The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (19 page)

‘And why did we come here?’ asked Watson.

‘Because,’ I said, ‘money is to be had. The gentleman who is rich enough to afford virgins on a regular basis is now the prime suspect in a murder case. Such news will spread in hours. People believe the Pinchin Street torso was the Ripper’s deed. Some daredevil will attempt to blackmail Moran very soon. Remember, Dr Watson, Moran’s name — which he’ll certainly not have used when frequenting brothels — is on the photograph.

‘Moran knows we stole his photograph, among other things, and he knows we are behind this, but what he doesn’t know is what evidence there is against him. It is very likely that the great Sherlock Holmes has found something dangerous, is it not? But Moran cannot know for certain until it’s too late. He will not wait for the manacles to close around his wrists. He will run. You and your wife should then be safe here in London.’

Watson, who had been bending forward more and more during my narrative, now leaned back and blew air through his clenched lips.

We stepped off the omnibus at the Strand. ‘Once he’s gone, we will leave London as well,’ said Sherlock to Watson. ‘Never forget that I remain officially dead until the day I walk into your practice, my friend. It is of utmost importance. Should Moran ever cross your path, contact Mycroft at once.’

Watson nodded. He stepped forward and took his friend’s hand, then lost control and embraced him. The latter seemed a little stunned by this emotional outbreak. He stood ramrod straight, wrapped up in his stocky companion. When Watson turned to squeeze my hand, I saw his eyes were wet.

After he had left, I said, ‘I offended Watson. He offers his help and I offend him!’

‘I’m familiar with this phenomenon.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me. He used to live with you. Did he ever get used to it?’ I wondered.

‘I couldn’t tell. How curious! You don’t seem to think I was offended. Although you practically offended nearly half of London.’

‘I stated a fact.’

‘Indeed. But after all these years, you must have learned that truth is usually not taken lightly,’ he said, somewhat amused.

‘I guess it’s an uncontrollable reflex. So. Are you offended?’

‘No. I was excluded from your calculation.’

The smell of meat pies pulled me to the other side of the street, where I bought a large and steaming specimen off the pieman’s trolley. ‘How can anyone eat with this?’ I asked, trying to shove food past my moustache. ‘It’s disgusting how much becomes stuck in that fur. Why would I exclude you from my calculation?’

‘Did you not?’ He came to a halt. ‘But you clearly excluded Watson, it appeared.’

‘I’m not sure I’d exclude an unmarried Watson, but the married Watson would never visit a prostitute. He respects his wife too much. You, on the other hand, have no wife.’

He threw his head in his neck and barked a laugh. Then he offered me the crook of his arm. Without thinking, I slid my hand into it, but quickly removed it and took a step away from him. Two police Inspectors walking arm in arm would look rather peculiar.

‘Why the sudden silence?’ he asked a few minutes later.

‘I realised that chasing criminals doesn’t postpone birth.’

‘And what would you like to do instead?’

I didn’t like the tone. Nor the question, for that matter. ‘Are Wiggins and his boys still keeping an eye on Moran?’

‘Of course.’

We walked along the street, past the happy, the sad, the rich, and the poor; a mass of people, trickling past me like water flowing through fingers.

‘What kind of life will you choose once Moran is arrested and three hundred thousand pounds sterling are at your disposal?’

‘Is it time to decide already?’ I muttered. I should have said
a life that has you in it
, but then I couldn’t imagine him wanting to hear that.
 

He steered us through a back door of a hotel he had arranged this afternoon, arguing that it was unsafe to remain stationary. We walked up to our neighbouring rooms. ‘The bathroom on this floor has a tub,’ he informed me and pointed down the corridor. ‘I’ll order tea for us.’

I locked the bathroom, shed my Inspector disguise, and stepped into the tub — a small, cup-shaped thing. I folded myself into it, listening to the gushing of hot water from the spigot. Would I ever again wash with a worn-out flannel, hunching over a zinc bowl filled with tepid water from the pump down on the street?

Steam rose from the water’s surface, small wisps pushed about by my movements and breath and by the child’s occasional soft kick against its enclosure. The aroma of rose petals wafted through the room. I picked up the coarse brush and ran it over my arms. Streaks of red dots began to blossom where bristles scraped over skin. Burning followed suit, dulling the ache within.

I was wrapping myself in a dressing gown when I heard a knock. ‘The tea, Madam. I brought it to your room.’

‘Thank you,’ I called, rubbed my hair dry and left the bathroom. My body burned; a sharp vibrant feeling that almost gave the impression of me flying so fast that the wind was peeling off my skin. When I was a child, I often dreamed I could fly. But the dreams were frustrating; I could only fly a few yards, then my feet touched the ground again. I never reached any heights. I never soared.

Once in my room, I poured a cup of tea and drank it while slowly pacing in circles. I tried to sort through the many thoughts about what Moran would possibly do next. I didn’t even know whether he was still in bed or already moving about. I decided to ask Sherlock.

‘What is it?’ he called when I knocked at the door separating his room from mine. I opened. He stood at the window, a pipe in the corner of his mouth, his eyebrows drawn together.

‘Did your street arabs send any news about Moran?’

‘The doctor is still attending to him,’ he muttered absentmindedly.

He barely looked at me; I nodded nonetheless. ‘Thank you. Good night.’

I was about to pull the door into its frame when he called, ‘One moment, please.’

I stopped.

Before I could enquire about his reasons, he had stepped up to me and wrapped his fingers around my wrist. His other hand pushed my sleeve up a few inches. Red streaks glowed on pale skin.

