The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) (36 page)

May 1891

H
unger, exhaustion, and cold stiffened my every move. We had been walking for three days and our provisions were reduced to two handfuls of salted meat and a sliver of stale bread. A curtain of drizzle surrounded us. The dripping of water from above merged with the
squish-squish
of two pairs of feet — mine and the ones of the man walking a yard ahead of me. The broad rim of his hat drooped, feeding streams of rain down on his shoulders, one of which was still drooping. He had dislocated it while throwing my former husband off a cliff.

With my gaze attached to his calves, I placed one foot in front of the other, imagining him pulling me along on an invisible string, forward and ever forward. Without his pull, I wouldn’t go anywhere. My knees would simply buckle.

Holmes led the two of us with stoicism. His trousers were rolled up to his knees, the bare skin splattered with mud and his feet covered in it. He avoided the coast, with all its roads and people. We walked through the heath without cover from view and weather, then continued through moorlands without our boots on. Water had stood ankle high in our footwear. Sickly white feet emerged, toes wrinkled like dead raisins, heels raw from friction and wetness.

When the day drifted towards a darker grey, I saw him growing tired. The slight sway of his hips became stiffer and his gait lacked the usual spring. Within the hour, he steered us to a suitable place to set up the tent and protect our few dry belongings. One frigid night after the other — a series of dark and restless hours, all lacking a warming fire, all lacking enough food to fill our stomachs. There was nothing to be done about it.
 

‘Over there,’ he called, his hand waving towards a group of trees. I was hugging myself so hard now, I felt like a compacted piece of bone and skin. He took the rope from his bag and strung it low between two crooked firs, then flung the oilskin off my backpack and over the rope, securing it with rocks at its ends. While hunching over the rucksack to protect it from rain, I watched him, knowing precisely which move preceded the next, as though my eyes had seen it a hundred times and his hands had done it equally often. As soon as the oilskin was in place, I stepped underneath, pulled out another piece of oilskin and spread it out on the ground.

I extracted our blankets, anxiously probing for moisture with fingers so numb that they felt little but the needling cold. As exhausted as we were, wet blankets would bring pneumonia overnight. Brighton, the closest town large enough for a chemist and a physician, was a six-hour walk from here. No one would find us but foxes and ravens.

During our first day on the run, we had established a firm evening routine. One might call it effective. And it was indeed so. But I, for my part, didn’t care too much about how quickly we got out of the rain as long as I could shut off the world and the struggle. The peaceful minutes between closing my eyes and beginning to dream were all I looked forward to.

Within less than three minutes, we shed our soggy clothes, let the rain wash the stink and dirt off our skin, and hung shirts, trousers, skirt, and undergarments out into the rain, for they wouldn’t dry in our makeshift tent anyway. We squeezed the water out of our hair and dove under the blankets. Holmes opened my rucksack and extracted each one’s only set of dry clothes. We stuck our trembling limbs into our clothing and then clung to one another, sharing our blankets and the little heat that was left in our bodies.
 

While necessity demanded close proximity, we avoided each other’s eyes, as we avoided talking. Attached to Holmes, I felt like a foreign object with my flesh about to wilt off my bones. He had to spend an hour each evening attached to the woman who had bedded his arch enemy. How uncomfortable he must feel, I could only guess. But I tried not to.

Holmes shot his wiry arm out into the cold and retrieved the meat from his bag. He cut off a large slice and gave it to me, then cut off a smaller bit for himself. This was the only hint of chivalry I allowed. The day we had left our cottage, he had insisted on carrying my rucksack. I told him I’d have none of it and walked away. After that, we no longer discussed our differences in muscle power and durability. But I sensed his alertness, ready to run to the aid of the damsel in distress should the need arise. His chivalrous reflexes annoyed me greatly.

We chewed in silence, the food dampening the clatter of teeth. Gradually, warmth returned. First to my chest, then to my abdomen. As soon as the shivering subsided, we retreated into one’s own solitude of blanket wrapper. And only then did we dare talk.

‘How do you feel?’

I nodded, taking another bite. ‘Warm. Good. Thank you. How is your eye?’ I had seen him rubbing his right eye repeatedly.
 

‘Not worth mentioning.’ He gazed out into the rain, as though the weather might be worth conversing about. ‘We need to replenish our provisions,’ he said, and added softly, ‘We have two possible destinations to choose from, with one city large enough for a skilled surgeon.’

‘It’s too late. Choose what place you judge best for your needs.’

‘Too late?’ Again, that soft voice as though the words could break me.

‘Five months now. The child is as large as a hand. It cannot be extracted without killing the… mother.’

He lowered his head in acknowledgement. The topic needed no further discussion. ‘We have to talk about Moran.’

I didn’t want to talk about that man. All I wanted was Moran dead.

‘Tell me what you learned about him,’ he pressed.

‘I know nothing that you wouldn’t know.’

‘Anna!’ He made my name sound like a synonym for pigheadedness.

‘Damn it, Holmes. I tried avoiding that man whenever possible. All I can provide is what you already know: best heavy-game shot of the British Empire, free of moral baggage, in the possession of a silent air rifle, and very angry while out to avenge his best friend and employer, James Moriarty.’
 

I stuck my hand out into the rain where the oilskin collected the water into a thick stream, filled my cup, and washed the salty meat down my throat.

‘You lived in Moriarty’s house. I didn’t. It follows that you must know more about Moran than I.’

‘If he cannot find us, he’ll set up a trap. It was
you
who said that he once used a small child as tiger bait.’ I coughed and rubbed my tired eyes.

‘Precisely. Now, what trap would he arrange for us? I cannot use information of his behaviour in India ten years ago and extrapolate it to the near future. How does this man’s mind work? You
must
have observed something of importance!’

I pulled up my knees and tucked in my blanket, trying to keep the heat loss at a minimum. ‘Just like James Moriarty, Moran doesn’t have the slightest degree of decency. He made a fake attempt at raping me so James could stage a rescue. Perhaps they hoped I was naive enough to sympathise with James after he
saved
me from Moran. But whatever their true intentions, they enjoyed themselves, I’m certain.’

Coughing, I turned my back to Holmes and closed my eyes. Sleep would take me away in mere minutes. ‘Moran’s brain is exceptionally sharp when he is hunting,’ I added quietly.
 

‘Your cough is getting worse,’ he said.

‘I noticed.’

Listening to his breathing, I wiped the memories of Moran and James away, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they returned. As soon as the dreams woke me, I’d take the second watch.

Someone screamed. My eyes snapped open. Oilskin above my head. The gentle tapping of rain. A hunched figure next to me. I wasn’t in bed murdering James.

‘You can sleep now,’ I croaked and sat up. Tinted with fear, my voice was a stranger to me.

He settled down and rolled up in his blanket. ‘Wake me in two hours.’

I didn’t want to talk about James, nor did I seek consolation. Holmes had accepted my wishes with a nod and I was glad I never detected pity or disgust in his face. He could conceal his emotions well.

The sound of water rolling off leaves and cracking down onto our tent, along with Holmes’s calm breathing, were all I could hear. Nature’s quietude was a beautiful contrast to London’s bustle. It almost felt as though we were silent together, nature and I.

Holmes’s feet twitched a little. Only seconds later, his breathing deepened. I waited a few minutes, then struck a match. A dim golden light filled the tent, illuminating his face. It amazed me every time. He looked so different. The sharp features softened, his expression unguarded. I flicked the match in the wet grass, peered outside, and thought of the day I had kissed him. The memory was far away; violence and betrayal had bleached it to a dreamlike consistency.

A shy flutter — as though I had swallowed a butterfly and it now brushed its wings along the inside of my uterus. I put my hand there, trying to feel more than just the touch. Where was the love I was supposed to feel for the small being inside? For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to find the energy to keep fighting. Hadn’t I found solutions to the most impossible situations? Even the fact that women were prohibited from studying medicine hadn’t kept me from entering a university. Having been abducted by James Moriarty, a master in manipulating the human mind and will, hadn’t kept me from changing my fate and manipulating him in return. But giving birth to his child and raising it seemed a very high mountain to climb. Too high for me.

I listened to my own heartbeat. How fast was the child’s heart beating? Like a sparrow’s, perhaps?
 

Was this non-love based on my hate for its father? Or was I so egoistic and driven that I could not endure the life of a woman? Being the lesser man and unable to disguise my sex any longer, medicine and bacteriology were out of my reach. A single mother was hardly acceptable, but a widow and mother who refused to marry long after her mourning year was over wouldn’t stand in much higher esteem.

No medical school would take me as a lecturer. The only alternative for me was to open a practice. But who would choose to be treated by a woman if there were plenty of male practitioners? No one, certainly. But these were mere difficulties, easy to overcome with enough willpower and energy. Why could I not welcome this child? Was it truly so dreadful to be a mother? Until a few weeks ago, I had no reason to even think about it, for I had believed myself sterile. Mothers were the other women and I was something else entirely.
 

Gradually, the knowledge crept in and a chill followed suit. I was terrified of never being able to love my child, of not being the mother a newborn expects to have. All my accomplishments had been won by pretending and lying. I had pretended to be a male medical doctor, affected the wish to develop weapons for germ warfare, and faked love for James. I would never be able to feign love for my child, the only other person who would be able to see through my charade.

Holmes began to stir, coughed into his blanket, and cracked one eye open. ‘You did not wake me,’ he noted.

‘You said two hours.’

‘How long did I sleep?’

I shrugged. How would I know? His watch had produced its last tick yesterday when it fell in a puddle.
 

‘It stopped raining a while ago,’ I noted. ‘Sleep. I’m not tired.’ At that, my stomach gave a roar. He reached for the bag, but I stopped him. ‘At my rate of food intake, we’ll have nothing left by tomorrow morning.’

He looked at me and I wished I were far away. ‘I’ll hunt fowl,’ I said.

‘We cannot make a fire,’ he reminded me.

‘Humans must have eaten raw meat before they discovered what fire is good for.’ I pulled my crossbow and the bolts from the rucksack. It was an old and worm-eaten thing, once made for children to hunt rabbits and help provide meat for their family. I had found it hanging on the wall of my cottage, and its small size and lightness served me well.

I pushed the oilskin aside. Water dripped from the trees. The ground was muddy.

‘I will stay close and watch for any movements. This,’ I held up a bolt, ‘is as silent as Moran’s rifle. Go back to sleep.’

Holmes grunted, pulled his blanket tighter around his shoulders, and closed his eyes as I slipped out of the tent.

Find The Journey here

Extras (making-of, historical background, and more)

— credits —

All images and illustrations used in this book are in the public domain, except when stated otherwise. I have made every reasonable effort to locate, contact and acknowledge right holders, but I’m only human. Should you feel that I have infringed upon your rights or the rights of any third parties, or if images have not been properly identified or acknowledged, please contact me at:

www.anneliewendeberg.com

The raven at the beginning of each chapter is a drawing by the author. The scene break is from
The Last Drawing Room. A Novel,
by Alexander Fraser. London, 1886. Credit: The British Library.

— THE DEVIL’S GRIN —