The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) (32 page)

‘Please, tell me your suspicion. I don’t feel able to think much at all,’ I urged.

‘Moran did not appear like a man whose best friend and employer had just died.’
 

‘He was dying as I left him…’ My mind raced around the last scene with James. Had he managed to retch up the poison? Could this be? Or could Moran have possibly pumped his stomach?’

‘How far from James’s house is Moran’s?’

‘Five minutes,’ he answered. ‘By foot.’

I closed my eye as the threat of failure and utter disaster came crushing down. ‘Holmes?’

An analytic glance. ‘Why the change from
Sherlock
to
Holmes
?’

‘It felt more appropriate,’ I said. That wasn’t even a lie. I had needed the distance.
 

He gazed down at my hand that he still held in his. I couldn’t bear it. ‘Watson is right; I need to wash.’

He pushed himself up and left the room only to return with a jug of water that he poured into the washbasin.

‘I can wash without Mrs Hudson’s help,’ I announced, pushing myself into a sitting position. My head spun and I felt sick.

Quietly, he left the room.

‘Please,’ I called after him. ‘Leave the door ajar.’

I heard him walk to the armchair, stuff his pipe and light it. The calmness he radiated felt like my float in the middle of a wild ocean.

I peeled off my dress and undergarments to wash off James together with the remaining poison. It took three changes of water to get the soot off. But no matter how much I scrubbed my skin, the feeling of being dirty would not subside. My breasts still felt sore and tight. I gazed down at my stomach. A week ago, it had still been quite flat. But now…

My chest heaved and my throat contracted, I felt unable to breathe and started sobbing, trying to hold it in and not let myself be heard.

‘Anna?’ asked Holmes from the other room.

‘Don’t come in!’ I slapped tears and snot from my face, dried myself with the towel, and pulled Holmes’s fresh shirt and underpants on, wrapped his dressing gown around myself and walked over to him to sit on the floor, close to the fireplace. I was trembling, and it wasn’t from the cold. Holmes walked to the window and cautiously peered down onto the street.

‘Hum.’

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘One of Moriarty’s footmen.’ Holmes looked at his pocket watch, then slid it back into his waistcoat. ‘He has been standing there for about ten minutes.’

‘Is he waiting for the artillery to come and take revenge?’

‘Possibly, but not very likely. He appears to observe only, and he certainly isn’t under much tension. If Moriarty were dead, the response would be much more than a mere look-out. The most likely explanation is that his master is forging new plans while he spies on us.’

Holmes turned to me and I could see his brain rattling. ‘Thank you,’ I said quietly.

‘For what?’

‘Anyone else would empty a bucket of pity over my head now, trying to make me believe I hadn’t failed, making me more miserable yet and even less able to function. You don’t, and this is the more respectful and considerate thing to do. Thank you.’

He raised his eyebrows, blinked the puzzlement away, and said, ‘I recommend we lay low tonight. Tomorrow morning I will initiate a chase through London to keep them busy. On Monday, all of Moriarty’s men will be arrested by the police, including Moriarty himself.’ Holmes rubbed his hands, eyes shining, limbs vibrating with anticipation.
 

I could not get the images of the poisoned James and Moran’s flying fist out of my head. They came in a constant repeat, making me blink every time the imaginary knuckles made contact with my aching eye.

Holmes pushed a glass of brandy into my hand when the bell rang. ‘Into the bedroom!’ he commanded, fetched his revolver from the coffee table and went down the flight of stairs, taking several steps at once. I ignored his safety measure and eavesdropped at the open door.

‘It is a little late for a visit, don’t you think, Mr Durham?’
 

My heart sank.

‘My master sends me to give this to you. Have a good night, Mr Holmes.’ The door fell into the frame and Holmes climbed the stairs, again taking several steps at once.

‘I think this might be for me,’ I said, stretching out my hand towards the letter he held. He passed it on with reluctance. I tore it open and almost fainted seeing James’s handwriting.

Mr Holmes,

I propose a challenge. The final destination will also be the price: the carpenter’s life. We will begin our game tomorrow morning. Any earlier movements at Baker Street 221B will result in a telegram being sent instead. Shall the better man win.

J.M.

‘He doesn’t say where to. He has an assassin waiting for his orders, but he isn’t telling us where.’ My hoarse voice was about to give in. Holmes took the letter gingerly, read it several times, then dropped it on the coffee table.

‘Three and a half months ago I went to Meiringen,’ he said. ‘Your father and his friend had taken to the road.’

‘So you did leave London as James wanted you to?’

He grunted in response. ‘This is where Moriarty has a clear advantage — he has as many men at his disposal as he needs, while I had only myself, Mycroft, Watson, and you. The trip to Switzerland had to be very short because I needed to be back in London only four days later. But it did indeed help with the charade. I had wished for more time, to be more thorough with my investigations into your father’s wellbeing. Do you happen to know when he planned to return to his home?’

‘No. I told him to hide for at least two months. He could be with Matthias still, or on the way back to Germany, or even back at home already.’

‘We can only hope Moriarty doesn’t know your father’s whereabouts, either. Hum…’

‘What is it?’

