The Devil's Grin - a Crime Novel Featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes Read online

  First I needed to know how the body could have possibly got into that trench. The grass was intact; no blades were bent except for where I had seen Mr Holmes walk along. I looked around on the ground, Mr Holmes observing my movements.

  Only one set of footprints was visible, which must be Mr Holmes’s. I picked up a few dry branches, broke them into pieces of roughly arm’s length and cast them into the Thames. Eight out of ten branches made it into the trench and drifted towards me. A sand bank was producing vortexes just at the mouth, causing my floats to enter the trench instead of being carried away by the much greater force of the Thames. The chance was high that it was only the water that had pushed the body in here.

  ‘You were right, Mr Holmes,’ I noted while passing him. He did not look bored anymore. As I walked back to the corpse, my stomach felt as if I had eaten a brick.

  I extracted the rubber gloves from my bag and pulled them over my hands. Mr Holmes squatted down next to me, too close to the corpse for my taste.

  ‘Don’t touch it, please,’ I cautioned.

  He did not hear me, or else simply ignored my remark; his gaze was already sweeping over the dead man.

  The exposed face and hands of the corpse told me he had been in the water for approximately thirty-six hours.

  Following a whim, I turned to Mr Holmes. ‘Do you happen to know how fast the Thames flows here?’

  He did not even look up and only muttered in reply. ‘Thirty miles from here at the most.’

  ‘Considering which duration of exposure?’ I asked.

  ‘Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.’

  ‘Interesting,’ I was surprised at his apparent medical background, as he correctly assessed the time the man had spent in the water. He had also calculated the maximum distance the corpse could have travelled downstream.

  I cast a sideways glance at Mr Holmes and got the impression that this man vibrated with intellectual energy wanting to be utilized.

  ‘You are an odd version of a private detective? One the police call in? I never heard of their doing so before,’ I wondered aloud.

  ‘I prefer the term ‘consulting detective’.’

  ‘Ah…’ I replied absentmindedly as my attention was pulled back to the body. He was extremely emaciated; the skin with the typical blue tinge looked paper thin, most definitely cholera in the final stage. I was about to examine his clothes for any signs of violence when Mr Holmes barked ‘stop!’

  Before I could protest, he pushed me aside, pulled a magnifying glass from his waist coat pocket, and hovered over the corpse. The fact that his nose almost touched the large buttons of the man's coat was rather unsettling.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He has been dressed by someone else,’ he noted.

  ‘Show me!’

  Looking a little puzzled, he handed me his magnifying glass and I took it after pulling my gloves off. The thick rubber hindered my work and made me feel like a butcher. I could disinfect my hands later.

  Mr Holmes started to talk fast. ‘The man was obviously right handed - that hand having more calluses on the palms. Yet you will observe greasy thumbprints on the left-hand side of his coat buttons.’

  I spotted the prints and put my nose as close as possible and sniffed - corpse smell, Thames water, and possibly the faintest hint of petroleum.

  ‘I smell petroleum; maybe from an oil lamp,’ I remarked quietly.

  Upon examining his hands, I found superficial scratches, swelling, and bruises on the knuckles of the right hand. Probably from a fist fight only a day or two before his death - odd, given his weakness. His hands seemed to have been strong and rough once, but he had not been doing hard work with them for a while now as the calluses had started to peel off. His fingernails had multiple discolorations, showing he had been undernourished and sick for weeks before contracting cholera. He must have been very poor during his last few months, and I wondered where he had come from. His clothes looked worn and too big now, and a lot of debris from the river had collected in them. I examined his sleeves, turned his hands around and found a pale red banding pattern around his wrists.

  ‘Restraint marks,’ said Mr Holmes. Then he added: ‘The man used to be a farm worker but lost his occupation three to four months ago.’

  ‘Could be correct,’ I answer. Mr Holmes had obviously based his judgment on the man’s clothes, boots, and hands.

  ‘But the man could have had any other physically demanding occupation, Mr Holmes. He could as well have been a coal mine worker. The clothes are not necessarily his.’

