The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) Read online

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Other Books

  Preface

  London

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Preview of The Fall

  Credits

  Acknowledgements

  The Devil’s Grin

  by

  Annelie Wendeberg

  The Devil’s Grin

  Annelie Wendeberg

  Copyright 2014 by Annelie Wendeberg

  Illustrated Amazon Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Yet, I tried to write it as close to the truth as possible. Any resemblance to anyone alive is pure coincidence.

  Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson, and Mrs Hudson are characters by Sir A. C. Doyle. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of my imagination, or lived/happened/occurred a very long time ago. I herewith apologise to all the (now dead) people I used in my novel. I also apologise to all Sherlock Holmes fans should they feel their Holmes got abused by me, too.

  The cover is an image from The Queen’s London. A Pictorial and Descriptive Record of the Streets, Buildings, Parks, and Scenery of the Great Metropolis in the fifty-ninth year of the Reign of her Majesty Queen Victoria. Publisher: Cassell & Company, London. 1896. Author’s archives.

  To book-lovers and story-tellers

  Books by this author:

  The Devil’s Grin (An Anna Kronberg Thriller, Book 1)

  The Fall (An Anna Kronberg Thriller, Book 2)

  The Journey (An Anna Kronberg Thriller, Book 3)

  Moriarty (Illustrated Compiler of The Devil’s Grin, The Fall, & The Journey)

  The Lion’s Courtship (A Prequel to The Devil’s Grin)

  Find out more at:

  www.anneliewendeberg.com

  Preface

  I never considered writing anything but science papers. Not until my family and I moved into a house with a history dating back to 1529. While ripping off all modern improvements to restore some of the building’s historic charm, we found a treasure. Hidden underneath the attic’s floorboards, among thick layers of clay, sand, and larch needles, were a dozen slender books bound in dark leather. These were the journals of an extraordinary woman.

  Reading her story left me shocked, awed, and wishing I could ever be as courageous as she. Her wish to not reveal her identity will be respected. Instead, I mixed the names of a friend, a German beer (sorry about that), and the last part of my family name to end up with ‘Anna Kronberg.’

  People close to Anna, such as her lover and her father, bear false names as well, while others kept their true identities.

  This little horse — which makes an appearance in the 2nd book — is one of the things we found underneath our attic’s floorboards. (1)

  Cheapside, London, 1890s (2)

  — one —

  History is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies, and misfortunes of mankind.

  E. Gibbon

  I finally found the peace to write down what must be revealed. At the age of twenty-seven, I witnessed a crime so outrageous that no one dared to tell the public. In fact, it has never been put in ink on paper — not by police, journalists, or historians. The general reflex was to forget what had happened.

  I will hide these journals in my old school and beg the finder to make public what they contain. Not only must the crime be revealed, but I also wish to paint a different picture of a man who came to be known as the world’s greatest detective.

  Summer, 1889

  One of the first things I learned as an adult was that knowledge and fact meant nothing to people who were subjected to an adequate dose of fear and prejudice.

  This simple-mindedness was the most disturbing attribute of my fellow two-legged creatures. Yet, according to Alfred Russel Wallace’s newest theories, I belonged to this same species — the only one among the great apes that had achieved bipedalism and an unusually large brain. As there was no other upright, big-headed ape, I must be human. But I had my doubts.

  My place of work, the ward for infectious diseases at Guy’s Hospital in London, was a prime example of the aforementioned human bias against facts. Visitors showed delight when entering through the elegant wrought-iron gate. Once on the hospital grounds, they were favourably impressed by the generous court with lawn, flowers, and bushes. The white-framed windows spanning from floor to ceiling of bright and well-ventilated wards gave the illusion of a pleasant haven for the sick.

  Entrance Gates, Guy’s Hospital, London, late 19th century (3)

  Yet, even the untrained eye should not have failed to notice a dense overpopulation: each of the forty cots in my ward was occupied by two or three patients, bonded together by their bodily fluids,oozing either from infected wounds or raw orifices. Due to the chronic limitation of space, doctors and nurses had learned to disregard what they knew about transmission of disease under crowded conditions: death spread like fire in a dry pine forest.

  However, everyone considered the situation acceptable simply through habit. The slightest change would have required the investment of energy and consideration; neither willingly spent for anyone but oneself. Therefore, nothing changed.

  If I had an even more irascible temperament than I already possessed, I would have openly held hospital staff responsible for the deaths of countless patients who had lacked proper care and hygiene. But then, the ones who entrusted us with their health and well-being should share the guilt. It was common knowledge that the mortality of patients in hospitals was at least twice that of those who remained at home.

  Sometimes I wondered how people could have possibly got the idea that medical doctors could help. Although circumstance occasionally permitted me to cure disease, this sunny Saturday held no such prospect.

