The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (3 page)

When we set up the tent for the night, Holmes opened his mouth, then shut it again. He said, ‘Hum,’ narrowed his eyes, and shook his head.

‘You often talk to yourself when you are alone,’ I observed.

‘It usually helps to listen to someone with an intellect.’

‘You are a lonely and arrogant man.’

He froze for a moment, then ignored me and settled down for his first watch.

Surprised at myself, I wondered where that acidic remark had come from. It might have been the truth, but thinking it and slapping it in his face were two very different things. After barely a week, we were already annoying one another.

I wrapped the blanket around me and asked, ‘What would you do if I weren’t here?’

‘Don’t waste your time with
what ifs
, Anna.’

‘Would you hunt Moran? Or would you first go back to London and see your friend Watson and your brother?’
 

He was silent for a long moment, perhaps hoping I would fall asleep.

‘Colonel Moran escaped, and I know of two more men who eluded capture.’

‘What would you do if I weren’t here?’ I repeated.

‘Find them,’ he said.

‘I agree, it would be the best thing to do.’ Saying it felt like brushing a weight off my shoulders. Being so close to him hurt, and the last thing I wished was to be a deadweight. ‘We will part when we reach the next city.’

‘We will do no such thing.’ He turned his back to me with finality, cutting off all protest.

‘You are being sentimental,’ I said.

‘Go for a walk. Your foul mood is unbearable.’

‘No, thank you. I’ll climb a tree instead. Good night.’ And off I went, wondering what was wrong with me. One moment I could lie down and weep, the next I felt the urge to kick his crotch.

Lewes Castle, Sussex Downs, 1822. (3)

— three —

S
unlight drew the moisture from our clothes and the tiredness from our limbs. Holmes’s eye had healed and his interest in plants that had uses other than poisoning people grew.
 

With all our provisions eaten, we had to rely on what we found on our journey. During the day, we picked dandelion and chickweed leaves, chewing them while we walked. The dandelion roots were dug up to be cooked at night, together with a rabbit or pheasant either Holmes or I had shot. Now with the rain gone, he was more concerned about watchful eyes than protection from the elements. The spots he picked for the nights were in a depression, often close to a stream. A fire wouldn’t be visible from afar.

With cold and hunger at bay, dark thoughts slammed back into my mind at full force. I longed for solitude. Perhaps when we arrived wherever he planned to go, I would disappear.
 

My brain felt numb; planning how best to escape Holmes was tedious. Unable to invent anything complex, I settled upon simply turning a corner when he wasn’t paying attention. I knew this non-strategy was utterly stupid, no need to even attempt it. What I truly needed to escape from was James and his child.

Three hours before nightfall, when the woods formed a dark and inviting line at the horizon, Holmes informed me that we were now turning south towards Littlehampton.

The orange sun hung heavy among the trees when I set out to hunt. Holmes didn’t seem to mind the odd distribution of tasks. While he collected wood, cleaned and oiled our revolvers, and explored the surroundings for emergency hideaways, I ventured out armed with my crossbow.

I was glad to gain some distance from him and certain he enjoyed the time of solitude just as much as I did. He appeared highly alert for the slightest change in my mood. Whether it was my physical condition or my reticence that annoyed him the most, I didn’t know.

Pheasants were easy prey this time of the year. Mating season had tired the cocks and they settled on their sleeping branches early after sunset. If I’d had very long arms, I could have picked them off the trees like overripe pears.
 

Soon I found a sleepy specimen halfway up a beech. I raised my crossbow, aimed and fired, and was back at the tent in less than an hour.

I plucked and gutted the quarry. We waited for nightfall before lighting the small fire.

Holmes poked at the embers and I sat down opposite him, throwing some of the bird’s yellow fat in the skillet to melt. The instant it touched the hot metal, it hissed and bubbled. Heart and liver followed, sizzling and shrinking, blood oozing from the meat and mixing with the melted fat, darkening to a deliciously crisp brown and throwing off a scent that made it hard to not reach out and grab a piece before it was done. While I busied myself with slicing meat from the bones, Holmes flipped our food in the pan.

‘Delicious,’ he hummed. Then, sharp eyes met mine. ‘You have been evasive long enough. It’s time for a longer conversation.’

My chest contracted. I nodded automatically.

‘It’s now eight days since we left your cottage. I very much doubt that Moran is closing in on us already. But I’m certain he will try everything in his powers to do so. The more information you provide, the more reliable my calculations on his plans and whereabouts will be.’

‘Naturally,’ I answered.

‘Excellent. Now, what precisely happened to you and Mycroft after Watson and I departed from Dieppe?’

That trustworthy brain machine of mine hauled in memories as demanded. ‘Nothing remarkable happened in the train to Leipzig or on the ride to my father’s home. I instructed the driver to drop us off in the woods, about half a mile from the house. The path led uphill, rather steep, and Mycroft fell behind. I had no patience to wait for him, so I ran ahead to find my father.’

