The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) Page 6

  The left-hand side of my wardrobe contained all things female. I pulled on a bodice, stockings, a petticoat, and a simple linen dress. A scarf around my head concealed the fact that my hair was rather short. All in all, I wasn’t worth looking at, and yet, once I entered the streets again, it felt as though I had thrown myself onto the market for sexual reproduction. Several of the men I walked past swayed or reached out almost unintentionally just to brush my shoulder or waist. As a woman, I had many more obstacles in my way than as a man.

  From Bow Street, I turned north and walked the few blocks to my small flat in Endell Street, St Giles — the worst rookery of the British Empire.

  Dudley Street, 1872 (12)

  London was a monster with many heads — or faces, to be more precise. One could stroll down a clean and busy street, but, making a wrong turn, one would disappear into a maze of dark and filthy alleys, harbouring millions of rats the size of footballs. Rodents thrived in the slums more than anything else, as they were the only inhabitants who always had enough to eat, be it fermenting cabbage, faeces, or cadavers of both animal and human origin. The uninitiated would probably not return, at least not without getting mugged, probably beaten up, and sometimes murdered. Clean water was a rare commodity, as were food, shelter, a warm place in winter, clothes, and basically anything that would make life acceptable.

  On the other end of the scale were the tranquil and clean upper-class areas. Beautifully dressed and well-behaved ladies and gentlemen could stroll through the parks without being bothered by the poor and dirty. Here, even the trees and bushes were well groomed. People had enough to eat, though their servants often did not.

  Every day, my way to and from Guy’s Hospital took me through these contrasting areas of London’s rich and poor. Every day, I saw the transformation of the city, beautiful villas to filthy bottom-of-the-pit hovels with garbage bags or battered hats as replacements for missing windowpanes.

  And so did I transform, from the fake male bacteriologist and epidemiologist Anton Kronberg to Anna Kronberg — fake widow and fake medical nurse. I knew that changing identities had its risks, but I gladly took them. In Boston, I had lived as Anton only, and after three years my own body had become a stranger to me. The lack of a penis was highly bothersome and my breasts were useless and ugly appendages that, at some point, I hid even at night. After many weeks of tightly bandaging my chest, I got a breast infection that threw me down with a high fever and excruciating pain. I spent a week in bed, naked. After that, I could not hide my female identity for much longer than a day. I needed to be Anna, to not lose myself.

  To avoid a meeting with the landlady, I ran up the creaking stairs to my apartment and slammed the door shut before she had opened hers. The stench in the hallway told me she had had too much gin and too little time to discard the contents of her chamber pots. Almost every day, I was glad they had no children. The crying of neglected youngsters on top of their shouting wars would have been unbearable.

  I cut the bread and cheese, made tea, and took an early supper while standing at the open window and listening to the odd mix of drunkard sing-song, children’s play, dog yowls, and laughter.

  Then I fetched the bucket and walked down to the street to get water from the pump. Back in the room, I poured it into the washbasin and started washing the Macassar oil out of my hair and the dissection odour from my body. Contemplating over how to dress — a rather new experience for me — I stood in front of the wardrobe and settled on something more appropriate for an upper-class woman. That left me with only one piece to choose from. I put on a camisole and laced the black sateen corset, put on a petticoat and my best dress made of dark blue silk.

  Looking at myself in the milky glass at the wall, I saw a woman I barely recognised. The expensive fabric poured from a too-slim waist down to ankles stuck in tightly laced boots. My black velvet hat was adorned with a single raven feather, shimmering blue and violet in the evening sun. Black curls peeked out, almost reaching my chin. My short hair was definitely too progressive and onlookers might think I was on my way to a Suffragettes’ meeting.

  But it wasn’t only my hair. Everything about my face screamed oddity at me. Constantly bold and determined, sharp eyebrows, set chin, long nose — I appeared more like a bird of prey. As a woman, I looked too masculine; as a man, too feminine.

