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

by Annelie Wendeberg

  Death was still waiting. She smiled at me while slowly dissolving into the blood-red sky.

  Purpose held me upright. I walked to my neighbours’ and back to the cottage, feeling as though I had no substance and the gentle evening breeze might blow me away. I carried a loaf of bread, butter, fresh ham and the hen Mary had plucked from the roost, swiftly beheaded, de-feathered, and gutted. Also the bottle of cider John had pressed into my hand, his face stern and puzzled. Neither had asked a question, not even as I took Wimp the goose with me. Holmes had spoken of James’s death, but no word about Moran. He might still be alive.

  ‘What…’ got stuck in his throat as I entered the cottage with arms full of food and a grey goose in my wake. ‘Wimp,’ I explained. ‘She will sleep on the roof, the best guard one can think of.’

  ‘A rather odd name,’ he remarked.

  ‘When they found her she was no older than two days and very weak. The name stuck and she was too nice to be cooked.’

  The goose walked through the kitchen, a flap flap of webbed feet, a rat tat tat of her beak investigating everything she could reach, just before she left a dropping on the floor. Beating her wings, she announced her delight.

  ‘Time to sleep, Wimp,’ I said while picking her up. She pinched my earlobe in reply. We walked outside, I climbed on the bench next to the cottage, and lifted her up onto the roof. Honking softly, she settled down, and I wished her a good night.

  ‘I forgot the water,’ I said. His glance showed understanding. I couldn’t stand still now; a collapse would come soon, but only after everything that needed doing was done.

  The moments of bustling and eating were over too soon. The silence lowered itself heavily. An uninvited, but necessary guest. Two exceedingly tired people and only one bed; the thought made me stiff.

  Holmes had found my tobacco pouch — a cow’s horn with a rubber stopper from my laboratory in London. He rolled a cigarette. Avoiding his proximity, I declined his offer and made one myself. He poured the cider and I decided to get drunk; at least a little.

  ‘Moran knows I am still alive,’ he said. ‘At the moment he should be on his way to Paris, assuming I’d be there already.’

  ‘How much time do we have?’

  ‘Two days, maybe three. We should leave tomorrow.’

  One day of peace, and I wished it were a year. Or a lifetime.

  ‘I need to tell you what I did,’ I murmured. The silence broke, a crack running through the space between us. He turned towards me, his expression soft.

  ‘Do you really believe I’d judge you for marrying Moriarty?’ he said. I stared at him in disbelief, holding onto my glass so as not to fling it at him.

  ‘I do not care whether you judge me or not,’ I lied. ‘I will pack my belongings tomorrow. I’m too tired tonight.’ With that I left the room to sit outside, with the crooked cottage wall at my back, and the forsythia drawing lines in the pale moonlight at my feet.

  I heard him step through the door. ‘May I?’ he asked, pointing to the space next to me. I nodded. For a long time neither of us spoke.

  ‘I’d very much prefer if you’d let me tell you my secrets when I am ready, not when you have observed and deduced them.’

  ‘My apologies. It was not my intention to intrude. It pains me to see you so…small. I saw it happening gradually, but everything was explainable and logical. Then, at my lodgings, I told myself you were hurt and very tired. But on the train to Germany, I had to admit to the facts and I was shocked at how much you have changed. I knew you as an upright woman, both feet firmly on the ground, chin always a little high, defiantly set, knowing precisely what you wanted and what the right thing to do was. Now you appear so fragile, smaller — for lack of a better word — and as though you have turned away from the world.’

  I gazed up at the stars; Venus appeared — a flickering pinprick followed by others more faint.

  ‘I think that in an odd way, James loved me, and that breaks my heart. And although the love he gave was selfish, it was the only one he knew. Who am I to judge his loving as having less value than mine? He always loved himself first and thus never lost himself, never broke himself nor let anyone break him. He died with his soul intact, or as intact as it ever was or could be.’

  I had to control my breathing. ‘He killed my father and I must ask myself how much of the guilt I carry — all or only half? Had I been able to love him, had I not betrayed him, would my father still be alive? On the other hand, had I told James from the start that I would not work on a weapon that could kill thousands of innocent people, would he have killed my father at all or only me?’

