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

  The sharp contrast between the two men in front of me was almost ridiculous. Gibson was lacking facial muscles and possessed a lower lip that seemed to serve more the purpose of a rain gutter than a communication tool. Almost constantly, he worked his jaws, picked and chewed his nails, and perspired on the very top of his skull.

  ‘Mr Holmes, this is Dr Anton Kronberg, epidemiologist from Guy’s,’ said Gibson. I reached out my hand, which was taken, squeezed firmly, and quickly dropped as though it was infected. ‘Dr Kronberg, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ finished the inspector, making it sound as though I should know who Sherlock Holmes was.

  ‘Has the victim been pushed into the trench, Mr Holmes?’ Gibson enquired.

  ‘Unlikely,’ Mr Holmes answered.

  ‘How can you tell?’ I asked.

  ‘There are no marks on either side of the Thames’s water edge, the body shows no signs of being transported with a hook, rope, a boat, or similar, and…’

  The man trailed off and I made a mental note to go and check the Thames’s flow to ascertain that a body could indeed float into the trench without help.

  Mr Holmes had begun staring at me with narrowed eyes. His gaze flew from my slender hands to my small feet, swept over my slim figure and my not-very-masculine face. Then his attention got stuck on my flat chest for a second. A last look to my throat, the nonexistent Adam’s apple hidden by a high collar and cravat, and his eyes lit up in surprise. A slight smile flickered across his face while his head produced an almost imperceptible nod.

  Suddenly, my clothes felt too small, my hands too clammy, my neck too tense, and the rest of my body too hot. I was itching all over and forced myself to keep breathing. The man had discovered my best-kept secret within minutes, while others had been fooled for years. I was standing among a bunch of policemen and my fate seemed sealed. I would lose my occupation, my degree, and my residency to spend a few years in jail. When finally released, I would do what? Embroider doilies?

  Pushing past the two men, I made for the Thames to get away before doing something reckless and stupid. I would have to deal with Holmes when he was alone. The notion of throwing him into the river appeared very attractive, but I flicked the silly thought away and forced myself to focus on the business at hand.

  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 have been Mr Holmes’s. I picked up a few rotten branches and dry twigs, broke them into pieces of roughly arm’s length, and cast them into the Thames. Most of them 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 river. The chance was high that it was only the water that had pushed the body in here.

  ‘It seems you were correct, Mr Holmes,’ I noted while passing him. He didn’t appear bored anymore. When I walked back to the corpse, my stomach felt as if I had eaten a brick.

  I extracted a pair of India rubber gloves from my bag and put them on. Mr Holmes squatted down next to me, too close to the corpse for my taste.

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

  He didn’t 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.

  Thinking that attack is always better than premature retreat, I turned to Mr Holmes. ‘Do you happen to know how fast the Thames flows here?’

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

  ‘Considering which duration of exposure?’

  ‘Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.’

  ‘Interesting.’ I was surprised at his apparent medical background; he had 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 the man and got the impression that he vibrated with intellectual energy wanting to be utilised.

  ‘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 absent-mindedly while 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 signs of violence when Mr Holmes barked, ‘Stop!’

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

  ‘What is it?’

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

  ‘Show me!’

  Looking a little irritated, 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 rather fast then. ‘The man was obviously right-handed — that hand having more calluses on the palms. Yet you will observe greasy thumbprints pushing in from the left-hand side of his coat buttons.’

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

  ‘I smell petroleum; perhaps 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, for the calluses had started to peel off. His fingernails had multiple discolourations, showing that 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. ‘The man used to be a farm worker but lost his occupation three to four months ago.’

  ‘Could be correct,’ I answered. He had obviously based his judgement 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, pulling one eyebrow up. ‘We can safely assume that he had owned these boots for about ten years,’ said he while extracting a bare foot and holding its shoe next to it. The sole, worn down to a thin layer of rubber, contained a major hole where the man’s heel used to be and showed a perfect imprint of the shape of the man’s foot and toes.

  ‘I figured that you must have taken a closer look at him before I arrived, for you spoke about the lack of signs of transport by a boat, a hook, or rope. Now it appears you’ve touched and even undressed the corpse?’

  ‘Unfortunately it was but a superficial examination, for I found it more pressing to investigate how he had entered the trench.’

  I nodded, not at all relieved. ‘Mr Holmes, you have put your hands to your face at least twice, even scratched your chin very close to your lips. That is rather reckless considering that you have touched a cholera victim.’

  Now the other eyebrow went up, too. I passed him a handkerchief soaked in creosote and 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 being corrected by a woman or whether he was so focused 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 was tucked into a small tear just underneath the coat’s topmost buttonhole. I smoothed it and rubbed off the muck.

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

  ‘A rare bird?’ asked Mr Holmes.

  ‘Yes, but I can’t tell where this feather would have come from. I have never heard the bird’s call in the London area. 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 quill and the light grey down.