  I shook my head, thinking that I might not have much time left. A black-haired man in his thirties or even forties, who doesn’t have a hint of a beard, simply did not exist. Being in my twenties, I could perhaps go on with this charade for another ten years, but then I would have to find an alternative. So far, I saw none. How could I possibly live without science?

  Frustrated, I kicked the wall, then snatched the package off the table, took a small handbag, and started south. Just as I turned a corner, I heard the flap flap flap of naked feet on the pavement behind me, hushed voices and whispers of children. They started splitting up to get to me from two different sides.

  ‘Oy! Is that you guys or a swarm of cockroaches?’ I shouted over my shoulder.

  The splattering of feet came to a sudden stop.

  ‘Anna? Tha’ ya?’ a boy’s voice enquired.

  ‘No! Balls! I’m on a secret mission! I’m disguised as a lady, you idiot!’ I mocked him, trying to hold that snort in. Someone chuckled. I turned around and barked an unladylike laugh.

  ‘You can’t walk ’round like that!’ Barry said. Abruptly, his concern changed to determination. ‘We give you protection. Where’d you wanna go?’ He walked up to me, showing his missing front teeth and offering a dirty sleeve.

  ‘M’lady?’ he said poignantly, trying a curtsy.

  I smiled, thanked him, and took the offered aid. The children walked me two blocks to the next cab. I bowed to them for their services to ladyhood and took the hansom to Baker Street.

  Mrs Hudson led me up the stairs and opened the door to Holmes’s rooms. Two men were occupying both armchairs. One was Holmes, who started coughing clouds of pipe smoke the moment I entered. The man next to him was moustached and stocky. He wore a wedding band that looked new. Both had their feet on the coffee table as I entered; they were comfortable together, good friends. I gathered this was Watson. I took off my hat, stepped closer, and offered him my hand.

  ‘Dr Watson, I presume?’

  He nodded and squeezed my fingers lightly.

  ‘Yes.’ He coughed and gazed over my shoulder, as though he expected another visitor.

  ‘I am Anna Kronberg. It is a pleasure to meet you, Dr Watson.’ It was difficult to remain calm. Obviously, he had expected the male version of me. I wondered how I would wriggle out of this situation.

  With a twitch of his arm, Watson offered me his chair.

  ‘Thank you, I was on my feet the whole day.’ I sat down. The coffee table would have done it, too, but my dress didn’t allow such frivolous seating arrangement.

  ‘My dear Watson, would you give us a few minutes of privacy, please?’ Holmes asked kindly.

  ‘But of course,’ replied Watson and retreated into the bedroom at once.

  ‘I am truly sorry,’ said Holmes quietly. ‘My friend was in the area and paid me a surprise visit. I told him whom I was expecting tonight and he was positively surprised and very much looking forward to meeting you in person. Naturally, I invited him to stay. I couldn’t know you would come without your usual disguise.’

  ‘I tricked myself,’ I noted dryly.

  ‘If I can make a recommendation,’ he said, ‘don’t lie to him. He is suspecting it since you introduced yourself and will have put two and two together by now. I can promise you that he will not give you away. I would entrust Watson with my life, if necessary.’

  Holmes’s assuring smile only intensified my feeling of being trapped. ‘With how many of your friends did you plan to share my secret, Mr Holmes?’ I asked coldly.

  His eyes narrowed and he replied in the same chilly tone, ‘I had not planned to share your secret with anyone. Although, I must admit, it was a mistake to assume you would, for your own sake, maintain the male masquerade and not risk your career out of pure vanity.’

  I shot up from my seat. ‘Mr Holmes, I beg you to control yourself! My lifestyle is nothing I ever wish to discuss with you. I used to live quite safely before I met you.’

  His gaze softened a fraction. ‘You are free to go.’

  ‘You know perfectly well that it is too late for that already.’ Huffing, I sank back into the armchair and rubbed my brow. ‘Dr Watson will surely be shocked.’

  Holmes’s mouth twitched.

  ‘Wonderful!’ I said, trying to disguise the queasy feeling in my stomach.