‘Why would you do this?’ His tone was aggressive.

‘This is none of your interest. I wish you wouldn’t intrude upon my private life whenever you see fit.’

‘I was under the impression you invited me to intrude upon your private life.’

I tugged at my hand until he released it. I tried to analyse his expression. All I saw was annoyance. ‘You know,’ I whispered, ‘you can simply say, “Anna, I wish this case was solved already so you’d disappear.”’

I slammed the door in his face.

A soft thud followed. ‘I apologise.’ His voice was muffled.

‘Stop offering your one hand just to use the other to push me away.’

Footfalls on the other side, disappearing, then approaching again.

‘You are not to allow or forbid me anything.’ I pointed an angry finger at the innocent door. ‘You are not to steer me through life as though you know better than I. I don’t tell you what’s right or wrong for you, either. I respect your choices, even if I don’t understand them all. The fact that I once offered myself to you doesn’t give you any rights to me.’

‘Is the offer closed?’

The surprise in his voice hurt. I opened my mouth and shut it again. I stared at the door. Light seeped in through the crack at its bottom, divided by the two shadows of his feet. He wasn’t moving. No sounds were coming from his side.

‘Good night.’ I blew out the candle and went to bed, hot with anger and ablaze with hope, which made me feel like a brainless fifteen-year-old girl. I could have slapped my face.

— seventeen —

I
buttoned the top of my dress, observing the comings and goings down on the street. A brougham was waiting at the hotel’s entrance, shrouded by light fog. I had slept longer than usual and felt oddly slow and heavy this morning.

Sherlock had left more than an hour ago to meet with his brother and talk about Whitman and the Kaiser’s favourite toy — whatever that could be.
 

A knock interrupted my thoughts.
 

‘Yes?’

‘Your tea and breakfast, Madam.’

I walked to the door and unlocked it. The moment the door swung open, I saw my mistake. Parker grinned at me from behind Moran’s back and produced a mocking, ‘M’lady.’ An almost perfect interpretation of a maid’s timid voice.

Shock slowed all movements around me to a comical crawl. Yet I couldn’t step out of the door’s way soon enough. It hit me in the face. Stars began to blossom in my field of view. Almost unnoticed, pain moved through me, past me, leaving only numbness behind.

I stepped aside; aimed a kick at Moran’s shin. He answered with a swing of his fist. I ducked and saw his cracked knuckles fly past my face, a sharp breeze brushing the side of my head.

Parker stepped forward. I was thinking fast. Not fast enough. I wished I could have reached my revolver and shot them both within a second or two. The door closed. Swift steps, heavy booted, forward, forward. Too close.
 

Moran shoved his coarse palm in my face, kicked at my legs, and threw me down on the floor. The impact robbed me of breath. A rag was stuffed into my mouth, an arm pushed down on my throat. I blinked hard to wipe the light flashes from my vision, groaned to clear my windpipe and get air into my lungs, kicked at the two without being able to clearly see where they were.

Moran’s swollen and disfigured face drifted into view. I heard him mutter, but didn’t understand what he said. I tried to kick and roll them off me. Parker was tying my legs together. I still had command over my arms. I pushed against Moran, against his weight on my chest and throat. I clawed at his eyes. He slapped my face. Once, twice, thrice. My ears sang. I felt my arms being pulled apart, one tied to each foot of the bed.
 

No! Only one was tied to the bed. The left one. I pulled up the right one and—

Moran’s knee came down on my right elbow bend, his hand grabbed my chin. ‘Bitch! Do you think I’d let you go? After what you did? The police want me! Do you believe me stupid enough to not see that you and Holmes are behind this?’

He pushed his face closer to mine. The hornets had attacked him savagely. He looked dreadful. I almost laughed at him. How could he be walking about so soon?

‘God, how I wish to kill you. But that stupid woman…’ Spittle hit my face. ‘She wants the child. God, how I detest his family!’

He rolled up his sleeves. Sweat dripped from his chin. His breath was a series of low, rattling bursts.
 

‘Once that child is born, I’ll take care of you.’ Maniacal muttering. As though he didn’t care whether I heard him or not. As though he had to tell himself that what he was about to do made sense in his own isolated world.
 

What
was he about to do? I moved my head to get a better view. His right arm was outstretched towards Parker. He grabbed the offered butcher knife. If I had believed I already used all my strength, I was mistaken. The surge of terror mobilised an unknown wave of power. I managed to roll Parker off my legs and shove my knees against Moran’s back. His body barely moved. He slapped me hard. Then a smile spread across his gleaming face. His incisors showed.

‘You are lucky. If I killed you now — believe me, I very much want to — she wouldn’t give me my money. So you’ll have to wait for me, my
sweet
. Once you are ripe, I’ll come to harvest. For now, I have to satisfy myself with a small piece.’

All I could see was the knife, Moran’s contorted face, how he bent over my right arm, his hand clamping down on my wrist, his knee on the bend of my elbow, welding my arm to the floor. I began to scream before the blade touched my skin. Terror beckoned pain before metal met flesh, before nerves could fire and blood could flow.
 

The noise I produced was muffed by the rag in my mouth. Snot and tears poured out of my nose and eyes. Soon the only other passage to my lungs was full with mucous. I felt the hacking, cutting, tugging. I tried to separate my brain from the searing pain. That birthplace of agony. My hand didn’t belong. Couldn’t belong. I barely managed to turn my head so my vomit wouldn’t immediately end up in my windpipe.