I shrugged. ‘Black, I guess.’
He barked a laugh, then said softly, ‘You and I will begin our search at your father’s home. If he’s not there, we will work our way towards Switzerland.’
We boarded the ship to Dieppe in the afternoon. When Holmes went for a smoke on deck, I joined him.
Before I could utter a word, he began, ‘Moriarty has set up an astonishing criminal network all over London and Europe. It was impossible to find them all, but the main players will be arrested on Monday.’ Holmes peered over my head, assessing the proximity of other passengers, then beckoned me over to the railing. ‘Moriarty had a wife and a son. Both died of tetanus only days after the child was born. Four months later he initiated the Club to test this same disease on paupers. I learned about this only three days before you were able to free yourself. The cold-bloodedness of this man is unmatched and I deeply regret having let you stay there for so long.’
‘It was my decision.’
‘I sincerely wish you had a greater sense of self preservation.’ His gaze was penetrating, as though he wanted to climb behind my facade and extract more information.
‘Holmes, I do not wish to talk about James and myself. Someday, perhaps, but not now.’
Without delay, he changed the topic. ‘Mycroft and I were taking Moriarty’s network apart. Carefully putting pressure on the weaker links, we were preparing to arrest the more stubborn men. Come Monday, that man’s organisation will be non-operational.’
I gazed out across the sea. The sun was preparing to set. Gulls sailed quietly over the waves. All spoke of beauty and peace while the inside of me raged with a chaos of foreboding, shame, guilt, and pain.
‘Were you able to find out who supported Moriarty’s idea for a new draft of the Brussels Declaration?’
A hollow breath was followed by a crestfallen answer. ‘As it happens, I wasn’t. The entire business is rather complicated and I’m not entirely certain why Moriarty wanted to change the Convention at all. It forbids the spreading, by any means whatsoever, of disease on enemy territory, while at the same time it lacks any enforcement provisions. Whatever laws there are for warfare, no one would ever be arrested for not abiding by them. Although he must have known this, he invested a great amount of energy convincing them to remove that section on disease. I am not quite certain why, but it is highly alarming.’
‘It has already been changed?’
‘Yes, unfortunately.’
‘More work for us then,’ I said. He nodded absentmindedly.
‘Holmes?’
‘Hmm?’
‘You look pale and worn out. But what worries me most is that you appear… far away. Why? What troubles you so much?’
He turned away and gazed at the sunset. I didn’t get an answer.
— anton —
We parted in Dieppe. Without looking into my eyes, Holmes had simply tipped his hat and walked away while Watson squeezed my hand longer than necessary.
Mycroft Holmes and I boarded the night train to Hamburg, then Berlin and Leipzig. We talked little. Tension and fear tied my tongue.
Late the following morning, we hailed a carriage to take us to my childhood home. The closer we got, the worse the anxiety dug into my stomach. As the cab would have drawn too much attention, I let the driver drop us off before entering the village.
The way up the hill was steep, and Mycroft was sweating and huffing after the first twenty yards. I had no patience to wait for him and ran the last half mile to the house after having given him instructions on how to find it.
The path up the hill towards the village . Late 19th century. (21)
Without the chickens, the garden looked abandoned. I ran through the small gate, searched for the key in the cherry tree’s knothole, and opened the door to the house. The curtains were drawn, but the stuffiness and dust I expected were missing. If my father had been absent for months, who had cleaned the house recently?
‘Good morning, Dr Kronberg,’ a voice crept from the darkness. The man spoke perfect German. His faint outlines, relaxed with hands in his pockets, appeared in the far corner. His hat overshadowed his eyes, a glint of a smile flashed across the room.
‘Where is my father?’
‘Ah, well. Who can know for sure? Heaven maybe? Or hell?’
‘Did you… are you…’ Like a fish on the sand, I could only gape.
‘You stupid girl. Did you really believe you could with play us? Your father is currently in the church, but he will not be buried on church ground because he took his own life.’
