The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) (5 page)

‘The Black Death? You are out of your mind!’

‘You can choose to abandon our agreement at any time,’ he said coldly.

‘The wolf does not make an agreement with the rabbit, