The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (16 page)

‘Don’t worry about me, Garret.’ I rose and pushed the lockpicks into my pocket, put on a light overcoat, and placed a bonnet on my head. When I loaded the revolver, Garret grumbled, ‘Good luck.’

‘Thank you.’ I sneaked out the door before he could argue with me yet again.

Barry was fast asleep and oblivious to all.

Picking the lock of the gate was quick and easy. Just one lever, well-oiled and quiet. I heard the huffs of the dogs and began to talk quietly before they could see me. They sprinted around the house, tongues lolling, tails wagging, and buried their noses in the folds of my skirt. I patted their sides and ordered them to be quiet.
 

The walkway was laid out in gravel, so I avoided it and instead placed my feet on the grass. A thick apple tree provided cover. I took my bonnet and shoes off, pressed against the tree’s coarse bark, and watched the one lit window. I had identified it as Moran’s study, for this was where he spent his late evening hours before retiring to a room on the other side of the house. It must have been close to midnight now.

Low buzzing pulled my attention to the branch above me. It was too dark to see what caused the noise, and straining my eyes didn’t help in the least. I shut them, turning my head this way and that, analysing what I heard. It sounded too low to be caused by bees… Could it be hornets?

Carefully, I scaled the tree, keeping my eyes close to where I placed my hands and then shifting my gaze to the branch where the noise came from. There, a darker patch among the almost-black of the bark. The insects used a hole in the tree for their nest. That complicated matters.

I chewed on my cheeks. My eyes searched the few lit places on Moran’s property and spotted a small flowerpot. A plan began to form. Then, the brightly lit window fell into darkness.
 

An hour later, I slid off the tree, approached the house, and tipped the flowerpot’s contents out onto the grass. Then I ran back to the apple tree. The dogs believed I wanted to play with them. I stopped, stiffened, and growled quietly. They plopped on their hindquarters, folded their ears, and tried to look like puppies.

I ignored them, lifted my skirts, yanked off a stocking, then opened my pocket knife and sliced off one leg of my drawers. With that, I covered the opening of the pot, wrapping my stocking around its rim to hold the fabric cover in place.

I climbed up the tree again, pressed the pot’s bottom hole against the opening of the hornets’ nest and tapped a twig against the branch. The tapping grew to light whacks until the hornets began to stir angrily. Their buzzing gained in volume and depth.
 

‘Damn it,’ I muttered, thinking of the other two holes I needed to plug. Balancing awkwardly with my legs hugging the tree, I cut two pieces off the stocking, took a deep breath, and inched the pot away from the nest. I jammed one piece of fabric into the bottom hole of the flower pot and the other into the nest’s entrance.

A few hornets had escaped. I felt them crawling over my shirt, attempting to drive their stingers through the fabric and into my skin. I clamped my mouth shut, and tried to resist the urge to slap at them. One crawled up my throat and cheek, then got caught in my hair. Burning pain told me I had been stung twice; I nearly fell off the tree. Luckily, I made it down without dropping the pot.

Not entirely certain what to do, I placed the pot in the grass. If I’d run a loop and tried to slap off the hornets, the dogs would run with me and most likely get stung. The resulting ruckus would wake the whole neighbourhood. I had no choice but to let the remaining hornets crawl over my garments while I tried not to agitate them.

I picked up the pot and approached the house. It appeared like a dead organism, dark and still, but somehow waiting for a disaster — a shot, an explosion, something that would expel me as soon as I entered.
 

I stepped up to the front door and inserted a lockpick. This lock felt identical to the one I had used to practice my cracks-woman skills. After barely a minute, I opened the door, stepped in, and closed it behind me. Exhilaration washed over me. I let the feeling of triumph pass and took a slow and deep breath.

Silence lowered itself heavily. The cricket song was gone, the quiet ruffling of playing dogs was gone, no faraway clopping of hooves, no rattling of wheels on cobble stones. If it weren’t for the fierce hum in the pot I carried, I’d feel as though I had suddenly fallen deaf.

I pricked my ears and crept up the stairs, carefully staying close to the wall, where the steps were less likely to creak when stepped upon. Then I stopped, listening, holding my breath and wishing the hornets would shut up for a moment. The house was quiet.
 

I went up the corridor, placing first my toes then my heels on the carpet, careful not to disturb the noisy floorboards.
 

Nothing creaked. I reached the study door, tested the doorknob. It didn’t move. My hand extracted the lockpicks from my dress, fingers pressing against the tools so as to muffle clinking of metal against metal. I slid the first lockpick into place, pressed, turned, wiggled. Nothing. The second, the third, the fourth, and finally, with the fifth, the lever moved. One lever lock, my mind registered, as the lock clicked open. I turned the knob and opened the door slowly. A shy squeal made me freeze. Not daring to move, I listened.

One minute crawled past. I squeezed through the gap, pulled up a chair, stepped on it, and placed the pot on top of the door, leaning it lightly against the frame. One hornet crawled over my sleeve. I pulled the fabric out a little, moved close to the wood, and let the insect crawl onto the door.

I stepped off the chair and took in the room. The half moon peeked through the clouds and sent its light through the tall window, painting a trapezium of rippled silver on the carpet.
 

Three steps from the heavy brocade curtains to the desk. One step to the safe in the wall. I pulled at the desk drawers. All were locked. The lockpicks removed the obstacle; I lit a candle and leafed through Moran’s letters. The safe behind me was most enticing, but I’d never be able to open it. I pushed it from my mind and focussed on what I held in my hands: journals for his bookkeeping.
 

I opened the most recent one. Monthly payments of one hundred pounds sterling — an amount most people never held in their hands — labelled
JM
, James Moriarty. From March onward, these payments were missing. Moran had to live on his savings. Receipts of various purchases thickened the book. Some of these looked like tickets. A few were printed or written in a language other than English. I had no time to spend on scrutiny, so I clamped them under my left arm.

In the second drawer lay a photograph inscribed in golden letters,
Colonel Sebastian Moran, September 1880, Transvaal
. It was taken three months before the Boer War. He sat in a chair that resembled a throne. His one foot was perched on a lion’s head, his right hand held a rifle propped on his thigh. An idea hit me, spreading a smile across my face. I slipped the picture under my arm, too.

The third and last drawer contained letters. I took them all, then ran my fingers over each drawer’s surface: the very top, the bottom on its outside. Nothing.

The clock on the mantelpiece told me I had spent fifteen minutes in Moran’s study. I went up to the door and listened to the silent house. Then, I made for the safe. I had no high hopes of cracking the thing, but wanted to at least make an attempt. Three dials secured its door. I pressed my ear right next to the locking mechanism and began to turn the largest dial.
Click-click-click
. I turned it several times until I was certain that it produced a more hollow click in one position. I left it in that position and worked on the next two dials. My ears picked up another sound. That of a low scratch. I jumped the three steps to the velvet curtains, and just before I reached them, the silence was shattered. A crash, then furious buzzing and a hollering Moran. Two shots that found no living target. Slaps against garments. Screams.
 

I stood protected behind the curtains, waiting for Moran to run. And so he did, crying for help.

Hornets that weren’t clinging to Moran now filled the study. I held on to the curtain and tugged with all my might. It fell off, together with the rod. Moran was still screaming, but now an echo added to the noise he made — he must have been in the bathroom trying to hose the angry insects off his body. The man certainly knew how to keep his wits.

I opened the window and looked down. The ledge that ran around the house just above the ground floor windows was narrow, but served my toes with enough support. I jammed the curtain rod tight against the window frame, flung my legs out, held on to the fabric, and climbed down. A soft
plop
and my feet hit the flowerbed. The dogs were already awaiting me; together, we ran up to the tree. I retrieved my bonnet and shoes, then made for the gate. I rubbed the dog’s ears, threw a last glance at the now-quiet house, stepped onto the street, and began to run.