  The wire a nurse handed me complicated matters further: To Dr Kronberg: Your assistance is required. Possible cholera case at Hampton Waterworks. Come at once. Inspector Gibson, Scotland Yard.

  I was a bacteriologist and epidemiologist, the best to be found in England. This fact could be attributed mostly to the lack of scientists working within this very young field of research. In all of London, we were but three — the other two had been my students. For the occasional cholera fatality or for any other victim who seemed to have been felled by an angry army of germs, I was invariably summoned.

  As this call came with some frequency, I had the pleasure of working with Metropolitan Police inspectors once in a while. They were a well-mixed bunch of men whose mental sharpness ranged from that of a butter knife to an overripe plum.

  Inspector Gibson belonged to the plum category. The butter knives, fifteen in total, had been assigned to the murder division — a restructuring effort within the Yard in response to the recent Whitechapel murders and the hunt for the culprit commonly known as Jack the Ripper.

  I slipped the wire into my pocket and asked the nurse to summon a hansom. Then I made my way down to my basement laboratory and the
hole in the wall that I could call my office. I threw a few belongings into my doctor’s bag and rushed to the waiting cab.

  The bumpy one-hour ride to Hampton Water Treatment Works was pleasant; it offered views London had long lost: greenery, fresh air, and once in a while, a glimpse of the river that still had the ability to reflect sunlight. Once the Thames entered the city, it turned into the dirtiest stretch of moving water in the whole of England. Crawling through London, it became saturated with cadavers from each of the many species populating the city, including their excrements. The river washed them out onto the sea, where they sank into the deep to be forgotten. London had an endless supply of filth, enough to defile the Thames for centuries to come. At times, this tired me so much that I felt compelled to pack my few belongings and move to a remote village. Perhaps to start a practice or breed sheep, or do both and be happy. Unfortunately, I was a scientist and my brain needed exercise. Country life would soon become dull, I was certain.

  The road along the Thames, half way between London and Hampton Waterworks. (4)

  The hansom came to a halt at a wrought-iron gate with a prominent forged iron sign arching above it, its two sides connecting pillars of stone. Behind it stretched a massive brick complex adorned by three tall towers.

  Hampton Water Treatment Works were built in response to the 1852 Water Act, after the progressive engineer Thomas Telford had annoyed the government for more than twenty years. He had argued that Londoners were drinking their own filth whenever they took water from the Thames, which resulted in recurring cholera outbreaks and other gruesome diseases. The inertness of official forces whenever money and consideration were to be invested amazed me rather often.

  Roughly half a mile east from where I stood, an enormous reservoir was framed by crooked willows and a variety of tall grasses. My somewhat elevated position allowed me to look upon the water’s dark blue surface decorated with hundreds of white splotches. The whooping, shrieking, and bustling about identified them as water birds.

  I stepped away from the cab. Low humming seeped through the open doors of the pumping station; apparently, water was still being transported to London. A rather unsettling thought, considering the risk of cholera transmission.

  I walked past three police officers — two blue-uniformed constables and one in plain clothes ,being Gibson. The bobbies answered my courteous nod with a smile, while Gibson looked puzzled.

  The man I was aiming for was, I hoped, a waterworks employee. He was a bulky yet healthy-looking man of approximately seventy years of age. His face was framed by bushy white whiskers and mutton chops topped up with eyebrows of equal consistency. He gave the impression of someone who would retire only when already dead. And he was looking strained, as though his shoulders bore a heavy weight.

  ‘I am Dr Anton Kronberg. Scotland Yard called me because of a potential cholera fatality in the waterworks. I assume you are the chief engineer?’

  ‘Yes, I am. William Hathorne, pleased to make your acquaintance, Dr Kronberg. It was me who found the dead man.’

  I noticed Gibson huffing irritably. Probably I undermined his authority yet again. Although it would require a certain degree of learning ability on his part, I was still surprised that he obviously hadn’t yet become accustomed to my impertinence.

  ‘Was it you who claimed the man to be a cholera victim?’ I enquired.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the pumps are still running.’

  ‘Open cycle. Nothing is pumped to London at the moment,’ Mr Hathorn supplied.

  ‘How did you know he had cholera?’

  He harrumphed, his gaze falling down to his shoes. ‘I lived on Broad Street.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry,’ I said quietly, wondering whether the loss of his wife or even a child had burned the haggard and bluish look of a cholera death into his memory. Thirty-five years ago, the public pump on Broad Street had infected and killed more than six hundred people, marking the end of London’s last cholera epidemic. People had dug their cesspit too close to the public pump. As soon as both pump and cesspit were shut down, the epidemic ceased.