  Mr Holmes sat erect and pulled one eyebrow up. ‘I think we can safely assume that he had owned these boots for at least ten years,’ said he while extracting a foot and holding the shoe next to it. The sole, worn down to a thin layer of rubber containing a major hole where the man’s heel used to be, showed a perfect imprint of the shape of the man’s foot and toes.

  ‘You examined him before I arrived?’

  ‘Superficially only; I found it more pressing to investigate how he had entered the trench.’

  I nodded, only slightly relieved. ‘Mr Holmes, you have put your hands to your face at least twice, even scratched your chin very close to your lips. This is rather reckless considering that you have touched a cholera victim.’

  He looked at me surprised and I passed him a handkerchief soaked in creosote. He wiped himself off with care. Then, without touching the corpse, he bent down low over it and pointed. ‘What is this?’ The genuine interest in his voice was bare of indignation, as if he had not taken offence. I was surprised and wondered whether he did not mind the correction or whether he was so focussed on the examination that he had no time to spend on feeling resentful.

  I picked at the smudge he had indicated. It was a small green feather that had been tucked into a small tear just underneath the coat’s topmost buttonhole. I smoothed it and rubbed off the muck, which had almost completely hidden it.

  ‘An Oriole female. How unusual! I haven't heard their call for many years.’

  ‘A rare bird?’ asked Mr Holmes.

  I looked up at him, ‘Yes, but I can't tell where this feather would come from here in England. I never heard the bird’s call here. The man may have found the feather anywhere and could have been carrying it around for quite a while.’ I trailed off, gazing at the small white quill and the light grey down.

  ‘The quill is still somewhat soft,’ I mumbled, ‘and the down is not worn. This feather wasn't plucked by a bird of prey or a fox or the like, it was moulted. He would have had it for a few weeks only and must have found it just before he became ill.’

  Mr Holmes looked surprised, and I felt the need to explain myself: ‘In my childhood I spent rather too much time in treetops and learned a lot about birds. The quill tip shows that the feather has been pushed out by a newly emerging one; birds start moulting in spring. The further north they live, the later they start. The bird shed this feather in late spring or mid-summer this year. Wherever the man had been is home to an Oriole pair.’

  ‘Where do these birds live?’ he enquired.

  ‘Large and old forests with dense foliage and water – such as a lake or a stream, an adjacent wetland would do, too.’

  ‘The Thames?’

  ‘Possibly,’ I mused.

  The brick in my stomach had become unbearable. ‘Mr Holmes, are you planning to give me away?’

  ‘Pshaw!’ He waved his hand impatiently. ‘Although I gather it is quite a complicated issue. You don’t fancy going to India, I presume.’ The latter wasn’t as much a question as a statement.

  ‘Obviously I don’t.’

  He probably did not know that obtaining a medical degree in Germany was still forbidden for women. If my true identity were revealed, I would lose my occupation and my British residency, would be deported and end up in a German jail. My alternative, although I did not consider it one, would be to go to India. The few British women who had recently managed to get a medical degree had eventually given
in to the mounting social pressure and had left for India, out of the way of the exclusively male medical establishment. To the best of my knowledge I was representing the only exception.

  ‘I had hoped it would not be as evident,’ I answered quietly.

  ‘It is evident only to me. I fancy myself as rather observant.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed. Yet, you are still here, despite the fact that this case appears to bore you. I wonder why that is.’

  ‘I haven’t formed an opinion, yet. But it does indeed seem to be a rather dull case. I wonder…’ Thoughtfully, he gazed at me and I realised that he stayed to analyse me. I was representing a curiosity!

  ‘What made you change your identity?’ he enquired and his face lighted up with great interest.

  ‘That’s none of your business, Mr Holmes.’ My suspicion was confirmed.

