The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) (16 page)

Inside his trouser pockets, Moriarty’s hands compressed into fists. Holmes had told me about two men keeping me under surveillance. One of them had even entered the lady’s disguised as a charwoman. This had surprised me greatly, for I had not noticed a trace of either.

‘Don’t worry,’ I continued. ‘Whomever you entertain with keeping an eye on me, the only one I noticed was Goff. But Mr Goff’s dullness leads me to suspect you have someone else.’

‘You have met Mr Holmes three times now?’ His voice was restrained and despite an initial reflex to calm him quickly, I waited and watched the various shades of rage flitting across his face.

‘No, I only met him today. He told me he had been watching me and had visited the medical school twice before. He meant to install a hiding place for messages somewhere under the tiles of the ladies’.’

Slowly, his face regained its normal colouring. ‘Interesting development,’ he rasped. I rubbed the goosebumps off my arms and saw him catching the gesture.

‘I have seen this reaction on several occasions,’ he commented. ‘Why do you do this?’

‘Sometimes, your voice gets under my skin,’ I answered, avoiding his eyes, intending to appear a bit more vulnerable just to shake it off with anger a moment later. ‘What does it matter?’

He narrowed his eyes and slowly turned away. I caught the fast pulse tapping away in his throat. What a twisted endeavour — to remain sharp and provocative while revealing more and more of my softer side, as though presenting him with an exclusive gift. Walking the knife’s edge left a feeling of exhilaration in every fibre. But I had to be careful not to sever myself.

He strode to the cupboard where the brandy was kept, poured two glasses and carried them to the coffee table. The liquid did not quiver in the glasses. He was calm. I could not decide whether his being so was good or dangerous.

‘Sit,’ he said, extracting two cigarettes from the silver case. His gaze was scrutinising, but also seemed new, as though we were nearing eye level for the first time. This, I could not place either. Did he believe me to be as cunning as himself, or did he actually believe my charade?

‘I do not find this easy, so please bear with me while I try to explain myself,’ I said before filtering air through the cigarette, pulling it into my lungs and letting it take the edge off me. ‘You are on the one side. You who abducted my father and threatens his life. Then here am I, who would have willingly worked for you without the blackmailing and imprisoning. Naturally, I hate you quite ferociously.’
 

He smiled and inclined his head.
 

‘Then there is Holmes, who rejected the love I offered him. For that, I condemn him. But surely not enough to sell his life to you. I don’t think I could ever hate a man so much as to sell his life to another. With one exception, of course:
you
.’

I held his gaze. He appeared rigid. ‘Pray, proceed,’ he demanded.

‘I can see only one solution: I must sell Holmes’s life to save my father’s.’

With a disdainful snort he replied, ‘You have nothing to offer, my dear. I can have Holmes’s life whenever I decide to take it.’

‘I see. The first four attempts were merely exercises; the fifth time will be a true effort?’
 

Unfortunately, Holmes hadn’t had the patience nor time to give me details of the attempted assassinations.

Moriarty’s hands contracted; he looked as though he wanted to leap from his armchair. Then he settled back again, feigning indifference. The whole change of appearance had taken less than a second.

‘Simply explain how you plan to wrap me around your finger, if you please.’

‘The foreign secretary Mr Richard Seymour-Townsend, his wife, and their two children should take a long vacation soon. Preferably in America where her parents live. I assume his mistresses won’t need to go into hiding when Holmes reveals the exchange of considerable amounts of money and sensitive information between Mr Seymour-Townsend and you.’

Moriarty’s eyes stared into the empty space between us as he reached for his brandy.

‘It appears, Mr Holmes enjoys solving crimes with me. He cannot imagine that a woman’s pride might be hurt by first rejecting her advances only to ask her for help a year later. My offer to you is as follows: I share every bit of information Holmes shares with me. That allows you to save your men. Or at least the ones you choose to save. But before I begin playing this game, you let my father go and abstain from controlling my every move. Christmas is in four days and I wish to spend it with him before he travels back to Germany.’

He turned his glass in his hand, observing the movement of the brandy within. ‘I cannot trust you,’ he finally said.

I shot up from my chair and took three quick strides towards him. ‘I am serving you Holmes on a silver platter and I have stayed in your house by my own will for almost two months now!’

He threw his head back and barked a laugh. Drops of spilled brandy soaked into his trousers. ‘My apologies, but that is preposterous!’

‘You believe I cannot escape from here?’

‘I don’t
believe
. I know.’

‘All I’ll need is half an hour,’ I replied. ‘Will you let my father return home if I can pass your dogs unscathed?

‘Accepted.’

I dashed past him and up the stairs to my room, pulled the bell rope and waited for the maid. She arrived two minutes later.

‘Cecile, I need to wash. Make haste and don’t bother to warm the water. The essential part is that I need your soap. Please hurry.’

She curtsied and left. I kicked off my boots, pulled off the stockings, unbuttoned my dress and was stark naked when she returned. She froze at my approach and jumped as I snatched the water jug and soap from her hands.

Quickly, I scrubbed my body, washed my hair, and dressed in the male clothing Moriarty had arranged for me, but which I had never worn before. Then I ran back down into the study.

‘Well?’ He said, slightly amused.