‘You are lying!’ I cried, saltwater creeping down my cheeks and wetting my mouth.
‘Of course I am, or maybe not? After all, he did take the poison I gave him. Does that make him a victim or does that make him a man who committed suicide to avoid the bullet? A philosophical question, clearly, but what the neighbours believe must be the truth, don’t you think?’
I could barely breathe, my mind was blaring so loudly, my heart aching so badly that I was close to losing control.
‘And now?’ I asked, voice quivering.
‘What kind of question is that? Shouldn’t you first marvel at the plan that got you here, all alone, then show some fear and maybe scream for help?’
Finally my survival instinct flicked the switch and my mind came back to life. ‘I have never screamed for help in my entire life. And the plan is obvious, don’t you think?’ By now, Mycroft should have reached the house. I dearly hoped he would eavesdrop before rumbling through the door. But what would eavesdropping help if he did not understand a word of German?
‘I could make you scream, but I was told not to. What a pity. Now, how is the plan obvious?’
‘The night before yesterday, James Moriarty sent a wire to you and ordered you to kill my father. I guess you have been following him for a while now, because he had just arrived here, cleaned up, was about to feel at home again when you came to end his life.
James’s plan was to separate Holmes and me. It was likely that I would come here while Holmes searched the other end of my father’s trail. You waited here to kill me, too. But I’m surprised James would dirty his hands by killing Holmes himself.’
‘Close enough. The Professor has a personal issue with Mr Holmes, and I’d think this would be all cleared up by now.’
‘He has no chance against Holmes.’ Desperate hope spoken aloud.
The man facing me shook his head. ‘Silly girl. Holmes has no chance against the Professor and Colonel Moran. You see, the two of you willingly ran into the trap he set up.’
‘Brilliant,’ I spoke through my teeth, my mind racing around possibilities or rather, the lack thereof. ‘And how am I going to die?’
‘Slowly of course, but not quite yet. The professor forbade us to harm you. He will allow you to give birth to his child and raise him to the age of three. Then, the two of you will be found.’ With that, he tipped his hat and slunk towards the back door. My legs wouldn’t move at first, and I almost fell forward in an attempt to catch him as I heard Mycroft snarl ‘Stop!’ Next came a bang of a door against its frame, three shots, grappling, and yet another shot. Something heavy fell, and I slithered to a halt. The heap was moving, inching towards the revolver on the floor. I kicked it away. Mycroft held his gun in his large hand, perfectly steady, his face a mask.
I bent down and saw blood seeping through the man’s waistcoat. The shot must have gone straight through his lungs. His chest was heaving aimlessly. I had no pity for him.
‘Mr Holmes, are you alright?’
‘Yes, thank you. He was about to shoot me as he spotted me behind the door. But how are you? What did he say to you?’
‘Your brother and Watson are in great danger. Moriarty’s plan was to separate us. Now he and Moran are hunting your brother and Watson. You must leave immediately.’
Mycroft Holmes stared down at the man, slowly pocketed his revolver. I picked up the other gun.
‘We thought it likely that this
would be Moriarty’s plan. That is why I accompanied you. We were also aware of the possibility that your father would be long dead. Where is he? Did he say?’ He stuck the tip of his shoe in the dead man’s side. The blood had already started to coagulate, turning the black puddle into a flat clump.
‘He killed him,’ I whispered and turned away. ‘Mr Holmes, the neighbour next door will bring you to Grimma, the next city with a post office. Keep your brother and his friend alive, please.’ With that I left to notify the neighbour and see my father.
The Marketplace in Grimma. Late 19th century. (22)
It was cold inside, colder than outside, but it had always been that way. The church was never quite inviting, with its tall walls, distant ceiling, the hollow echoing of heels on stone floors, and the bleeding Jesus, always suffering, always in a distance far up behind the altar and intimidatingly large.