  ‘The quill is still somewhat soft,’ I murmured, ‘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 had it for a few weeks at the most, that means he must have found it just before he became ill, or someone gave it to him while he was sick.’

  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 farther north they live, the later they start. The bird shed this feather in late spring or midsummer this year. Wherever this man had spent his last days is close to a nesting place of an oriole pair. A female is never alone at this time of year.’

  ‘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?’

  He looked surprised, then waved his hand at me. ‘Pshaw!’ he exclaimed, almost amused now. ‘Although I gather it is quite a complicated issue. You don’t fancy going to India, I presume.’ The latter wasn’t so 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, 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 left for India, out of the way of the exclusively male medical establishment. To the best of my knowledge, I was the only exception.

  ‘I had hoped it would not be as evident,’ I said 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 had stayed to analyse me — I represented a curiosity.

  ‘What made you change your identity?’ he enquired as his face lit up with interest.

  ‘That’s none of your business, Mr Holmes.’

  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 guilt 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 odd mix of American and British English and the German linguistic baggage were rather obvious.

  ‘At first I thought you lived in the 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?’

  I cleared my throat; this was getting too far for my taste. ‘Correct,’ I said, preparing for battle.

  ‘You treat the poor free of charge, considering the herb, which certainly is not used in hospitals. And there is the location in which you choose to live — London’s worst rookery! You seem to have a tendency towards exaggerated philanthropy!’ He tipped an 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, ignoring my cold stare. ‘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.’

  Here I shot a nervous glance over his shoulder, assessing the distance to Gibson or any of his men. Mr Holmes waved at me impatiently, as though my anxiety to be discovered by yet another man meant nothing to him.

  He continued without pause. ‘You have 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 had noticed that I analysed him, too.

  He continued in a dry, machine-like rat-tat-tat. ‘You are very compassionate, even with the dead.’ He pointed to the corpse between us. ‘One of the few, typical female attitudes you exhibit; although in your case it’s not merely learned — there is weight behind it. 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 that you come from a poor home. Your father raised you after your mother died? Perhaps soon after your birth? Obviously, there hasn't been much female influence in your upbringing.’

  Utterly taken aback by the triumph in his demeanour, I snarled, ‘You are oversimplifying, Mr Holmes.’ Rarely had anyone made me that angry, and only with effort could I keep my voice under control. ‘It’s not guilt that drives me. I would not 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!’

  The man’s gaze flickered a little. ‘I met people like you at Harvard, Mr Holmes. Brilliant men who need the constant stimulation of the brain and who see little else than their work. Your brain is running in circles when not put to hard work, and boredom is your greatest torture.’

  Mr Holmes was rooted to the spot, his eyes unfocused, and behind them, his mind was racing.

  ‘I have seen these men using cocaine when nothing is at hand to tickle their intellectual powers. What about you, Mr Holmes?’ His gaze sharp now, his eyes met mine. I nodded and smiled. ‘It doesn’t help much, does it? Is it 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.’

  He gazed at the faint calluses on the fingertips of his left hand, marks produced by pressing down strings.

  ‘You are a passionate man and you can hide that well. But do you really believe that outsmarting everyone around you is an accomplishm
ent?’

  His expression was controlled and neutral, but his pupils were dilated to the maximum, betraying his shock.

  I rose to my feet, took a step forward, and put my face close to his. ‘It feels as though a stranger ripped off all your clothes, doesn’t it?’ I said softly. ‘Don’t you dare dig into my brain or private life again.’ I tipped my hat, turned away, and left him in the grass.

  Hampton Waterworks, 1884 (5)

  — two —

  The two constables helped me wrap the corpse into a blanket and place it onto the back of the waiting carriage. As soon as the package had been strapped down, they hastily put a safe 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, wiped his hands off with creosote, and gave him a brotherly clap on the shoulder.

  Once I had disinfected everyone’s hands, the inspector, Mr Holmes, the corpse, and I took the four-wheeler back to London.

  The carriage made a lurch as Gibson snapped the door shut. He sat down, anticipation seeping off his frame. ‘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 snicker that followed made my blood rise.

  He referred to the number of unidentified men, women, and children found floating in the Thames at regular intervals, usually amounting to over fifty each month. Some of them had died of cholera, others of pointy objects someone had stuck into their ribcages, throats, or elsewhere. When no one could spare the money for a funeral, the Thames surely took care of them.

  ‘I fear it’s far more complicated than that,’ I grumbled.

  ‘Excuse me? Please don’t tell me the man was murdered, Dr Kronberg,’ groaned Gibson, shooting an amused glance at Holmes, who in turn smirked at no one in particular.

  ‘There are only a 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,’ I poked the air with my index finger, ‘is highly unusual. Not to forget the restraint marks on his wrists. Or do you have a sound explanation for any of these facts?’