off to the Castle, a nearby dining room.

  Judging from James’s constant tension and Holmes advising me to run, Holmes must be very close to arresting James and his men. Three days ago, James had begun to hunch again. His headaches were bothering him constantly. Although my treatments gave him some relief, every evening he was to be found on his ottoman and smoking opium. The ageing cat was trapped and furiously pacing his cage.

  James pulled a chair up for me, and I sat down. He didn’t speak until the waiter had taken our orders.

  ‘We will move to Paris in two weeks,’ he announced.

  ‘Is it Holmes?’ I said softly.

  ‘We will live in an apartment for a while until we find a house that suits us.’

  ‘What about the laboratory and our project?’

  ‘Goff will begin packing up tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Our first trial is almost finished, James. In eight days I could infect our immunised mules and the control group. Then we would know whether our anthrax vaccine works. Please, I need another two weeks!’

  It would be a catastrophe if our laboratory were to be moved before I could destroy it.

  James stared at the tablecloth, his jaw muscles working. ‘Very well, fourteen days. Not one day longer.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I placed my hand on his.

  — day 183 —

  I felt as though I were translucent. Prolonged hardship can make personalities stronger, but it can warp them just the same. Yet I had believed myself strong enough to escape this fate. How curious the capability to live through torture and pain minute by minute, day by day, while the mind does not allow a view on the future self for even a second. Had I known James Moriarty would keep me for half a year, only to be invaded by his child and handcuffed by marriage, I would have let the dogs eat me on day one. Yet it was me taking every single one of these steps, one at a time, half-blind to the consequences. Who was to blame? While we drove up to a small cathedral outside London, I gazed at James’s face and wondered what hardships had removed his humanity.

  Chingford Old Church, London, 1896 (19)

  The ceremony was short and only Jonathan and Cecile were present to witness the unification of bride and groom. Cecile, in her naiveté, smiled happily, while Jonathan’s eyes betrayed suspicion.

  A simple “I do” and I was James’s. Now he owned all that I had and I owned nothing. My clothes had been his before. I felt sorry for my cottage, though. He could sell it or burn it down. Whatever he chose to do, no law could hinder him. He could lock me up in my room and violate me, and it would be legitimate. By signing the marriage papers, I was robbed of all freedom. Should I ever regain it, I would shed my female identity forever. Being Anna Kronberg only meant a constant struggle with societal laws that I always failed to recognise and obey. I was too tired to do this any longer.

  I put a timid smile on my face as James took my hand into his to lead me back to the brougham. We had been quiet for a long moment, with him gazing at me while I observed the streets and houses flying by.

  ‘You are not with me, Anna.’

  ‘I am sorry, James. I haven’t been myself lately.’

  ‘To be honest, me neither,’ he replied, slamming a fist against the window. ‘This Holmes is getting on my nerves. He is like a bloodhound, won’t be led off track and is all over my men lately.’

  The brougham came to a halt, James climbed out and offered me his hand. ‘Mrs Moriarty?’ he said with pride. I tried a smile and his face fell.

  ‘I shouldn’t have rushed you,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps.’ I gazed at my shoes, fighting for words. ‘We had no time to get to know each other as man and woman, James. We work and sleep with each other, but we have never considered spending our lives together, let alone having children.’

  ‘Well, what is done is done,’ he said, kissing my hand. ‘You cannot have a child and be unmarried. Come.’ He led me up the marble stairs into the house. Lunch was awaiting us. The odour of fish pudding made me sick. Upon my request, Hingston removed it from the table. The vegetables looked inviting enough, though.

  ‘It is time to change tactics with Holmes.’

  I swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I will put an end to this. The man is a nuisance.’ James tried to shovel peas onto his fork, but they wouldn’t obey. He began to stab them ferociously. Silverware screeched on china.

  ‘Are you breaking your promise?’

  ‘No. I will let someone else murder Holmes. But let us not talk about such gruesome issues, my dear. We have a wedding to celebrate. I would very much like to see you in the afternoon light.’

  Hingston blushed and left the room.

  — day 184 —

  Friday, April 24th, 1891

  I stepped out of the tub, watching the water run down my body and the steam rise from it. The Moroccan soap coloured the air heavy and sweet. What I felt would be hard to describe. Precise, maybe?

  The decision had been easier than I anticipated. While having supper with James, the certainty fell upon me as light as April rain. He had tried to murder Holmes. First attempt: in person, at Holmes’s apartment, but Holmes had his loaded revolver at the ready. Subsequent attempts were carried out by James’s men, be it stones thrown from rooftops or horse carriages trying to run him over. I had told James I was shocked. There was no way to disguise what I felt. Why should I not be? My husband had put himself in danger; I was entitled to be upset.

  I worked almond oil into my wet skin, then rubbed excess moisture off with a towel. The crystal flask waited on a chest of drawers, the clear liquid inside refracting the candlelight into sparks of red, blue, and orange. I watched the small rainbows, marvelling at the beauty of my murder weapon, then stepped forward and pulled the stopper.