Holmes listened with eyes half-shut, lazily poking at the frying meat.

‘The garden looked as though he had not returned yet,’ I continued. ‘The house was empty, the curtains drawn. Once inside, I noticed the lack of dust. The room smelled clean and fresh. There were two possibilities. One, that he had asked someone to clean for him. But that would have been highly atypical for my father. The second and most likely possibility was that he had returned and left soon thereafter.’

Holmes held out the skillet and a fork for me. ‘Thank you,’ I said and impaled a piece of liver. He selected his dinner and leaned against a tree, chewing and gazing into the void. I wondered whether he pictured himself inside the house, seeing the things I described.

I took my time eating and collecting myself. ‘I did not notice the man until he spoke to me.’ At that, Holmes focused on my face, eyebrows at a sharp downward angle. ‘He said I could find my father in the church. He said he wouldn’t be buried in sacred soil, for he had taken his own life.’

I swallowed. ‘I was talking to my father’s murderer. He had poisoned him and let it appear like suicide. I asked him how he was planning to kill me. He answered he’d kill me slowly, but not immediately. James had forbidden his men to harm me, he said. I would be allowed to give birth to his child and three years later, they would come and find me. Or
us
.’

‘Intriguing,’ he mumbled, his gaze directed back at the tree tops.

‘The moment the man left, he ran into Mycroft. They fought, and Mycroft shot him. But there is more. He also said that James had set this trap: the plan was to separate you and me, and with that weaken us. What he did not include in his calculations, though, was that neither of us was alone. You had Watson, and I had your brother.’

Holmes merely nodded. ‘What poison had been used to kill your father?’

I didn’t answer.

‘You didn’t examine him?’ A sharp shot with both tongue and gaze.

I grew cold and let the drop of temperature reflect in my voice. ‘I went to see my father. I touched his skin, examined his eyes, sniffed his face, licked his lips even, but nothing indicated what poison had been used. Then I lay down next to him to bemoan his death and to share a little of my warmth with him. It did not matter that he had begun to smell, that he was stiff and cold as the stone floor he lay upon. It did not matter what poison had been used. All that mattered was that my father had been killed and his murderer was dead. No matter how well I examined and studied my father’s corpse, he would not come back.’

Holmes cleared his throat. ‘I merely wished to know whether an identical mixture had been used to murder your father as the one you used to poison Moriarty. That would have indicated a much more complex scheme than I was able to divine.’

‘Belladonna can be excluded; his pupils weren’t dilated. An overdose of arsenic would have caused a blackening of his fingertips or discolourations in the mouth, eyes, or hands. I found none of these symptoms.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, lowering his chin and folding his hands, index fingers tapping each other. ‘We can conclude Moriarty suspected you might poison him one fine day—’

‘He said that he had always suspected the wine,’ I interrupted.

‘But apparently he did not know what poison you would use. He had not discovered the flask. Let us go back to what your father’s murderer said. That Moriarty forbade his men to harm you is quite revealing, don’t you think?’

Knowing James, the games he had played, the layers of lies concealing one another, I wasn’t certain his actions revealed anything. I picked another piece of meat and ate while thinking of various strands of possibilities.

‘When James saw his blackened fingertips,’ I began, ‘he must have known what poison I had used and that the arsenic would kill him soon. He would have wanted his murderer to suffer and die. What
might
have made matters complex was that his murderer is also the mother of his unborn child. He had to make a compromise if he wanted it to live. That he would give me three years to raise it is odd, though. Why not have someone take it right after birth and kill me? All that’s needed is a wet nurse.’

‘Hum…’ said Holmes. ‘If I wished to abduct a small child, what would be the best time to do so? If I had to pay a band of ruffians, I’d make sure the child was old enough to survive a hasty and possibly long trip under harsh conditions.’

‘That would explain the three years,’ I answered.

‘And if the child is not what he wanted?’ he mused.

‘Why would…’ I trailed off, thoughts racing, picking up pieces and rearranging the picture. ‘Assuming he never cared about his unborn child, which would be quite plausible, the ultimatum only serves to torture me. He allows me to give birth, to love the child, and live in fear for three years, only to take it away and gift me the ultimate pain — the death of my own child.’

‘Precisely!’ He pointed a long finger at me. ‘We need to take precautions to cover both possibilities.’ With that, he extracted the tobacco pouch to roll himself a cigarette. I had long lost the appetite for a smoke.

‘How ridiculous,’ I said quietly. ‘I cannot believe he would have expected me to love his child. On the other hand…’

‘Yes?’ he said, his fingers pinching the tobacco snug into a piece of pape
r. He held up a tinder and pulled air through his cigarette until a small flame shot up its end.

‘I believe that James wanted this child. There were signs. He was upset when I tried to abort it. It hurt him.’