The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (25 page)

‘Yes, of course!’ I slapped my forehead and told him about Kinchin. ‘If we can believe Kinchin’s source — and I must add that the information wasn’t corroborated — the Defensive Reinsurance Treaty was sealed between Germany and Russia and was then left to expire. The Kaiser seems to believe that occasionally smoking a cigar with the Tsar is sufficient for peacekeeping.’ I wondered how Moran came to know about this secret agreement.

‘Hum…’ said Sherlock, scratching his temple.

‘I know. I find it hard to determine how much of what Kinchin said is a lie, how much is the truth as he perceives it, and how much of that had been observed and reported correctly.’ I had yet to tell him the most important message the man had given me.

‘My brother seems to trust him, so we can as well.’ He glanced up at me. ‘To a certain degree. Blind trust has never proven healthy. What else can you tell me about the good Mr Kinchin?’

And so I invited him into the small apartment of the old man. ‘The house itself wasn’t well tended to. Kinchin’s door looked as though no one lived behind it. A layer of dirt was brushed up against the door; a doormat was lacking. He doesn’t like guests, or people in general. He expected me; your brother had sent him a message. He is an elderly gentleman, sixty-five or possibly seventy years of age. His rooms are bare. Again, almost as though no one lived there permanently. But the place smelled of him. Old man odour, slightly sour and damp. His need to keep things in order borders on extreme. Everything was oriented parallel or perpendicular. The surfaces he used every day were shiny — the desk, the coffee table. Others had the finest trace of dust — the mantelpiece, for example. Both armchairs appeared well-used; he must have guests on a regular basis despite his solitary disposition. I cannot imagine him buying secondhand furniture. What he had looked expensive but well used. I couldn’t see where he cooked.’

Sherlock opened his half-closed eyes.

‘He made tea somewhere, but I didn’t have a chance to look into rooms other than his sitting room and the corridor. I believe he has the money to employ a housekeeper and a maid, but he prefers to live alone. Considering his occupation — or, should I say, hobby — it’s only natural to control information leaks as well as he possibly can. And an additional set of ears would surely pick up more than would be tolerable.’

‘It makes no sense,’ he interjected. ‘He needs water to make tea and to wash — he has to have someone cleaning and ironing his clothes. You said the house isn’t in the best shape, which indicates that it doesn’t have water pipes and no connection to a sewer system. Or did you see any on the outside walls?’ I shook my head. ‘So where does it go? Where does he discard spoiled food? If dirt from the stairwell is brushed up against his door, he might as well be living in an entirely different place.’

I grinned. ‘Circular scratch marks on the floorboards just outside his door.’

‘Buckets.’

‘Yes. Someone, perhaps the landlady, delivers his water and picks up his chamberpot contents every day. In the hallway, I saw a set of seven sets of shirts and trousers, of which three were untouched, pressed, and starched. All of them identical. Delivered once a week, it appears.’

Sherlock slapped his knee. ‘He doesn’t waste time nor useless thought. A most unusual man. I regret I haven’t met him.’

‘He said he is a collector of information that is hard to come by. I believe him. He trades and catalogues information to put it in order. Much like he keeps meticulous order in his rooms. He uses existing information that might seem irrelevant when taken out of context; he puts it in context and thus creates new knowledge.’ My child kicked hard. I winced and rubbed the skin that stretched over the bulge, feeling how he or she moved about in the enclosure, probably complaining about the space becoming more and more constricted.
We both grow, little one.

‘Or discovers hidden knowledge,’ he said.

‘Yes. He told me he was expecting the development of bacterial weapons.’

‘Hum… Did you tell him details about your work?’

‘Of course not. He wouldn’t be able to cook his own anthrax poison with the little information I gave him. But he certainly is intelligent enough to find all information he needs to do so.’ My words reminded me of something very heavy. ‘Sherlock. It is quite possible that it was I who gave James the idea of using deadly germs for warfare.’

He placed the paper on the floor and gazed up at me. The little cogwheels behind his eyes visibly rattled. After a moment, he lowered his head. ‘Let us get back to that later. I’m under the impression you haven’t yet told me everything Mr Kinchin said.’

I tipped the contents of my teacup into my mouth, swallowed, and said, ‘Indeed. The most important part I have yet to tell you. Come. Let’s go for a walk. I can think better with fresh air in my nose.’

We strolled along the street Unter den Linden towards the Brandenburg Gate. The lime trees were in full bloom. Sunlight filtered through golden blossoms and hungry bees buzzed among them. The summer air vibrated. My mouth watered at the thought of fresh honey dripping from a warm slice of bread.

‘Kinchin told me that in 1885, Moran killed a Russian spy in London. The spy went by the name of Pjotr, or Peter, as he was called in England. He used Smith as his family name. He spoke English and French fluently; his accent was almost unnoticeable. The man moved in upper circles. Rich bankers and lower ranking governmental officials were among his friends. He played cards in clubs and drank copious amounts of vodka. On several occasions, he talked about the Russian railway. One of his friends grew suspicious, because every time anyone blurted out Britain’s position towards the Central-Asian Railway and her plans to counter this Russian threat of the British-Indian colonies, Peter suddenly appeared sober. Whether the man noticed the new appreciation of his company or not, Kinchin couldn’t tell. But one day, an order was given to arrest him for treason. According to Kinchin, the Special Branch as well as the military were involved in it. He believes this is how Colonel Moran came to know about Pjotr. Kinchin knew that Moran was Moriarty’s man and he seemed to enjoy the fact that Moran is hunting me. Interesting…’

‘What?’

‘Never mind.’ I flicked his question aside. I had referred to James as Moriarty. It hadn’t escaped Sherlock’s notice, either.

