The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (10 page)

‘He’s here?’ I was suddenly wide awake.
 

He shook his head. ‘But we should pack and be ready.’

I answered with a nod. We rolled up the blankets and collapsed the tent while hunching low enough as not to let our heads show above the grass. He folded the oilskin and stuffed it in his bag. ‘Can you carry all this?’

‘Of course I can,’ I answered.

Then we waited. He flat on his stomach, the telescope in his hands, and me perched on my heels, surveying the surroundings while cutting slices of bread and ham.

We ate and washed our breakfast down with the cold and bitter tea from the previous night. The wind let the grass tickle our faces, held the gulls high above us, and carried their cries and the salty air over our heads. The sun hid behind a thin sheet of clouds.

‘Are there any good memories from your time in the asylum?’ I asked.

‘Hum…’ he answered, one eye directed at the grave. A boyish smile lit up his features. ‘Ha!’ he said and I was all ears, expecting wild stories to be revealed.

‘Two ladies taught me a vast diversity of German swearwords.’ He turned to me, eyes shining. ‘Miss Glücklich and Miss Meier.’

I almost spat out my breakfast. ‘Glücklich? You found a Miss Glücklich in an asylum? Do you know that
glücklich
is the German word for lucky or happy?’

‘Of course. I speak German fluently.’

It took me a while to digest this information. ‘You never told me.’

‘On what occasion precisely should I have done so? There was none. Besides, your English is excellent. No need to help you with translations.’
 

A dry remark and completely logical if one had possessed all information beforehand. ‘Why were they there?’
 

‘They were Sapphists.’

‘Oh,’ I said, feeling a pang. ‘What you people from the upper classes have to endure is… madness. I have no other word for it. Locking up two women because they love each other. Locking away a boy who, even
if
he had made a horrible mistake, was but a small child and hence, innocent. All these useless rules go against logic, compassion, and instinct.’
 

Feeling quite hot from anger, I rubbed my hair and let the wind cool my scalp and my thoughts. ‘If I had abided by those rules, I’d never have been a medical doctor. I would now sit at home, would have given birth to eight children, of which four would have died of undernourishment or disease. And I would have a husband who believes that beating his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb is appropriate only because the law allows him to!’
 

I threw a handful of sand in the wind. It was blown straight back into my face. ‘Shit, I have sand between my teeth.’

A low chuckle rolled up his throat. I pressed my knuckles in his ribs and said, ‘I was kissed by a woman once.’

‘Me too,’ he answered and turned back to observing the surroundings for any signs of Moran and Parker while I inspected the grass for any signs of six-legged fauna.

‘We drank all of the tea,’ I said somewhat involuntarily, feeling rather dry in my mouth. ‘The water is gone, too.’

We didn’t speak for the ensuing two hours. Only the wind whispered in my ears, the gulls screamed, and the sea rushed up against the shore, again and again.

‘I changed my mind,’ he finally said. ‘You’ll leave now. A trap can take you from the ferry to Bognor. Take the train to London from there.’

‘No.’

‘I will not discuss it!’ he warned.

‘Good. Because I won’t, either. There is no reason for me to leave, other than you wishing to tuck me away safely.’

His face showed annoyance. I smiled at him and said, ‘I know you care. But don’t make me smaller now. You know what I’m capable of.’

His set chin didn’t relax. ‘It is only logical for you to go to London immediately. You are too slow to help me track Moran, and the next instance your presence is needed will be at the solicitors’ office to receive your dower.’

‘It would only be logical if I would expect you to do everything and think everything for me. And you know I don’t. I need to see with my own eyes how Moran reacts to the child’s death. I want to see how hungry he is. I collect my own data and analyse them with my own brain. You may do as you seem fit.’ With that, I turned my attention to the grass and the sand as though they needed inspection.

Around noon, he knocked the sand off his trousers, took our two bottles and the one water pouch, and dashed off to the ferryman.
 

With the telescope held up against one eye, I watched the pile of rocks and the dunes farther up.

A hat appeared, then another. Shoulders emerged from the tall grass. One of the men turned enough for me to see part of his moustache. My skin prickled. Moran! I turned my head to see where Sherlock was. I thought of warning him, but then decided against it. He would keep an eye out for the two and would approach our hiding spot with utmost care. The sun was still behind the clouds. No strong reflections could be cast off the telescope and betray my location. I lifted the instrument to my face again and watched their progress.

Three dogs sniffed eagerly, urging the two men ahead. Moran’s companion appeared younger, perhaps in his thirties. His clothing was cheap. His demeanour showed how low in the rank he stood — he obeyed Moran’s waving hand in a flash. The man squatted next to the pile of rocks, flicked the makeshift cross aside, then moved the rocks.
 

He stopped, scooped sand with his hands, stopped again. Moran bent down, pointed, and his footman, Parker, picked up the package.
 

