The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (15 page)

‘They knew they were followed.’

Wiggins dropped his head, nodding.
 

‘Moran is a tough nut to crack,’ I said. ‘He knows he’s being chased.’ I retrieved coins from my purse, sorted through them, and handed him six sovereigns. ‘You boys did excellent.’

With an expression of incredulity, he crammed the money into his trouser pocket, lifted his cap, and pushed it back on his head. Then he dashed off, coins tinkling.
 

I watched him disappear. He was a quick one. Once I’d seen his injuries, I’d decided I wouldn’t ask him for help with Moran.

I wasn’t certain that Sherlock’s analysis was entirely correct. With the millions of pounds gone, every single one of James’s family members would try to protect what remained. Like vultures, they would claw at the last bit of carcass after the lions had taken the largest part.
Would Moran rush back to Littlehampton to try to retrieve witnesses and evidence of the heir-at-law’s death? Would he act in such a haste as not to ensure beforehand that I was still pregnant and the miscarriage was a ruse? The more likely alternative was that the Moriartys would ask Moran to assassinate the child and me as soon as possible so all money would be transferred back to them at once. They could even try to kidnap me now, then wait for the child to be born.

I thought of Garret, then, his illness, and Barry, who was about to cut all ties to humanity. I needed their help for my next task. This circumstance would also allow me to keep an eye on them a little longer.

A porter interrupted my thoughts. He was carrying a bag and a rucksack — the two worn pieces of luggage I had left at Victoria Station.

‘Where is Garret?’ I asked when I stepped into their room.

‘Lavatory,’ Barry answered.

‘How did he sleep?’

‘He coughed a lot.’ He pointed to the kerchief next to the bed, an expensive-looking embroidered thing with ugly brown splotches.

‘Did you two talk about leaving London?’ I asked.

The boy picked at his unusually clean fingernails, then said, ‘I don’t know, Anna. Garret doesn’t like the idea. It’s like… you know… a woman paying for a man — everything’s hers, the house, the money, everything. It’s like chopping his bollocks off. He’s no real man anymore.’

Garret entered, hair ruffled, face ashen despite the apparent anger. ‘What?’ he shot at Barry.

‘Oy! I was only saying that when she.. when she…’ He pointed at me. Seeing my face, his arm wilted.

‘Sit down, Garret! And you, Barry: shut your mouth.’ I kicked at the bed frame and dug my hands into my hips. ‘Here is my offer, take it or leave it. You,’ I pointed at Garret, ‘are so sick that you can barely walk. You saved my life, you are my best friend, and… such a pig-head. Why wouldn’t you allow me to help you?

‘And you,’ I turned to Barry, ‘have all the right to make me feel guilty. But I doubt it makes
you
feel any better.’

‘But!’

‘Shut your mouth, Barry! I was married to England’s most powerful criminal. His dearest wish was to develop the most gruesome weapons mankind could create. He amassed money through his criminal deeds, money I now inherited. It is time to put it to good use. Shove your pride,’ I punched the air for better effect, ‘up your intestinal tracts!’ then sat down on the floor, glowering up at the two.

Garret doubled over, laughing. As his laughs transformed into coughs, I rose and clutched his ribcage. ‘Garret,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘I beg you!’

‘So when do we go?’ he asked, trying to catch his breath.

‘We leave this hotel today. But I have to ask you both for your help before we leave London. I have to keep an eye on someone.’

Garret grunted in the affirmative.

‘Barry?’ I turned to the boy. He slapped at an imaginary fly and nodded.
 

‘Excellent. Pack your belongings.’

Roughly three hours later, we settled into a room opposite Watson’s practice. It was only a single room and we crammed ourselves in, pretending to be husband, wife, and son who were traveling up north and staying in London for a few days.
 

Garret observed the other side of the street while Barry and I tried to sleep. As soon as night fell, our work would begin.

The boy and I walked along the street, dressed in dark walking clothes. I hunched; grey hair stuck out from underneath my bonnet, one of my arms leaning on Barry, the other on a stick. At a snail’s pace, we shuffled past Moran’s house — one of several handsome villas lining the street, each with a small front yard. Windows on both floors were lit, indicating that not only the servants were at home, but also their master. I could hear the dogs in the back, their playful growls and the scraping of paws on gravel. We searched for a good hiding spot, but found nothing suitable in the immediate vicinity.

I began coughing and bent down. Barry patted my back very lightly so as not to blur my view. I stared through the telescope that was partially concealed by my overcoat. The electrical light at the entrance to Moran’s house revealed every feature of his front door. ‘God bless the Queen’s nether garments!’ I muttered. ‘I have it. We can leave.’

Barry and I stopped at a corner. I took his coat, rolled it up, and stuck it under my arm. He picked up the broom we had left leaning on a tree. I rubbed dirt on his face, throat, and hands, then we parted. He’d act as the street sweeper and watch for any comings and goings while the real sweeper snored in his bed, ten shillings richer.
 