They had laid my father down in front of the altar. A sheet was covering him. I could almost hear their heated discussions — that he had always been a good man, that he should be buried at his wife’s side in sacred soil, and the other voices that said it would be a sin to allow a man who had taken his own life to rest on church grounds.
I didn’t quite know whether I wanted to run to him — or else never approach his body, this fragile husk that no longer contained my father. My feet decided on a slow walk, my knees bent, and I fell down next to him. My hands removed the sheet, only a little at first, then flinging aside the whole cover.
The rustle of linen against the cold stone floor sounded like a scream. Or maybe that was me.
His face was white, his lips blue. I touched his chest, no heartbeat, no breath lifting the ribcage. What had I expected? I bent down to smell his lips and the faint odour of cadaver exiting his nostrils punched my stomach. I licked his lips, cold and stiff, and I tried not to retch. Nothing — no metallic taste, no stinging or burning. What poison had been used? My mind spun in circles and my eyes flew over his body, trying to analyse what had happened during the last minutes of his life.
What was I doing? Was it important to know which poison had killed him? No antidote could bring him back to life! Wasn’t this my brain that wanted to work on something, solve a problem, a puzzle, so as not to let the heart feel the pain?
I let my mind flee, and the task and the puzzle, placed my hand on my father’s cheek and lay down next to him. Perhaps sharing a little of my warmth would let him feel that I was close.
I had lost track of time, or time had lost track of me. I didn’t really know. The police had come, had taken the murderer away, had questioned me, had frowned and not understood. But how could they? The story was long and all they got to see was but one end of a severed thread.
My father was buried next to his wife — my mother — while Katherina, his lover and almost wife, stood by crying quietly. I felt nothing but curiosity over my own coldness.
I sat in my father’s living room with tobacco and a bottle of brandy as companions. The knocks at the door couldn’t motivate my legs to move. I stayed put and refilled my glass.
Perhaps mothers should not drink too much, rang in the back of my head. I would shed motherhood like an oversized cloak. But wasn’t it too late, the child too big? I shook my head ferociously at this thought. It would be too late when the child’s kicking could not be confused with bowel activities anymore, when the stomach was so large I could no longer hide it.
Would I really kill—
My thoughts were interrupted by Mycroft Holmes rumbling through the door. Without a word, he sat down opposite me, took my glass, and poured it down his throat. It was then that I knew I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. My head wanted to tip forward, rest on the worn tabletop, and invest no more thoughts on loss and pain.
‘My information is based on only a few telegrams,’ I heard him say. He sounded oddly far off. ‘One from Watson, the others from two reliable friends.’ He bent forward and refilled the glass, pushed it over to me. Automatically, I tipped it into my mouth, greeting the dullness it would soon bring.
‘I am afraid he is dead,’ he exhaled, face falling into his palms. The large man shrunk, but I could not move to place a consoling hand on his shoulder.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Mr Holmes,’ my mouth spoke without involving my brain. ‘Please, feel welcome to stay overnight. The next train to Berlin should depart tomorrow before ten o’clock. Can I offer you supper?’
He coughed, sat erect, and nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’
Was that how floating felt? Detached from everything, I did what needed doing to finish this day and start another. The decision had come so easily. I had loved two men. Both were gone, and I would follow.
— the fallen —
How I got to my cottage, I cannot recall. Suddenly I found myself at the front door. There were wisps of memories: the decision to come here and not defile my father’s house with a suicide; then sitting in various trains, a ship, and wandering through the countryside. It had rained the entire day, I think. My trousers and waistcoat were sopping wet. I had forgotten to put the coat on; it hung limply over the bag I carried. Did I travel all the way with that revolver in my hand? I held it up and water ran out of the drum, down the gun’s butt, and into my sleeve. I shook it, wondering whether it still worked.
No need to go inside. I could do it here and watch the sunset. I dropped my belongings and sat down on the small rock next to my cottage, closing my eyes. How wonderful the sounds of water dripping off the roof, the quiet sizzling of warm compost turning rain into steam, the blackbird’s song announcing the end of the day. Swimming in music and the aroma of washed earth, I opened my eyes.