  The treacherous fluid clucked through the phial’s neck and fell on my palm. I applied it to my breasts and let the dew soak into my skin. I spread another handful on my vulva and pubic hair, and a final droplet on my lower lip. Then, I opened the tin of activated carbon tablets and swallowed them all. His kisses would transport some of the poison into my mouth and I would inevitably swallow it. The carbon had to absorb it all or I would die, too.

  I brushed my wet hair which now reached past my chin — the same length it had been before the head injury a year and a half ago. My fingers probed the scar. It still felt sensitive to the touch. I stepped closer to the looking glass and wiped its cloudy surface. I met my gaze. You will murder a man tonight, Anna, I whispered to myself. Yes, I answered. Condensation crept in and obscured my face again.

  I put the camisole on and strung myself into the corset. He fancied unpacking me. No drawers, only garters and silk stockings covered my legs. He liked that, too — immediate access to the most important parts.

  I walked out of the bathroom, the Moroccan perfume trailing in my wake. The clacking of my heels sounded in the corridor and I knew he was listening for it, awaiting my arrival at his be
droom door. I knocked and heard his approach on the other side. He opened and smiled at me. I smiled back, feeling a surge of excitement over the imminent murder by intimacy. He saw my slight trembling, curled his hand around the back of my neck and pulled me close. His kiss was demanding. I surrendered to him and our final battle.

  ‘You are different tonight,’ he noted, his breath brushing against my neck.

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered, bending my head to the side and offering more of the sensitive skin.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Tonight, I wish to surrender.’

  His hands stopped in their tracks, his expression darkening in mistrust.

  ‘I never gave myself to you completely. I never could, or never thought of it. I am a headstrong woman. You know that.’

  ‘Why the change of heart?’

  ‘I thought about it while bathing. How it would feel to not be in control of myself for a few moments.’ I took a step back from him, feigning disappointment. ‘My brain is always analysing and it distracts me from being with you. Thinking of surrender aroused me. But we don’t have to—’ His lips came down on mine, his tongue spreading the taste of opium in my mouth.

  We fell onto the bed. He pushed my dress up. I struggled to get it off and he helped me then, found the corset and whispered, ‘Lovely.’ Slowly, he untied the arrangement of hooks and strings, silk and whale bone; whispering, crackling, rustling intermingled with staccato breath and the sound of kisses.

  His hand wandered from my breasts down to my stomach, coming to a halt just before my clitoris. Impatiently, I grabbed his wrist and pushed his fingers closer and deeper. With a growl he dove down, greedily kissing my toxic vulva. I did love him then. All of him, who trusted me now and did not know that this would be his end. I loved him for what he was, and what he had done. Because tonight I was the one murdering, and he the victim. Sending him off without anyone loving him felt wrong.

  Spent, he lay next to me and soon his face began to flush. As he opened his eyes I noticed the dilated pupils, eyeballs slightly bloodshot. I could see the realisation sink in and the shock it brought.

  ‘I’d always suspected… the wine,’ he said with effort. His feet started twitching and his eyelids fluttered.

  ‘You took precautions?’

  ‘Hrmm…’ he said, his jaw not following his orders.

  ‘Carbon?’ I asked. He did not reply, but his eyes betrayed him. If he had taken his last dose of activated carbon before or after dinner, there must only be very little left in his stomach. Too little to save him now.

  His hand moved up, his index finger trying to enter his throat to help expel his stomach’s toxic contents. I held on to his wrist and pulled his arm away. He feebly shoved at me, his eyes rimmed with water, his body gradually relenting to the belladonna’s debilitating effect. He blinked and tears squeezed onto his cheeks. I wiped them away and said softly, ‘I cannot let you bring suffering upon thousands of people and I will certainly not let you kill Holmes. But we both lost this battle, my husband. I let you break me.’ He showed no reaction.

  I rose and dressed, then opened the strongbox and took his revolver, munition, and all money and papers from it. I cocked the gun, took my shoes and walked back to James.

  Froth seeped from the corners of his mouth. His abdomen appeared to be cramping. I turned him onto his side — drowning in vomit would be a cruel death.

  I kissed his brow and tiptoed to my room. There, I put a wad of bills, probably a hundred pounds, into an envelope and marked it “Cecile.” With cape and purse on my arm, I walked down to the first floor and pushed the envelope through the door of her room, hoping she would forgive me for killing her employer. Then, I went down into the study and collected the papers from his desk’s top drawer.

  With my back to the entrance door and observing the stairwell for any movement, I laced my boots and snuck outside. The dogs came running and greeted me with wagging tails. I walked quickly to the gate and tried it. It was locked, so I climbed over it. The hem of my dress tore as I jumped down.

  I stuck my finger deep into my throat and black vomit splashed onto the pavement — the carbon that held the toxin captive needn’t go through my digestive system. Then, I walked down Kensington Palace Gardens and with every new step I took the turmoil inside of me worsened.