I rushed back to Garret, knocked, and entered the room. He sat at the window, guarding Watson’s practice.
 

‘Did he not go home yet?’ I wondered aloud.

‘No. He mostly sits at his desk. Very few patients during the day, none at all now. What is the man waiting for?’

I approached the window and saw Watson’s silhouette, his face in his hands, hunched over a table or desk. I had to fight the urge to run over, ring his bell, and tell him that his best friend was alive and well.

I turned away, placed the telescope in Garret’s hand, retrieved pen and paper, and began to draw. The picture of the lock was burned in my mind, but my hands only clumsily copied it.

‘Garret?’ I called, and he looked over my shoulder.
 

‘Hum. Looks very much like a Davenport rim lock. Are you sure these markings went that way up and not down?’

‘Yes. Absolutely sure.’

‘It’s a two lever lock. Harder to pick than the ones I’ve shown you.’ His energies seemed to return at the prospect of lock-picking. ‘You need the right tools. And you need to practice. We’ll visit a friend of mine; he can help.’

‘Do you know that when you are full of mischief, your hair sticks out every which way? Much like the whiskers of a cat.’ I grinned up at him, thinking of a time long ago when we made love, and how much he resembled a lion then. He must have seen it in my eyes, for his head drooped and his Adams apple bobbed up and down to move embarrassment out of the way. He cleared his throat, bringing on a coughing attack.

‘Go and call a cab,’ he grumbled.

I nodded and left. Knowing that Moran was at his home, I decided Watson should be safe without us for a little while.

We didn’t speak on the ride to Fetter Lane. Once there, Garret asked me to wait in the carriage. Understandably, his friend didn’t accept strangers in his lockpick shop.
 

Ten minutes later, he returned to show me three different locks. I chose one that looked identical to the one in Moran’s entrance door, and we dashed back to our quarters. Watson was still in his practice.

‘So, now. I hold it and you pick it,’ Garret said, pinching the heavy brass and cast iron lock between his knees and his hands. ‘Try each single one of them.’ He nodded towards the lockpicks. ‘You’ll get a feeling for the innards of the thing.’

I wiped the grease off the tools.

‘Now, you see on the keyhole that you can stick in the key either up end or down end. Try up end first. If nothing moves, try down end. Use only a little force.’

I stuck the first lockpick in and began to wiggle and probe.

‘Do you feel the tension in the bolt?’ he asked.

I grunted. My medical instinct told me to open the stupid thing and gut it.

‘Not like a brute, Anna! Try another lockpick.’

I tried another three until I could feel something like a bolt moving when I pressed the metal tool against it. ‘Bolt is moving. Perhaps,’ I pressed through my teeth.

‘Good. Hold it there. Take the small hook and see if you can lift the first lever.’

I did as he told me, but it took several attempts, all with dropping the lockpick to the floor and swearing through clenched lips. When I finally heard the first click, I was ready to throw the bloody thing out of the window.

‘Good! Now turn to unlock, then lock it again. Try it several times,’ he said. I looked up at him; his brow was as sweaty as mine. We practiced another hour, interrupted by spying on Watson every few minutes. When he finally left his practice, I sneaked out and followed.
 

He took the direct route home. His wife, and not the housekeeper, opened the door when he fumbled for his keys. She must have been worried. Her arm closed around his shoulders. Then the brightly lit hallway engulfed them both and the door shut.

I kept walking, careful to keep an eye on my surroundings and anyone with too much interest in the Watson’s residence. All seemed quiet, yet I wished I had more men at my disposal. Leaving Watson’s home unguarded went against my grain. But Barry would let us know at once should Moran or Parker venture out at night. It was all I could do for now.

On the way back, I bought baked potatoes, bread, butter, cheese, and pies. Garret’s appetite was atypically mouse-like, and I hoped the odour of good food would change that. Besides, I was hungry almost constantly now.

Barry returned at around three o’clock in the morning. He told me that everyone in Moran’s house was fast asleep, then he devoured what we had left on the table, dropped on the mattress next to Garret, and began to snore like a tiny steam engine.
 

I slipped from the room to take Barry’s watch.

— fourteen —

‘I’
m coming with you,’ Garret said.

‘No.’ I turned away from him and began to lace my boots. For two days and nights now, Garret had kept his eyes on Watson while Barry and I kept watch over Moran. Moran’s footman, Parker, had left the previous day. Barry followed him to Victoria Station and saw him take the train to Eastbourne, most likely with Littlehampton as his final destination. I expected the man to return no sooner than the following day, delivering hearsay and flimsy evidence to his superior. He’d certainly be punished for something that Moran wouldn’t have been able to do any better.

Garret’s socked feet appeared in my field of view.
 

‘The dogs know me, but they don’t know you. They’ll bark,’ I said.

His left toe began to wiggle up and down, tapping a rhythm of impatience on the floor.

I pressed my teeth together. ‘You can barely walk a hundred feet without coughing blood.’

He snorted and walked back to the window.