The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (5 page)

The man cleared his throat. ‘I have a room for people who can pay the rent.’

I slipped a hand into the folds of my dress, extracted two moist pounds, and slammed them on the counter. The moustache broadened considerably, its corners pointing upwards.

‘We both need a bath, a good meal, and clean clothing. Would that be possible, sir?’ said Holmes, and with that started an avalanche of service by both the landlord and his wife.

A too-large bed in an empty room, walls echoing my footfalls, and the shallow breath of my lungs. Devoid of birdsong and the rustle of grass in the wind, this place felt empty. Like myself.

The window dulled the chatter on the street below but could not entirely shut out the news of the strange doctor and his wife.
Have you heard they were mugged and almost beaten to death? That poor woman, in the family way she is, yes, yes! Thugs have torn her dress apart!
And so on. I was glad their vivid imagination had room for pity.
 

My hair was wet from the bath, my skin still burning. After removing the layers of grime, I had tried to remove James. But no matter how hard I pressed the coarse brush down on my skin, no matter how much soap I used, all that scrubbing only cleansed the surface. The resulting pain, at least, was good. For once it was physical, explainable, logical.

When I emerged from the tub, the stink of my clothes hit my nostrils. More than a week of walking, sweating, and never washing properly had created an odour reminiscent of a fox den. I poked my toe at the layer of grit on the tub’s bottom. It was thicker than expected.

A narrow door separated my room from Holmes’s. Light seeped through a crack in the thin wood. Earlier, he had dispatched a message to his brother; then we had dinner in silence, the unspeakable heavy on our lips. What thoughtlessness to attempt suicide in front of his eyes. What thoughtlessness to have kissed him two years ago. What thoughtlessness…

Quietly, I moved around in my room, picking up my few belongings and packing them in my rucksack. I would have to wait until he was sleeping.
 

The candle began to flicker. I blew it out; darkness fell.

A knock disturbed my thoughts.
 

‘Yes?’

‘May I come in?’ His voice was soft and strangely controlled. As though he walked on raw eggs.

‘Yes.’ I sat up and lit the candle on my nightstand when he closed the door behind him.

‘May I sit here?’ He pointed to the edge of my bed. I nodded. ‘I see that you packed.’

I didn’t answer.

‘Did you plan this, Anna?’

‘What?’ I asked to gain some time, or to prevent me from having to answer at all.

‘The suicide.’ A bare whisper. He was still shocked. But what else was to be expected? Shame crawled up my cheeks, scorching my skin.
 

‘No,’ I answered truthfully.

He sighed. ‘How can it be so easy for you? One minute you don’t think of it, the next minute you let go, ready to drown yourself. Did I cause this, Anna?’

‘No, you didn’t.’ My heart slammed against my ribs and I wanted him out of this room. His presence caused a rawness of nerves I could barely endure.

‘But I could have prevented it,’ he said, more to himself.
 

I searched for words, but my brain wouldn’t provide anything useful.

His eyes darkened and he rose to his feet. ‘I allowed you to stay in that man’s house for months!’ He ran a hand across his face as though to scrape off the anger. His fingers trembled slightly, his shoulders clenched.

Seeing him like this let me surface from my own self-pity. ‘Sit, please.’

He did as I asked, and so I continued, ‘I’m a grown woman. The path I choose to walk is my own. But I would be lying if I said I knew what I was doing or where this would lead. Every single day in captivity, I made countless decisions. After my father was set free, I chose to stay with James. It was the only logical next step. After all those days, all those decisions amounted to one horrible thing. Should I have foreseen the outcome? Perhaps. But I didn’t. Even if I had, I believe I wouldn’t have turned around. The price to pay would have been much higher than simply taking the next small step forward. At the end, James and I broke each other. None of this was your doing, Holmes.’

But what would I have done had I known that James would impregnate me with his brood? I could see myself happily accepting the bullet the day he and Moran broke into my cottage and held a gun to my head.

‘What made you let go today?’ He pressed the words out. Was there still anger in his voice? To him, watching me escape life must be a defeat. Holmes, the do-gooder.

‘Opportunity,’ I answered. ‘A solution to all my problems presented itself, and I took it.’ I meant to say something soothing, but all I could think of was how easy it was to let go, how wonderful to sink.

‘So all I need to do is wait until the next opportunity presents itself?’
 

I didn’t answer. He rushed to his room.

When he returned, he placed a revolver on my bed. ‘Spare me the torture, woman.’

I flung the covers aside and rose to face him. ‘You want me to shoot myself while you are watching?’

His hands clenched to fists and he bent closer. ‘You wanted me to watch you drown. Where is the difference?’

‘You wouldn’t have seen me die. You would have only seen me disappear. This,’ I pointed to the gun, ‘is an ugly death.’

‘Yes, it is indeed. Should you choose to insert it into your mouth and point upwards, pieces of your brain, skull bones, scalp, and hair will soil the wallpaper.’ He waved his hand towards the wall behind me. ‘Perhaps lying on your side instead, and shooting through your temple, would reduce the mess. If you would be so kind?’

‘Stop it,’ I groaned. My windpipe constricted.