Did I see reluctance in his moves? The girl must have begun to stink. Both men stood still for a moment, gazing down at the bloody towel and its contents. Moran waved; Parker dropped it back in the sand and tossed a few rocks back on her.
Callousness,
whispered my mind.

While they stood with arms crossed over their chests, I heard Sherlock approach. Sand whispered under his shoes.

‘Did they swallow the bait?’

‘It appears so,’ I said quietly and gave him the telescope. While he observed the two, I told him what I had seen.

‘The next train leaves at three twenty,’ he noted.

‘That will be the last train today.’

A few minutes later, he rose. His knees were crackling. ‘They are gone. Come.’

While we hurried to the ferry, he said, ‘Enquire for a trap to Worthing. As soon as you arrive there, send a telegram to Mycroft Holmes, Diogenes Club, Pall Mall. The message “now” will suffice. He’ll know what to do—’
 

We ducked when we saw Moran and Parker on the other side of the river.

‘I’ll keep a very close eye on these two. He’ll dispatch telegrams from the post office. You and I will meet at Victoria Station tomorrow morning. Should I be unable to arrive in time, leave the luggage with a porter, then hide at your Irish friend’s home at once.’

‘Garret? Are you serious?’

‘Is that a problem?’

‘We parted rather… unfriendly,’ I answered.

‘We have to agree on one location quickly now, Anna. It cannot be a public place, for we might have to change our disguises. I have a few hiding holes distributed throughout the city, but you wouldn’t be able to find them, even if I gave you the addresses.’

‘Good, Garret, then. If he doesn’t welcome me, he’ll certainly take a message for you.’

‘Excellent,’ he said, bent down and extracted a revolver, ammunition, and a few bills from the bag. ‘The second revolver and some twenty more bullets are in the side pocket…’ His face fell. ‘Why did I never show you how to properly use a revolver?’

I laughed. The one time he had seen me using a gun had resulted in me throwing it at him. ‘Cock, point, fire,’ I said. ‘You can introduce me to the fine art of shooting later.’

Littlehampton’s church bell banged twice. The ferryman was pulling his vessel towards us. Moran’s and Parker’s backs disappeared towards the small town. Next to me, Sherlock was vibrating with impatience. Without a farewell, we parted as soon as the ferry docked.

— ten —

From error to error, one discovers the entire truth.

Dr S. Freud

I
woke up early the following morning, aching to leave. Two hours later, the train took me from Worthing towards London.

Once at Victoria Station, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. With my bonnet pulled down low to conceal my face, I stepped out of the last wagon, left the luggage with a porter, and told him it would be picked up tomorrow. Then I pressed through the bustling crowd and out of the station.

Trying to detect familiar faces among the masses of people, their refuse, luggage, chatter, and hotchpotch while adapting to London’s overwhelming variety of odours and noises, demanded all my attention. So much, I almost stepped into the first cab I hailed. I let the hansom drive away without me, walked around a corner, and took another one to Bow Street.
 

The hansom rattled over cobblestones while the wind slapped my face. I inspected my dress, my shoes, picked at a few threads on my sleeves, and decided I appeared worn enough to be safe in St Giles for a few hours. How many people would recognise me? Would Garret roll his eyes and close the door in my face? Barry was twelve years old now. Most likely, because he was only guessing his age. Children came in large numbers, most of them unwanted and unplanned. One had sexual intercourse, one got pregnant, one gave birth. Then the circle started anew. Two thirds of all the slum children died before reaching the age of three. There were no reasons to celebrate birthdays.
 

The cab came to a halt. I paid the driver and stepped onto the pavement. Everything looked just as it had when I’d left it. The streets were covered with the same amount of dirt. Mule droppings here and there, limp cabbage leaves with caterpillar holes, undefined mush, and rivulets of wastewater and chamberpot contents.
 

How long would it take to pull sewers through the slums, I wondered. Would the slums still be home to the poorest when the government decided to gift the people with a way to rid themselves of their own refuse? Probably not. Streets would be torn open, houses gutted, grime and beggars removed. London would look different.

I found Garret’s house and was surprised that even the door looked as it had long ago. The brown paint was rubbed off in several places; naked wood peeked through. It had only been a bit more than year. Not enough time for a door, a house, or a district to change all that much. I wondered how much Garret had changed. He and Barry would probably hate me for having left them without even saying goodbye.

I pushed at the door and, as expected, the nonfunctional lock clicked open. I walked up the stairs, the familiar creaking accompanied each step. When I knocked at Garret’s room, a child began to wail.
 

‘What is it?’ a woman barked through the closed door.

‘Could I speak to Garret O’Hare, please?’

‘Don’t know that fella.’

My heart sank. For a moment, I had believed he was a father. Now it seemed that he would be hard to find.