  Suddenly, his expression changed as his modus operandi switched to analysis and after a minute he seemed to have reached a conclusion. ‘I dare say that guild was the culprit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘As women weren’t allowed a higher education a few years ago, you had to cut your hair and disguise yourself as a man to be able to study medicine. But the intriguing question remains: Why did you accept such drastic measures for a degree? Your accent is evident; you are a German who has learned English in the Boston area. Harvard Medical School?’

  I nodded; my dialect and mix of American and British English were rather obvious.

  ‘At first I thought you lived in East End, but I was wrong. You live in or very near St Giles.’ He pointed a long finger to the splashes on my shoes and trousers. I wiped them every day before entering Guy’s, but some bits always remained.

  ‘The brown stains on your right index finger and thumb appear to be from harvesting parts of a medical plant. The Milk Thistle, I presume?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘You treat the poor free of charge, considering the herb which certainly is not used in hospitals. And there’s the location you chose to live - London’s worst rookery! You seem to have a tendency towards exaggerated philanthropy!’ He raised one eyebrow, his mouth lightly compressed. I could see a mix of amusement and dismissal in his face.

  ‘You don’t care much about the appearance of your clothes,’ he went on. ‘They are a bit tattered on the sleeves and the collar, but surely not for lack of money. You have too little time! You probably have no tailor blind enough to not discover the details of your anatomy, no one you could trust at your home, no housekeeper or maid who could keep your secret. That forces you to do everything for yourself. In addition will be your nightly excursions into the slums to treat your neighbours. You probably don’t fancy sleep very much.’ His voice was taunting now.

  ‘I sleep four hours on average.’ I wondered whether he noticed that I analysed him, too.

  He continued his observations. ‘You are very compassionate, even with the dead,’ he pointed to the corpse between us. ‘One of the little typical female behaviours you exhibit. Although in your case it’s not merely learned - there is weight behind your compassion. I must conclude that you have felt guilty because someone you loved died. And now you want to help prevent that from happening to others. But you must fail, because death and disease are natural. Considering your peculiar circumstances and your unconventional behaviour, I propose you come from a poor home. Your father raised you after your mother died? Perhaps soon after your birth? Obviously there has not been much female influence in your upbringing.’

  Utterly taken aback by the triumph in his demeanour, I answered: ‘You are oversimplifying, Mr Holmes.’ Only with effort could I keep my anger under control. ‘It’s not guilt that drives me. I wouldn’t have got so far if not for the passion I feel for medicine. My mother did die and I resent you for the pride you feel in deducing private details of my life. Details I do not wish to discuss with you!’ Now the man’s gaze flickered a little. ‘I have met people like you in Harvard, Mr Holmes. Your brain is buzzing constantly and when not put to hard work you can tear yourself apart. Boredom is your greatest torture.’

  His breath stumbled over my words.

  ‘What do you take when you are bored? Cocaine? It doesn’t help much, does it? Is it playing the cello that can put some order into that occasionally too-chaotic brain of yours?’

  I pointed to his left hand.

  ‘No,’ I decided aloud, ‘for the cello wants to be embraced. You prefer the violin - she can be held at a distance.’

  Absentmindedly, he gazed at the faint calluses on the finger tips of his left hand, marks produced by pressing down strings.

  ‘You are a passionate man and you hide that well. But do you really believe that solving a crime and outsmarting everyone around you is the greatest accomplishment?’

  His expression was unfathomable, but his pupils were dilated to the maximum - he was shocked.

  I rose to my feet and took a step forward. My face now close to his, I spoke softly. ‘It feels as though a stranger had ripped off all your clothes, doesn’t it?’

  Straightening up again I finished: ‘I dearly hope, for your own sake that you will never again have the opportunity to dig in my brain. Have a good day, Mr Holmes.’ I tipped my hat, turned away, and left him in the grass.

  Chapter Two

  The two constables helped me wrap the corpse in a blanket and place it onto the back of the waiting cab. As soon as the package had been strapped down tight, they hastily put a large distance between the stench and their insulted noses. After the younger of the two was done retching in the grass, I walked up to him, disinfected his hands, and gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder.