  I gazed up at him. ‘What is the truth, my friend? Do innocent people exist at all? Don’t we all carry guilt? The child causes pain to its mother during birth, so should it feel guilty for the rest of its life? When a man loves a woman without giving her his heart, is he guilty of causing her pain every single day? Or is she guilty because she cannot love him? Because the only love she knows is the all embracing one? The one that must give up all to gain all? Where and when did I make the wrong decision? I cannot see it. And I cannot trust my own judgement anymore.’

  ‘May I?’ he said again, his hand offering to take mine. I shook my head. I wasn’t ready yet.

  ‘I am tired, Holmes.’

  ‘The thought of retiring has appeared very attractive to me lately.’

  ‘You would be bored within hours.’

  ‘Most likely,’ he said.

  ‘What did you plan for Moran?’

  ‘Not much for now. I find it more important to get you away from him than to try capturing the man.’

  ‘If I ever run across Moran again,’ I growled, ‘I will gut him. I might even enjoy it greatly.’

  ‘Precisely. Another reason to get you as far away from him as possible.’

  ‘How odd. Since I know you, I feel an urge to pull you close and at the same time the wish to run away from you. A constant push and pull.’

  ‘You will not feel better if you kill Moran,’ he said softly.

  ‘I almost lost my mind. I saw my own Death today. She was a woman. Isn’t that curious?’

  ‘Why did you try to kill yourself, Anna?’

  ‘I would think that obvious.’

  ‘No, it is not. You have succeeded in bringing Moriarty down, you gave me identities of men I had no clue were involved with him. In fact, the very heart of his governmental branch was revealed by you!’

  ‘I cannot find that very significant at the moment,’ I said.

  ‘Wasn’t that why you insisted on staying in his house?’

  I laughed bitterly. ‘Yes. That was what I wanted. But now I weigh these small accomplishments against the too high price others had to pay.’

  ‘Many more people would have to pay if we hadn’t stopped Moriarty.’ He sounded a little exasperated.

  ‘It will happen anyway. Technological and scientific advances happen, regardless of what you and I believe is right or wrong.’

  Silence fell. The goose had moved to the roof’s edge to sleep closer to where we sat. ‘It isn’t your fault that he murdered your father,’ he said.

  ‘I thought I couldn’t live, if he and you were both dead. What an odd phenomenon time is. Often, a single minute is insignificant. And then, the flightiest moment decides over life and death.’

  ‘Your revolver was wet.’

  ‘I would have taken a knife.’

  ‘You will have to live with the push and pull for a while, Anna. I will not let you out of my sight. You and I will pack our bags and go for a long walk.’ He said all this in his typical matter-of-fact fashion, as though any opposition would be futile.

  ‘What were his last words?’ I asked.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Moriarty said that he was dying and would make sure you and I were taken down with him. I saw his blackened fingertips from the arsenide you had given him. How were you able to accomplish this at all?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it
.’

  He tipped his head and continued. ‘He said his legacy will grow and impact the whole of Europe.’ There, he stopped and I got the impression he didn’t dare continue.

  ‘Tell me,’ I urged.

  ‘He said he enjoyed domesticating you.’

  ‘What precisely did he say?’ My voice quivered.

  Holmes exhaled slowly. ‘My wife was a lovely toy to play with. A wild cat that needed taming, domesticating, and finally breaking. I enjoyed it greatly.’

  My head fell into my hands. My shoulders began to shake.

  ‘I am with child,’ I whispered and it sounded as though I had screamed it, so overbearing was the reality as soon as the words were spoken. Then I broke. I grabbed his hand as though it were the only thing that could hold me, wept his shoulder wet and then his chest. How curious that one can endure so much when there is no alternative. But once safe again and the tale is told, reality rises to bring all the pain, guilt and shame. One is left to wonder: how did I survive all this? Maybe I did not survive after all and another self must emerge from the dark hollow I am in?