Unspeaking, Holmes retrieved his tobacco and lowered himself into the armchair. While stuffing his pipe, he paused every so often to stare into the void. Wrapped in smoke, the only noise that came from him was the occasional clicking of mouthpiece against teeth. I rested my head on my knees and closed my eye. The view of Holmes was replaced by images of Moran’s approaching fist and James’s face, the cramping of his abdomen, the froth on his lips.

Holmes clapped his hands and jumped from his chair. ‘To hell with it! What we need is an army.’ With that, he snatched his coat and was out the door.

— to the continent —
 

H
olmes, dressed as an Italian priest, and myself as a random young man, made our way through unlit alleys towards Piccadilly. A stranger followed us the first few blocks after we had left Baker Street, but we lost him soon enough. Our luggage waited to be picked up by Mycroft Holmes in two hours, and Watson would join us in three. I had neither run nor walked far during the past months and my chest ached as my lungs begged me to stop. My abdomen begun cramping and the thought of a miscarriage made my heart lighter — although the timing would be anything but perfect. Loving James’s offspring was impossible to imagine. I flicked the thought away and almost ran into Holmes, who had come to a halt at Oxford Street. We pressed into a dark corner. His gaze searched the street before he turned to me.

Piccadilly and the Green Park, London, 1896 (20)

‘We will cross casually,’ he said just before strolling off. I followed him at a few yards distance, hands in trouser pockets, strutting with my feet and knees slightly bent outward, as though I had large testicles. Holmes caught me at yet another dark corner. ‘You are overdoing it.’

‘No, I’m not. I look precisely like a young man who aims at impressing a pretty woman.’

‘There are no women on the street at the moment; not even the one-legged sweeper could be confused with one.’

‘Perhaps I was trying to impress myself,’ I retorted and pushed on. ‘Holmes, I need breakfast before we board the train.’

We found a public house after a short and brisk walk. A dingy place, and despite the early hour (or late for certain clientele) it was quite filled with an assortment of odd people. Holmes pushed me into a far corner and sat down so that he could observe the entire room while I had my back to it. It felt wrong, but I trusted him.

The porridge that was served smelled stale, but the bacon and eggs appeared edible. Holmes folded his hands, mumbled an Irish drinking song, and added a loud
Amen
at the end. The odours of food made my stomach roar like a lion. How odd, the child could not be half as large as my hand and yet it demanded all of what was on the table.

We did not speak. Holmes observed the room and all people within while I observed him. His hooded eyes were sharp. Once I thought he had seen someone or something suspicious, but upon my enquiring look, he shook his head slightly. Long after my food was eaten and the teapot about to be emptied, we still had one hour to catch the train.
 

I pointed to his breakfast. He didn’t react so I touched his arm and said, ‘It will be a long journey.’

His eyes made contact with mine. ‘Oh, certainly,’ he mumbled, pushed the plate towards me, and commenced scrutinising the room.

Hopeless, I thought, and ordered two cups of coffee for us.
 

Even as Holmes paid, his long antennae remained pointed in all directions.

‘We will run another mile now. Do you think you can manage it?’ he asked once outside.

‘I may not have moved much in captivity, Holmes, but I still have legs to run with.’

‘Very well,’ he said and off he went.

As agreed, we split up at Victoria station. He made his way to the front of the train to meet Watson while I went to the back, waiting for Mycroft Holmes. Soon enough, a large man appeared in coachman’s clothing, a muffler pulled up high into his face, almost met by the brim of his hat. He pushed past me into the train. I lingered a little longer, pretending to wait for someone, repeatedly checking my watch and tapping my foot. The train hooted, the conductor blew his whistle. I threw my hands up into the air, shook my head at the non-arrival of my imaginary friend, and climbed into the carriage.

Pushing past other passengers, I made for my seat with Mycroft already occupying the one next to it. He tipped his hat at me, then ignored me again. We waited until people had settled down and no one pushed past us anymore. Then, he pulled his muffler down and wiped the sweat off his brow.
 

‘I’m honoured to make your acquaintance,’ I whispered and reached out to him.

‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he replied, squeezing my hand lightly. ‘We will relocate to first class in a minute or two.’

I nodded, loosened my cravat, and dabbed a handkerchief at my moist forehead. Once we had both cooled down a little, we made for the front of the train. Soon, a compartment with drawn curtains came into view and Mycroft Holmes slid the door open without knocking.

‘And now the company is complete,’ announced Holmes. With that, everyone went back to looking grim.

‘Dr Watson?’ He turned to me, huffing a
yes?
through his moustache. ‘Could I talk to you in private?’

‘Certainly, my dear.’ He spoke like the physician speaks to his patient. Watson had a good sense for people’s needs, it appeared. I rose to my feet, but the Holmes brothers waved at me to sit down again while they left the compartment.

‘Dr Watson, I must ask for absolute secrecy.’ My expression caused his mouth to compress to a thin line.
 

‘Of course,’ he answered.

‘You cannot even talk to Holmes. I prefer to tell him my secrets myself and you can be assured that I will tell him. In time.’

Watson reached for my hand and pressed it. ‘You can trust me. What can I do for you?’

‘My first request is small. Do not mention me when you write about your friend.’

‘As you wish. I can certainly use a different name—’

‘No!’ I interrupted. ‘Do not even mention there was a woman or a bacteriologist acquainted with Mr Holmes. Not a single word about this case, I beg you, Dr Watson!’

Watson coughed at my rather intense speech, but finally nodded.