  At that, Holmes gave a single nod and shouted, ‘Watson, you may come back in.’

  Watson emerged and Holmes said, ‘My dear friend, this is Dr Kronberg.’

  The man was obviously shaken. He merely nodded, then sat down on the coffee table, as there was only that or the floor to sit upon and he needed something to support his buttocks momentarily.

  ‘You really mean to say that… That this…’ He was looking at Holmes now. ‘You are,’ he looked back at me, ‘Dr Anton Kronberg from Guy’s? I mean, I kind of thought so as you entered. But…’ He shook his head and stared at me, then back at his friend.

  ‘Have you ever met Dr Kronberg, Watson?’

  ‘Er… In fact, I went to one of his talks on the works of Dr Snow. I mean, one of…her…her talks.’

  The poor man seemed completely dumbfounded and I began to feel sorry for him.

  ‘Ah! Watson, my friend.’ Holmes leaned over to clap his friend on the shoulder. ‘Even a man like me came to accept that there are indeed women with a sharp mind. Although quite rare specimens, one cannot help but run into them once or twice.’

  Coughing, I held on to my forehead while Watson shot a wild glance at the mantelpiece. Noticing the missing picture, he said sheepishly, ‘You took it away. I thought you were fond of her.’

  Holmes ignored Watson’s remark and I decided to swallow my surprise or any comments on that matter. Instead, I held out the package to Holmes. ‘I wonder whether you can tell me anything about the man who wore these.’

  Holmes took the bundle from my hands and laid it on his knees, undid the knot, and opened the paper wrapping. He gazed down at the pile of severed clothes and worn boots, then studied the soles.

  ‘Mr Big Boots,’ he noted. ‘You dissected him today?’

  ‘Yes. He had been found by the porter of Guy’s. The man reported that he heard the whinnying of a horse and the crack of a whip just before he heard the gasps of the man he then found just outside the gate. Together with a colleague, he carried him into my ward. Unfortunately, the man died within minutes. At first, I was unaware that he was Big Boots. I used him as the study subject for a lesson today. We found that he had no entry wound for tetanus and I remembered the man from Hampton, so I checked for restraint marks or needle punctures, but found none. But even if he had been restrained or injected, the marks would have healed during the course of a whole week.’

  ‘But you found something that brought you here, together with the shoes.’

  ‘Yes, I did, indeed. If he had eaten an animal with tetanus, he should have had the infection somewhere in his gastrointestinal tract, but there was nothing of that kind. I thought of strychnine next, until I finally found the tetanus infection. Hold on to your armchair, Mr Holmes,’ I said. He merely raised an eyebrow. ‘It was in his heart.’

  ‘In his heart!’ he cried. ‘How could it have got there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I sighed and rubbed my eyes while uncomfortable thoughts started creeping into my head.

  ‘What is it?’ Holmes enquired while Watson was silently listening and digesting the fact that I was not only a female medical doctor, but a well-known one on top of it.

  ‘The man from Hampton hadn’t had any infection in his guts, either,’ I explained quietly. ‘Well, aside from cholera. But no tetanus infection. Neither of the two men seemed to have ingested tetanus germs. For the toxins alone to be lethal, one would have to eat quite a lot of diseased animal — the size of a human, to equal the amount of a lethal dose, I’d guess.’

  ‘You did not section the left hemisphere of the Hampton man’s brain,’ noted Holmes.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is there a way to obtain the hemisphere?’

  ‘Sadly not. Cholera fatalities are burned as soon as possible. The man is ash, Mr Holmes. I am very sorry.’

  The man next to me stirred. ‘Would someone be so forthcoming as to explain why Dr Kronberg is a woman and why the two of you are investigating a case where, quite obviously, a crime has not been committed?’