  He whispered into my ear and I had to staunch the weeping to understand what he said. ‘Whatever happened, you are alive and he is dead. You have memories while he will be only one of them. You feel guilty, but he never felt remorse. You can go on and he will not. This is essential, Anna. He will not go on because you stopped him.’

  (23)

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  THE JOURNEY

  — one —

  Hear my soul speak.

  Of the very instant that I saw you,

  Did my heart fly at your service.

  W. Shakespeare

  May 1891

  Hunger, exhaustion, and cold stiffened my every move. We had been walking for three days and our provisions were reduced to two handfuls of salted meat and a sliver of stale bread. A curtain of drizzle surrounded us. The dripping of water from above merged with the squish-squish of two pairs of feet — mine and the ones of the man walking a yard ahead of me. The broad rim of his hat drooped, feeding streams of rain down on his shoulders, one of which was still drooping. He had dislocated it while throwing my former husband off a cliff.

  With my gaze attached to his calves, I placed one foot in front of the other, imagining him pulling me along on an invisible string, forward and ever forward. Without his pull, I wouldn’t go anywhere. My knees would simply buckle.

  Holmes led the two of us with stoicism. His trousers were rolled up to his knees, the bare skin splattered with mud and his feet covered in it. He avoided the coast, with all its roads and people. We walked through the heath without cover from view and weather, then continued through moorlands without our boots on. Water had stood ankle high in our footwear. Sickly white feet emerged, toes wrinkled like dead raisins, heels raw from friction and wetness.

  When the day drifted towards a darker grey, I saw him growing tired. The slight sway of his hips became stiffer and his gait lacked the usual spring. Within the hour, he steered us to a suitable place to set up the tent and protect our few dry belongings. One frigid night after the other — a series of dark and restless hours, all lacking a warming fire, all lacking enough food to fill our stomachs. There was nothing to be done about it.

  ‘Over there,’ he called, his hand waving towards a group of trees. I was hugging myself so hard now, I felt like a compacted piece of bone and skin. He took the rope from his bag and strung it low between two crooked firs, then flung the oilskin off my backpack and over the rope, securing it with rocks at its ends. While hunching over the rucksack to protect it from rain, I watched him, knowing precisely which move preceded the next, as though my eyes had seen it a hundred times and his hands had done it equally often. As soon as the oilskin was in place, I stepped underneath, pulled out another piece of oilskin and spread it out on the ground.

  I extracted our blankets, anxiously probing for moisture with fingers so numb that they felt little but the needling cold. As exhausted as we were, wet blankets would bring pneumonia overnight. Brighton, the closest town large enough for a chemist and a physician, was a six-hour walk from here. No one would find us but foxes and ravens.

  During our first day on the run, we had established a firm evening routine. One might call it effective. And it was indeed so. But I, for my part, didn’t care too much about how quickly we got out of the rain as long as I could shut off the world and the struggle. The peaceful minutes between closing my eyes and beginning to dream were all I looked forward to.

  Within less than three minutes, we shed our soggy clothes, let the rain wash the stink and dirt off our skin, and hung shirts, trousers, skirt, and undergarments out into the rain, for they wouldn’t dry in our makeshift tent anyway. We squeezed the water out of our hair and dove under the blankets. Holmes opened my rucksack and extracted each one’s only set of dry clothes. We stuck our trembling limbs into our clothing and then clung to one another, sharing our blankets and the little heat that was left in our bodies.

  While necessity demanded close proximity, we avoided each other’s eyes, as we avoided talking. Attached to Holmes, I felt like a foreign object with my flesh about to wilt off my bones. He had to spend an hour each evening attached to the woman who had bedded his arch enemy. How uncomfortable he must feel, I could only guess. But I tried not to.

  Holmes shot his wiry arm out into the cold and retrieved the meat from his bag. He cut off a large slice and gave it to me, then cut off a smaller bit for himself. This was the only hint of chivalry I allowed. The day we had left our cottage, he had insisted on carrying my rucksack. I told him I’d have none of it and walked away. After that, we no longer discussed our differences in muscle power and durability. But I sensed his alertness, ready to run to the aid of the damsel in distress should the need arise. His chivalrous reflexes annoyed me greatly.