  Running, I turned into Bayswater Road and slowed to a casual walk, wondering where Holmes’s street urchins were. Soon, I heard a cab approach. The hairs on my neck prickled, but I willed myself not to turn around. The hansom passed me and stopped after a hundred yards. The cabbie climbed down and checked his horse’s front hooves, swore, spat, and climbed back up again. I decided to go for it.

  ‘Cabbie!’ I cried and walked up to him. ‘I need you to take a message to Mr Sherlock Holmes, 221 B Baker Street,’ I said, hastily writing a small note and extracting a gold sovereign from my purse — the smallest coins I had found in James’s strongbox. ‘Be quick and Mr Holmes will give you another.’ I held the money and the message out to him. The cabbie’s eyes bulged. He appeared close to a heart failure, but pulled himself together soon enough and snatched the money as though in fear I would change my mind.

  ‘Yes ma’am,’ he said, flicked his horse hard, and raced away.

  I walked for about ten minutes before another cab came into view. I hailed it, gave the driver an address, and climbed in. He appeared rather taken aback about my choice of destination.

  I handed the man a sovereign, thinking that the news of a mad woman paying outrageous fares would spread like fire. I watched the hansom drive off, then turned around to unlock the warehouse.

  The metal door fell into its frame with a loud crack. Heavy odours of swine blood, beef extract, and mule manure saturated the air. My trembling fingers searched for the lantern on the floor. I found it, opened its hatch and lit the wick. The small bubble of light did not reach far. I walked all around the room, lighting oil lamps and checking the positions of the large flasks filled with grain alcohol. I took a scalpel and cut my petticoat into slices; twisted them into wicks. The end of each wick went into each of the flasks, sucking up the liquid and releasing its vapour into the air, biting my nostrils. The other ends were laid out on the floor, unified in the centre, one large white spiderweb with globules at each tendril’s end. I dumped all my notes and James’s papers — the sum of our work on germ warfare — next to one alcohol bottle, then walked over to the dozing mules, bracing myself for my next task.

  Two days ago, we had poured anthrax germs into their fodder. By now, half of the animals stood on shaky legs, hindquarters soiled with diarrhoea. I dressed in the India rubber apron, gloves and mask to protect myself from contaminated splatter, then took up the stud gun and drove the bolt into each mule’s forehead. It was a quiet death — a click, the sound of a blunt impact, the crack of a circular piece of skull bone being punched into the brain, and the collapse of the animal onto the straw. The other mules watched, but no panic broke out. After twenty-four clicks, they lay dead or unconscious before me.

  I took off the protective garments and walked back to the laboratory, struck a match and threw it into the spiderweb’s centre.

  The flames shot up the tendrils and I darted towards the exit to escape the explosion. Before I could even touch the handle, the door flew open. Moran’s face and his approaching fist were the last things I saw before darkness fell.

  What a curious sensation! Flickering light. Flickering memories. Reality slipping into dream and back again. My lungs burned. I opened my eyes and faced a wall of fire. Thick smoke floated inches above my head. The only cool place was the ground on which I lay. My breath was barely a whisper, elaborated, heavy, painful. My left eye hurt, my head throbbed, my throat clenched. So much effort to push myself forward, little by little. Why wouldn’t my hand let go of the bulky purse? The walls were on fire, the ceiling invisible, the metal door probably too hot to touch or too heavy for me to move now. I thought of crying then, but why should I? Dying wasn’t
too horrible a thought. I wouldn’t even feel the flames lick my skin. The smoke would make me unconscious in but a moment. I rested my cheek on the cold floor, forcing myself not to think of fire eating flesh and slowly drifted off.

  Something rumbled. Clack clack clack. Smoke. Smoke! My eyes opened. Or rather, one eye — the other was swollen shut — and looked up at Holmes.

  ‘Anna!’

  ‘Something is burning.’ I managed a croaky whisper.

  ‘You are safe. It is the smoke on your clothes and hair you smell.’

  I closed my eye again. For the first time in my life, my brain refused to think, and I was too tired to coax it into analysis mode.

  He carried me up the flight of stairs and lay me down on his bed, then disappeared.

  ‘Drink,’ he said upon his return, holding a glass of water in one hand, lifting my head with the other. My mouth and throat felt like sandpaper. I tried to ask what had happened, but only a rasp came out. He bent closer, and I repeated my question.

  Slowly, he placed the glass on the nightstand. He looked worried.

  ‘It was my fault,’ he said. ‘I should have foreseen that he would instruct the cabbies working the area to keep their eyes open for any woman fitting your description. And for a substantial reward, they would certainly make for a good surveillance army. It’s what I would have done.’

  I touched his hand and whispered, ‘Contacting me was too high a risk.’

  He harrumphed, wiping my argument away.

  ‘But you found me.’

  ‘Yes. Wiggins clung to the hansom, took a ride to the warehouse and back to Kensington Park. Then he came to me, asking whether I had got your message. Of course it never arrived here, it was delivered to Moran! He must have run to Moriarty first, otherwise he would have been at the warehouse even before it went up in flames.’