  With a tightening chest, I wondered how many people would have to die when a cholera victim floated in the drinking water supply of half the Londoners.

  ‘Did you move the body, Mr Hathorne?’

  ‘Well, I had to. I couldn’t let him float in that trench, could I?’

  ‘You used your hands, I presume.’

  ‘What else would I use? My teeth?’

  Naturally, Mr Hathorne looked puzzled. While explaining that I must disinfect his hands, I bent down and extracted the bottle of creosote and a large handkerchief from my bag. A little stunned, he let me proceed without protest.

  ‘You kept your eyes open. I could see that when I came in. Can you tell me who else touched the man?’

  With shoulders squared and moustache bristled, he replied, ‘All the police officers, and that other man over there.’ His furry chin pointed towards the ditch.

  Surprised, I turned around and spotted the man Hathorne had indicated. He was tall and unusually lean, and for a short moment I almost expected him to be bent by the wind and sway back and forth in synchrony with the high grass surrounding him. He was making his way up to the river and soon disappeared among the thick vegetation.

  Gibson approached, hands in his trouser pockets, face balled to a fist. ‘Dr Kronberg, finally!’

  ‘I took a hansom; I can’t fly,’ I retorted and turned back to the engineer.

  ‘Mr Hathorne, am I correct in assuming that the pumps — when not running in open cycle — take water from the reservoir and not directly from the trench?’

  ‘Yes, that is correct.’

  ‘So the contaminated trench water would be greatly diluted?’

  ‘Of course. But who knows how long the dead fella was floating in there.’

  ‘Is it possible to reverse the direction of the water flow and flush it from the trench back into the Thames?’

  He considered my question, pulled his whiskers, then nodded.

  ‘Can you exchange the entire volume three times?’

  ‘I certainly can. But it would take the whole day…’ He looked as though he hoped I would change my opinion.

  ‘Then it will take the whole day,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Hathorne.’ We shook hands, then I turned to Gibson. ‘Inspector, I will examine the body now. If you please?’

  Gibson squinted at me, tipped his head a fraction, then lead the way up the path.

  ‘I will take a quick look at the man. If he is indeed a cholera victim, I need you to get me every man who touched his body.’ After a moment of consideration, I added, ‘Forget what I said. I want to disinfect the hands of every single man who entered the waterworks today.’

  I knew Gibson didn’t like to talk too much in my presence. He disliked me and my harsh replies. And I had issues with him, too. After having met him a few times, it was quite obvious that he was a liar. He pretended to be hard-working, intelligent, and dependable, while his constables backed him up constantly. Yet he was still an inspector at the Yard, and I was certain that being the son of someone important had put him there.

  We followed a narrow path alongside the broad trench connecting the river to the reservoir. I wondered about its purpose — why store water when great quantities of it flowed past every day? Perhaps because moving water was turbid and the reservoir allowed the dirt to settle and the water to clear? I should have asked Hathorne about it.

  Gibson and I walked through the tall grass; if I strayed off the path — and I felt compelled to do so — its tips would tickle my chin. Large dragonflies whizzed past me, one almost colliding with my forehead. They did not seem to be accustomed to human invasion. The chaotic concert of water birds carried over from the nearby reservoir. The nervous screeching of small sandpipers mingling with the trumpeting of swans and melancholic cries of a brace of cranes brought back memories of my life many years ago.

  The p
retty thoughts were wiped away instantly by a whiff of sickly sweet decomposition. The flies had noticed it, too, and all of us were approaching a small and discarded-looking pile of clothes containing a man’s bluish face. A first glance told me that the corpse had spent a considerable time floating face down. Fish had already nibbled off the soft and protruding flesh — fingertips, lips, nose, and eyelids.

  The wind turned a little, and the smell hit me directly now. It invaded my nostrils and plastered itself all over my body, clothes, and hair.

  ‘Three police men are present. Why is that?’ I asked Gibson. ‘And who is the tall man who just darted off to the Thames? Is this a suspected crime?’

  The inspector dropped his chin to reply as someone behind me cut across in a polite yet slightly bored tone, ‘A dead man could not have climbed a fence, so Inspector Gibson here made the brilliant conclusion that someone must have shoved the body into the waterworks.’

  Surprised, I turned around and had to crane my neck to face the man who had spoken. He was a head taller than I and wore a sharp and determined expression. He seemed to consider himself superior, judging from the snide remark about Gibson and the amount of self-confidence he exuded that bordered on arrogance. His attire and demeanour spoke of a man who had most likely enjoyed a spoiled upper-class childhood.

  Keen, light grey eyes pierced mine for a moment, but his curiosity faded quickly. Apparently, nothing of interest had presented itself. I was greatly relieved. For a moment, I had feared he would see through my disguise. But as usual, I was surrounded by blindness.