  We chewed in silence, the food dampening the clatter of teeth. Gradually, warmth returned. First to my chest, then to my abdomen. As soon as the shivering subsided, we retreated into one’s own solitude of blanket wrapper. And only then did we dare talk.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  I nodded, taking another bite. ‘Warm. Good. Thank you. How is your eye?’ I had seen him rubbing his right eye repeatedly.

  ‘Not worth mentioning.’ He gazed out into the rain, as though the weather might be worth conversing about. ‘We need to replenish our provisions,’ he said, and added softly, ‘We have two possible destinations to choose from, with one city large enough for a skilled surgeon.’

  ‘It’s too late. Choose what place you judge best for your needs.’

  ‘Too late?’ Again, that soft voice as though the words could break me.

  ‘Five months now. The child is as large as a hand. It cannot be extracted without killing the… mother.’

  He lowered his head in acknowledgement. The topic needed no further discussion. ‘We have to talk about Moran.’

  I didn’t want to talk about that man. All I wanted was Moran dead.

  ‘Tell me what you learned about him,’ he pressed.

  ‘I know nothing that you wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Anna!’ He made my name sound like a synonym for pigheadedness.

  ‘Damn it, Holmes. I tried avoiding that man whenever possible. All I can provide is what you already know: best heavy-game shot of the British Empire, free of moral baggage, in the possession of a silent air rifle, and very angry while out to avenge his best friend and employer, James Moriarty.’

  I stuck my hand out into the rain where the oilskin collected the water into a thick stream, filled my cup, and washed the salty meat down my throat.

  ‘You lived in Moriarty’s house. I didn’t. It follows that you must know more about Moran than I.’

  ‘If he cannot find us, he’ll set up a trap. It was you who said that he once used a small child as tiger bait.’ I coughed and rubbed my tired eyes.

  ‘Precisely. Now, what trap would he arrange for us? I cannot use information of his beh
aviour in India ten years ago and extrapolate it to the near future. How does this man’s mind work? You must have observed something of importance!’

  I pulled up my knees and tucked in my blanket, trying to keep the heat loss at a minimum. ‘Just like James Moriarty, Moran doesn’t have the slightest degree of decency. He made a fake attempt at raping me so James could stage a rescue. Perhaps they hoped I was naive enough to sympathise with James after he saved me from Moran. But whatever their true intentions, they enjoyed themselves, I’m certain.’

  Coughing, I turned my back to Holmes and closed my eyes. Sleep would take me away in mere minutes. ‘Moran’s brain is exceptionally sharp when he is hunting,’ I added quietly.

  ‘Your cough is getting worse,’ he said.

  ‘I noticed.’

  Listening to his breathing, I wiped the memories of Moran and James away, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they returned. As soon as the dreams woke me, I’d take the second watch.

  Someone screamed. My eyes snapped open. Oilskin above my head. The gentle tapping of rain. A hunched figure next to me. I wasn’t in bed murdering James.

  ‘You can sleep now,’ I croaked and sat up. Tinted with fear, my voice was a stranger to me.

  He settled down and rolled up in his blanket. ‘Wake me in two hours.’

  I didn’t want to talk about James, nor did I seek consolation. Holmes had accepted my wishes with a nod and I was glad I never detected pity or disgust in his face. He could conceal his emotions well.

  The sound of water rolling off leaves and cracking down onto our tent, along with Holmes’s calm breathing, were all I could hear. Nature’s quietude was a beautiful contrast to London’s bustle. It almost felt as though we were silent together, nature and I.

  Holmes’s feet twitched a little. Only seconds later, his breathing deepened. I waited a few minutes, then struck a match. A dim golden light filled the tent, illuminating his face. It amazed me every time. He looked so different. The sharp features softened, his expression unguarded. I flicked the match in the wet grass, peered outside, and thought of the day I had kissed him. The memory was far away; violence and betrayal had bleached it to a dreamlike consistency.