‘Anyway,’ I continued. ‘From here the details become sketchy. Pjotr disappeared just before the Yard could arrest him. The last time he was seen was in an opium den, arguing with a man who had been described as large, moustached, and highly authoritarian. Pjotr was shouting something about China, her abundant opium fields, and that all that could only be claimed by the Russians. Very clumsy. Two days later, his body was found floating in the river. His throat was conveniently slashed wide open. According to the mortician, the man had bled out while he was drowning. What Moran might have learned from Pjotr before he killed him isn’t known.’

My roaring stomach interrupted me.

‘Lunch?’ he asked.

I laughed. ‘Yes, I’m starving. As usual.’

We went to a nearby inn. While I ate, Sherlock pushed the potatoes about on his plate, his face a mask of deep concentration.

‘I don’t see a connection. Russian railways don’t reach to China,’ I noted.

‘Hum,’ he answered.

He didn’t say much for the remainder of the day while we arranged and rearranged notes in my room. Fuelled by tea and driven by curiosity, we worked until the red sun peeked straight through the windows. Curtains billowed. The hot summer air cooled a fraction.

‘This won’t do!’ he announced, took his hat, and was out the door in a heartbeat.

I stared at the closed door and back at Moran’s journals. Petersburg. Eighty pounds sterling spent in the first week, thirty in the second week, one hundred twenty in the third. Horrendous amounts of money.

Moran had travelled there only two weeks after Pjotr’s body was found. What was the purpose of his trip? Sherlock’s
this won’t do
rang in my head.
 

I rose, wrapped a towel around my left fist, stepped up to the window, closed it, and drew the heavy curtains. Then I hit the reveal until sweat trickled down my spine.

‘Don’t pull up your shoulder,’ he said. I heard him close the door and hang his hat on the hook. ‘Take off your dress. It restricts you too much.’

I turned around, bowed, and said through heavy breathing, ‘At you service, master.’

‘Behave yourself!’ A smile scampered across his face; then he was all focus again. ‘You’ll need space to move when I teach you how to defend yourself.’ Seeing my skepticism, he added, ‘I’ve never lost a fight.’

The dress fell to the floor with a rustle. Heavy silk pooled around my ankles.

‘Put this aside.’ He pointed to the dress. ‘And step away from the window. We will open it. It’s too warm for someone with such a disadvantageous surface-to-volume ratio as yours.’

I was glad for the breeze cooling my moist back, but I felt awkward standing in front of him only in my drawers, the loose maternity corset, and a fluttery camisole. And then I was supposed to… hit him?

‘You can try to land a punch, but I recommend you hit my palms. We will perfect your technique instead of attempting to increase your muscle power.’ He raised both hands to shoulder level.

I nodded and did as he asked.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘If I place my feet as you do.’ Both his feet were now parallel to each other. ‘I’m more prone to be tipped. Shove at my chest, if you please.’

I did, and he caught his balance by taking one step back.

‘Now, put your feet like this and keep your knees slightly flexed.’ One foot straight and closer to me, the other half a pace behind the first and at approximately forty-five degrees. ‘You’ll need a lot more force to tip me. Shove again.’

I did, and could barely move his upper body. I copied his stance.

‘Punch my hand again.’

My fist hit his palm. How pathetic.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now, use your
body
to punch, not just your arm.’ He tipped at my shoulder and my hip. ‘These must move. Look.’ He showed a very slow swing that began in his ankles and extended to his fist. ‘Simple physics.’ His hands went up again, his expression expectant.

I punched, he nodded, and I kept hitting his palms, paying attention to how my body turned, experimenting with swinging in various angles and listening to the
slap
my fist produced with each impact

‘Good,’ he said again. ‘The most important factor is that you move quickly. Moran is heavy. He’ll be slower than you.’ His gaze dropped to my stomach. ‘Or maybe not.’

‘I want to try something,’ I said. ‘How would you go about strangling me?’

One swift step forward and his hands were around my throat. ‘Stay like this,’ I said and ran my fingers over the weak points, testing my range for breaking his elbow joint, my right palm on his wrists, my left on his elbow. ‘If I hit it like this, I could perhaps dislocate the joint, but I don’t know if I’m strong enough.’

‘Joints and soft tissues are the weakest points of the human body. There’s almost no mechanical resistance. Your expert knowledge of anatomy will give you an advantage as long as you can develop a reflex to always hit these spots first.’

I nodded.

‘Obviously we will not try to dislocate joints today,’ he noted. ‘Or any other day, for that matter. But I believe we could exercise your punches to such a degree…’ He scratched his chin, his brow crinkled. ‘We could pay the morgue a visit.’ An amused mutter. His eyes shone with mischief.

The thought of him holding a stiff body up and me hitting and breaking limbs was so absurd that I laughed out loud.

‘Oy!’ he called when I grabbed both his index fingers and bent them the wrong way, peeling his hands off my throat.

‘Seems to work,’ I noted and kissed his abused knuckles before he could snatch away his hand. ‘I’ll write to the Institute of Pathology. What excuse would you prefer?’

‘Hum.’ He walked to the window and stuck his head out. ‘I’ll be Chief Inspector Nieme again. I’m on holidays, visiting a former colleague who came to consult me on an old case of his. A thought struck me and I now require a corpse or two to simulate whether or not a woman could inflict injuries as observed on a murder victim six years ago. And for that, I’ll need the assistance of my wife.’

‘What if they send a wire to the Yard, enquiring about the existence of Nieme?’

‘We will not give them enough time to receive an answer. We’ll announce our visit a mere twenty minutes in advance. Besides, the good inspector is indeed employed at the Yard’s Division H. But I doubt he has ever been to the continent.’

He ruffled his hair and walked back to me, raised his hands again, and nodded invitingly.