  I couldn’t help but think of the body-snatcher business many years ago. Anatomical research needed bodies for dissections, but only hanged murderers were delivered to medical schools. The result was that these corpses were reused so often that their remains looked more than just tattered. But where there is demand and money to pay for such services, someone will make an offer. Body-snatchers soon figured out that freshly buried people could be dug up in the dead of the night and sold to medical schools. Very soon, however, these few cadavers of mostly old or diseased people did not suffice…

  Body snatcher, 1829 (13)

  Holmes and Watson fell quiet. Their silence interrupted my train of thoughts. Both were gazing expectantly at me and I wondered whether I had missed a question.

  ‘Watson and I were just discussing the curious incident of the non-existent entry wounds. Watson believes it must be an airborne version of tetanus.’

  ‘Hmm… That could be a possibility, if tetanus germs weren’t strictly anaerobic. They peg out when they get a whiff of fresh air.’

  Watson coughed. ‘Well, then someone must have injected it, but that is impossible!’

  ‘Why do you think so?’ asked Holmes.

  ‘Because no one could possibly do such a horrid thing!’

  I rose to my feet, faced both men, and spoke quietly. ‘How do you think we learned so much about anatomy in such a short time? History is repeating itself, Dr Watson. Our species has always exploited the weak, be it actively or by ignorance. When anatomists wanted fresh bodies, it didn’t take long until they got them. How anyone could have believed their claim not to have known these were murder victims they procured is a mystery to me. Several medical doctors even placed orders — pregnant women, children, newborns, and malformed people. And they got these delivered as well.’

  The thought of the homeless not daring to fall asleep on the streets drove a chill up my spine. The danger was ever-present; someone could suffocate them and cart them off to the next anatomical school. The two men were quietly listening — Watson had his shoulders drawn up, as though to cover his ears, and Holmes clicked the mouthpiece of his pipe against his front teeth.

  I continued. ‘In a single year, Burke and Hare killed seventeen people in Edinburgh alone and sold all their corpses to Dr Robert Knox, who convinced the authorities that he’d had no idea they had been murdered. How can an anatomist not know that he is dissecting a murder victim?’ I cried. ‘After the trial against Burke and Hare, the Anatomical Act was passed. It gave free licence to medical doctors to use donated bodies for dissections. Tell me, Dr Watson, who would donate a loved and deceased child, mother, or husband?’

  The execution of William Burke, 1829 (14)

  His face paled. He didn’t reply, so I answered for him. ‘No one but the poorest, to feed their children, or themselves. Don’t you think the government knew what was going on? Don’t you think they turned a blind eye? Don’t you think they passed the Anatomical Act to make the butchering of paupers legal? Do you really believe that no one would inject a deadly disease into a pauper to test a cure for that very same disease? One worthless life — isn’t that an acceptable price to pay for the good of mankind? Mankind, Dr Watson!’

  Watson gulped. I turned to Holmes and changed the topic. ‘What do we do next?’

  ‘We?’ ge replied, slightly shocked. ‘You won’t do anything, and I will do some thinking.’ With that, he lit his pipe again and leant back in his armchair. After a moment, Watson and I realised that we had been dismissed.

  ‘It was very nice to meet you, Dr Watson,’ I said down at the street, when both of us were about to part.

  ‘It was, er…interesting, Dr Kronberg, to say the least. May I ask you something?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Has your secret ever been discovered?’

  ‘Yes, by Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Of course, but I meant by anyone else?’

  ‘No. People usually believe what they see.’

  He met my eyes for a short moment; it was the first time. Throughout the evening, he had avoided looking directly into my face.

  ‘I have the impression that I make you feel uncomfortable, Dr Watson. Should I have offended you, I am very sorry.’

  It took him a moment to answer, but it was something that seemed to upset him greatly. ‘He has taken an interest in you!’ He choked the words out, as if the unspeakable had taken hostage of his mouth, forced his teeth apart to slip through his lips and escape his control. He regretted it instantly.

  ‘Please do not worry yourself, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes’s interest is that of a scientist in his study subject,’ I said as calmly as I could.

  — seven —

  The hansom dropped me off half a mile from home and I walked the rest of the way. Given my expensive clothing, this was a bit reckless, despite the fact that most people here knew me.