‘Ah, I see. You are worried about the aesthetics. A blown-out brain is disgusting. A floater isn’t. Most impressive logic.’

‘There is no need to shout.’ I began to tremble. ‘Leave my room, please.’

‘In a moment.’ He picked up the revolver and pulled back the hammer. ‘Perhaps you need help?’
 

His hand shook ever so lightly. His knuckles whitened. Candlelight reflected off the weapon’s mouth.
 

‘If you stooped but a little, you could take me in your arms.’ The words were out before I could control my mouth.

‘I’d rather not,’ he croaked.

‘You’d rather shoot me?’

‘You cannot bind yourself to me, Anna.’

‘I bound myself to you long ago.’ My gaze slid from the weapon up to his face. My hand closed around the muzzle. Two hoarse clicks and he had uncocked the gun, then loosened his grip. I placed it next to me on the nightstand. ‘Holmes, I know you don’t…’ I dropped my gaze. ‘I’m not stupid enough to believe I’m not… I’m not…defiled.’

Odd, how heavy one’s limbs grow when the heart is full of shame. I couldn’t tip my head upward, couldn’t tear my eyes off his legs. Unmoving, they seemed cemented in a pair of sharply pressed trousers, framed left and right by a half-open dressing gown. Time crawled agonisingly slowly.
 

‘Go away,’ I breathed.

His hand approached and took mine in his. His feet took a step closer, his arms wound around me. I had the fleeting impression I would come undone. The taste of blood in my mouth told me I was biting my tongue. I tried to relax my jaw.

‘Stop calling me Holmes.’

I couldn’t utter a word.

‘Say my name, Anna!’

‘Sherlock,’ I whispered.

My plan of sneaking away that night was forgotten. Exhaustion burned in my eyes. Listening to his slow breathing, the whispering of his hand in my hair, I tried to calm myself. To no avail. I was vibrating.

He exhaled a growl and said, ‘You are not defiled, Anna. What you did to stop Moriarty was a great sacrifice.’

‘I know, it all sounds so reasonable,’ I said. ‘One can look at a collection of facts from many different angles. Mine is simple: I was his whore.’ How curious that hearing my own words made them suddenly sound false. In the dark loneliness of my thoughts, I had fancied myself much wiser.

‘Well, yes. You could certainly see it that way. But what does it help to do so?’

‘Was that ever a reason? Choosing the most helpful interpretation?’ I pushed away from him. His one hand slid off my back, the other off my neck. My skin felt cold there.

‘I usually choose the one that makes sense,’ he said. His expression was relaxed, soft, even. And yet it sounded as though he wished to mock me.
 

‘Are you that distanced?’ I asked. ‘The automaton Sherlock Holmes?’

‘Why, in your opinion, was I holding you?’

‘Because you feel guilty,’ I said.

‘How does that fit your automaton theory?’

I had no answer.

‘Is that why you tried to kill yourself while I was watching? Because you believe I don’t feel and hence, it doesn’t matter?’
 

He stooped at little until we were at eye level. I didn’t like the belligerence I saw in his posture.

‘I simply took an opportunity,’ I said. ‘I told you already.’

‘That is correct. But for you to do so, you must have established earlier that it wouldn’t matter to me, that I wouldn’t care.’

‘Yes,’ I whispered. It was true. It was precisely what I thought.

‘You make surprisingly little sense these days,’ he said.

‘I know.’
Life
made surprisingly little sense these days. I watched him for a long moment. He wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘Why have you been in an asylum?’

He sat down on my bed and exhaled one rattling breath. ‘My mother fell ill after giving birth to my sister,’ he began. ‘She starved herself. At times, she clung to her newborn daughter as though she were drowning and her child the last straw to cling to. It took only minutes until the child fussed and cried and she rejected her again, telling her what a terrible girl she was. It wasn’t long before the wet nurse quit her appointment. The lady maid helped taking care of my sister while father tried to find a replacement. One morning, Mother left her room, the child in her arms. She sang for her. It was the first time I heard mother sing. About to go downstairs, I stopped in wonder and listened. She walked past me, smiled at me, and I was convinced she was well again. She lowered her head to smile at her daughter. The girl began to stir and woke up with a cry. My mother’s face distorted as if in pain, and she flung…’

Silence fell. I followed his gaze across the room, imagining every detail he described.

Eyelids flickered. He cleared his throat. ‘She looked at me with a face so empty that, for a moment, I forgot the sounds of my sister dying on the stairs below. Then she whispered, “You tripped me.”’

He blinked again, tipped his head, and looked up at me.

‘A hysteric child who threatens the good reputation of the family with his obsession of proving his innocence, or rather, with his
poor version of a lie
, had to be removed.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Five,’ he said.

‘A small child?’ My eyes stung and rage boiled beneath my skin.

‘It’s very long ago.’ He slapped his knees — a whiplash noise that split reality apart, leaving fake lightness behind.

I kept swallowing, trying to force that clump down my throat. One tear rolled down my nose, hit my nightgown, and disappeared into the cotton.

He regarded me with a scrutinising glance. ‘Will you be alright?’

I nodded.

He rose and wished me a good night before I could ask,
And you, will you ever be alright again?