‘Eight minutes left, ‘ I noted with a glance to the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Will you accompany me to the door or do you prefer to watch from the window?’

He smiled and walked me through the entrance hall.

‘Do you want me to go up to the gate and climb over it, or is it enough to survive your dogs?’

‘Try to reach the gate.’

‘Very well.’ I took two steps forward. ‘My apologies’ I said, running both my hands through his hair before he could take a step back. Not waiting for his surprise to subside and his rage to regain control, I strode through the front door.

With a racing heart, I stepped outside into the ice cold wind and ran about twenty yards away from the house. Then I turned. Moriarty stood in the doorway, a revolver in his hand. He probably kept one in his study, having got it so swiftly. The question was whether he would use it to shoot the dogs and save his bacteriologist, or to shoot me and save his face.

The dogs must have heard me and came running. I gasped, suddenly doubting my sanity, but forced myself to stay put, breathe slowly and uncurl my fists. Feeling the wind gushing around the house, hitting me from behind, I noticed the animals’ confusion. They could probably smell a trace of what they were trained to kill, and intermingled with this scent was that of their master, which I wore on my palms. They came to a halt a yard away from me. Only the largest of them dared to get closer. It showed me its teeth. With its tail down, ears folded, hackles raised, and throat growling, the dog showed its anger and insecurity.
 

I took a step forward and growled back. Moriarty made no noise and I wondered whether he was shocked by the flaw in his security. The animal sensed my slight distraction and jumped forward. I shouted at the top of my lungs and aimed a kick at its chest. With a yelp and tail hugging its belly, the dog retreated.
 

With all my instincts revolting, I turned my gaze and body away from the pack and waited. Moriarty stood on top of the marble stairs. The electric light behind him made it impossible for me to see his expression, but the tension in his shoulders was obvious. Then, one wet muzzle pressed against my knuckles, and a little later, the other three. I ran my hand along the sides of their heads and talked softly, turned away to stroll to the gate and back again, all the while trying not to agitate the animals with hasty movements.

When I passed Moriarty, I knew I had won.

— day 62 —
 

T
he morning came on tiptoe. Clouds, fog, drizzle, and wet ground melted into one, drifting from the dark grey of the night into a lighter grey of the day. My heart ached — soon, my father would be free. Or so I hoped.

Just before lunch time, the brougham stopped at the stairs to the house. My father stepped out, slightly hunched, eyes squinting, hands gripping the door of the carriage as though his legs could barely support him. His hair was greyer now and his once broad shoulders appeared bony. The old carpenter had aged and was but a shadow of himself. It broke my heart.

Rushing towards him, I feared he would be sick beyond cure, concerned he would hate me for what I was doing, and afraid that my plan for getting him safely back to Germany would fail.

He smiled at me, and I could see that it took him some effort. He saw right through me. He always had.
 

Moriarty received us in the hall, his arms folded across his chest, upper lip curled slightly. This was probably a tad too much drama for him.

‘I want to talk to my daughter,’ shot out of my father’s mouth right into Moriarty’s face. I was about to translate when he answered in broken German, ‘Certainly. After lunch.’

I was shocked. Moriarty was giving away a secret he could have used against me, and he did so lightly.

Lunch was served and my father ate as though he hadn’t eaten for days. I felt the urge to shield him from Moriarty, who observed the two of us like a cat watching the birds. None of us spoke. But what could be said between the abductor and his victims? No apologies or explanations could change what either of us was feeling.

As soon as we were finished, I took my father up to my room so that he might rest a little. He lay down on my bed, huffed, and closed his eyes while I placed my hand on his sallow cheeks.

‘Thank God,’ I whispered.

He snorted in reply. I had never thanked God before.

‘Do you know where they kept you?’ I asked.

He shook his head and coughed. ‘One night, a man came into my house, ordering me to drink what he held in his hand, saying you and I would both be shot if I did not obey his order.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘Blond, cold blue eyes, hard face. Soldier-like and a murderer, I am certain. The distance and lack of anything warm or emotional, the calculation in his eyes, the flickering behind them. As though he floated above mankind. His accent… I think he came from Berlin.’

‘And then?’

‘I drank, lost consciousness, and woke up in a cellar.’

‘I am so sorry, I never…’ My throat closed and I leaned my face into the crook of his neck. The aroma of fresh wood shavings was missing.

‘Don’t you worry about me,’ he said, stroking my hair. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

Sitting next to him, I held his hand until he drifted off to sleep. I watched his expression relax and grow unguarded, his breath a ragged noise. The creases around his eyes, so typical for his way of laughing unrestrained, had got siblings between his eyebrows and under his mouth. Sorrow had marked him forever. I tried to smooth out the wrinkles with my fingertips, being careful not to wake him, thinking of my childhood and how precious it had been, thanks to him.

What kind of woman would I be if he had been like any other father? His notion of not caring much for convention and social rules, his honesty and unreservedness had all made me what I was today. Ever since I had been able to walk and talk, I had a strong sense of justice and felt the urge to discuss everything with him. He had invested endless patience to inform this tiny person why God had made her short, why He had given her that squeaky voice, why she had to go to bed when she was tired, why she was growing so slowly, and why people spoke to her as though she were a child.