  Once I had disinfected everyone else’s hands, the Inspector, Mr Holmes, the corpse, and I took the cab back to London.

  Gibson was closing the door as the carriage gave a lurch. He sat down with anticipation seeping off his moist face. ‘Well, it appears we don’t need your services after all, Mr Holmes.’ he huffed. ‘A cholera victim who drowned in the Thames. Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’ The little snicker he produced sounded like shrivelled peas rattling in a can. I held on to my elbow to make sure it wouldn’t to insert itself into Gibson’s eye socket.

  He had referred to the number of unidentified men, women, and children found floating in the Thames in regular intervals, usually amounting to over fifty each month. Some of them did die of cholera. Others died of pointy objects that someone had stuck into their rib cages, throats, or elsewhere. And when no one could spare the money for a funeral, the Thames surely took care of it.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Do you want to tell me the man had been killed, Dr Kronberg?’ groaned Gibson in a patronising tone. I turned and shot him a sharp glance until the blood visibly rose above his collar.

  ‘There are only few things we know for certain, Inspector. The man most likely died of cholera and floated in the river for one or two days. Both of which he did upstream of London and that is highly unusual. Not to forget the restraint marks on his wrists. Or do you have a sound explanation for any of these facts?’

  Gibson did not reply but looked expectant, hoping perhaps I would solve the case for him. Meanwhile, Holmes had refocused his absentminded gaze as if he only now noticed our company. Irritated by the two, I turned away and spoke to the window: ‘I will dissect the body upon arrival at Guy's.’

  ‘I will assist,’ stated Mr Holmes with delight.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  He did not answer and appeared genuinely interested and almost a little amused. What a most disagreeable person! Next time he wanted to see a curiosity he should go to a circus!

  ~~~

  We arrived at Guy’s one hour of stale silence later. At the porter’s I asked for a nurse and a cart to help transport the body to the dissecting department, a small red brick building containing an antechamber well equipped with several slabs of marble. We had the place to ourselves as no anatomical lessons were given on Saturdays.
That also meant I could disinfect the room with fumes of concentrated acid without having to discuss the issue with curious students.

  Gibson took his leave after I had promised to report to him as soon as possible. Later, I would also prepare a report for the home office, stating, in essence, that there was no danger of cholera transmission through London’s drinking water supply.

  I provided Mr Holmes and myself with an India rubber apron, gloves, and a mask. The latter was a simple device made of fine, double layered fabric I had invented for such occasions. With the mask covering nose and mouth, dangerous airborne germs could not infect the man conducting a dissection or surgery - or in my case, the woman. I felt nauseous at the thought that the man next to me knew my secret.

  We undid the blanket and heaved the body onto the slab’s polished surface. I glanced sideways into Mr Holmes’s face; it did feel awkward working with him. He noticed my hesitation. ‘Dr Kronberg, I believe I must apol-‘

  ‘This is not what worries me, Mr Holmes,’ I interrupted anxiously; ‘I’m seriously considering blackmailing you. Unfortunately, you are rather sharp and my chances to win such a game or even find a rancid spot to taint your reputation with are probably close to nil.’

  Upon that he chuckled heartily. ‘I suppose your deceit is morally justifiable, although, if exposed, will cause a public outcry. Fortunately, we both have the right to private judgement. Trust me, Dr Kronberg, exposing you to the police appears utterly unattractive to me.’

  I peered over the edge of my mask and found his expression to be sincere enough. And yet, the stiffness of my spine would not leave me.

  I pushed my fear away and turned back to the matter at hand, fetched a pair of tweezers, and collected the fragments of flora and fauna, which had caught on the body’s clothes and hair, and placed them into a small bowl. Then I cut the man's coat off with a pair of large scissors.

  His shirt buttons did not have the grease prints, nor did the buttons of his trousers. He had restraint marks not only on his wrists but also his ankles. I discovered needle punctures on the man's left elbow bend as I cut his shirt off. I pointed out the punctures. Mr Holmes nodded and scanned each new square inch of skin I revealed while undressing the man in front of us.