Three things happened simultaneously: the cloud cover tore open, and a red sun slashed through, hitting the wet ground at a sharp angle. Then, Death appeared at my side. All went quiet as if in deepest respect.
Expecting Death to be a haggard man clad in black robes, outstretching a skeletal hand to close it around my throat, I braced myself and turned towards him. A billowing cloak. Or was it…a dress? Softly flowing along curved hips, caressed by the wind and without a beginning or an end to the fabric, its edges melted into thin air. I was stunned — my Death was a woman! Perhaps because I wanted her to be female, hoping she would be gentle? But then, how I took my life wasn’t in her power .
She touched my shoulder, her hand neither warm nor cold and her outlines disappearing whenever I tried to see her clearly. It felt comfortable to have her at my side. I wouldn’t be alone when I left this world. Her hand on my shoulder was protective, neither pulling nor pushing me in one direction or the other. What I would do next was to be my own decision.
The blackbird’s voice tore at my marred heart. I turned the gun and stared into its gaping black mouth. Would I see the explosion? Would I see the projectile before it entered my head and ripped my brain apart? I pushed the hammer down. The clicking noise washed exhilaration through my chest, dulling the pain within. Keeping my eyes wide open, I moved my thumb to the trigger.
Death dropped her hand, abandoning my shoulder and pulling my attention towards my cottage door. The handle moved. A shy creak. The door opened. In one swift move, I rose to my feet and pointed the revolver at the tall man who stood in the shadows.
‘You bastard!’ I cried.
He plunged back inside the instant I pulled the trigger. Nothing but a wet click happened. Chasing after him, I pulled it again and again with the same result. I ran through the door and slammed it shut. With a cry of despair, I flung the useless weapon in his direction. The clatter told me I hadn’t even hit my target, only some innocent wall or cupboard. I pushed into a dark corner and forced my breath to come quietly so as not to betray my location. It was impossible to reach my kitchen cupboard and fetch a knife, but fury would make my hands strong enough to wring his neck. Certainty and foreboding vibrated in my limbs.
Soft footfall. A floorboard creaked, and a hand emerged from the shadows.
‘Anna.’ That
unexpected voice sent me into a numbing suspense. How still everything was. Had it ever been so quiet? A second hand, followed by shoes, trousers, a waistcoat and Holmes’s face. Bruised and limping, his right shoulder hanging so low as though it were about to come off its hinge. I blinked and lifted my hand to touch his cheek, to feel whether he was real and not a product of my imagination.
He closed his eyes and leaned his face into my palm. I stepped closer and he punched all air from my lungs with his embrace. We just stood there, quite still, him holding me and blowing fragile breath into my hair.
‘What happened to you?’ I didn’t dare think of James.
He straightened up, took a step back, and answered, ‘It was a short fight. Moriarty was mad with fury and flung himself at me to throw us both off the cliff. He is dead now. I saw him fall.’
I touched his shoulder. ‘Was it dislocated?’
‘Yes it was. I set it.’
‘Let me see.’ Stoically, I took his other elbow and led him to a chair. The same chair I sat on as Moran and… I wiped the thought away.
‘Does this feel numb?’ I gently squeezed his deltoid muscle. He nodded. ‘The axillary nerve is injured, probably from an anterior dislocation. In normal language: You fell, caught some handhold and swung rather violently, thus dislocating your shoulder joint. But you obviously know that already. I’m amazed you were under so much control and did not lose your grip. The pain must have been overwhelming.’
‘I am amazed at how much you sound like me.’
I dropped my hand and walked to the kitchen, the numbness accompanying me while I made a fire in the stove and fetched the kettle to get water for tea. He must have searched the house earlier — dried meat and bacon were still on the counter. That and a few beans and rye were the only things I had. ‘I’ll be back soon,’ I said and left.
The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) Page 21