Was it only my imagination or did I hear footfalls behind me?
 

‘Left,’ a familiar voice urged. I obeyed, then stopped, pressing my fists in my burning sides and my back against a damp wall. ‘How was Dundee?’ I huffed.

Sherlock ignored my question, pointed to the shoes in my hand, and asked, ‘What did you do in Moran’s house?’

‘Obviously, I burgled it.’

‘Why was he screaming?’

‘I filled a flowerpot with hornets, sealed it with my drawers and a stocking, then placed it on the half-open door so it would crash should Moran try to enter the study while I was in it. And he did.’

‘An undergarment hornet bomb?’ He slapped his thigh and barked a laugh. Then he bent forward. Despite the dark, I could tell he narrowed his eyes and scrutinised whatever needed scrutinising. ‘What did you find?’

‘A few letters, journals, receipts of trips to the continent, and a photograph.’ I unfolded my voluptuous bonnet that now served as a receptacle for my loot. ‘Hold this for a moment.’
 

I put my shoes on, then straightened up.

‘How many stings did you receive?’

‘One,’ I lied. A few more hornets had stung me after Moran crashed the pot.

Nimble fingers probed my forehead. ‘Your night vision is excellent,’ I observed.

He hummed. ‘Hornets, you said? But the swelling is minor.’

‘I was stung a lot during my childhood. A neighbour kept about ten beehives. My body got used to bee venom and reacts with bumps the size of a mosquito sting. Hornets can make it a bit bigger, it appears.’

Awkward silence fell. He removed his hand from my face. The chirping of a lone cricket and the clacking of a set of hooves echoed from afar. ‘Tell me about Dundee, Sherlock.’

‘Dr Walsh stepped right into my trap, with the police waiting just outside the medical school.’ His voice sounded bored, almost disappointed. Obviously, the task had been too easy.

‘Why the slight limp, then?’ I’d heard it as he ran behind me: one foot was set down with hesitation.

‘A mere trifle.’ He waved his hand. ‘It wasn’t even Walsh. This man had surprisingly little fight in him. It was the unfortunate combination of a desperate pickpocket, a clumsy porter, an old lady who stood in the way, and a flying and very heavy suitcase.’

‘I’m glad you survived the ordeal.’ I smiled up at him. ‘We should probably go back and see if Moran survived the hornets, don’t you think?’

‘I was already wondering when you would bring up the issue.’ He took my hand and marched off.

The house was brightly lit. A hansom waited at the gate. A horse had its nose hanging low over the pavement, foam dripping from the bits. The doctor had responded quickly.
 

The door to the house opened and light spilled onto the lawn. We pushed farther into the shadows. A servant walked up to the cabbie and informed him that he could leave now. The doctor would remain at his patient’s side.

‘We can leave now, too,’ Sherlock said, and we turned away. ‘His injuries are serious enough to keep a physician at his side. How many hornets were in your flowerpot?’

‘I didn’t stop to count them,’ I answered, sorting through my limited knowledge of insect bites and stings. ‘Almost all that were in the nest; surely more than a hundred. Hornet venom is very painful, much more than that of bees and wasps. If he received enough stings to worry his physician so much that the man is staying overnight, the situation appears serious. Some people suffer a heart attack when stung so many times, but I doubt he will. I had the impression that Moran has a strong heart. He might see the next day, or he might not. I could speculate, but it’s a waste of time.’

We walked along the quiet streets, in and out of the dim light from hissing lamps.

‘How is Watson?’ he asked.

I didn’t want to give him my interpretation of how things stood. After all, my brain ticked differently than his. So all I shared was a summary of my observations. ‘Hunching.’

For a moment — a very short moment, lasting barely half a pace — he slowed, his breath stalling.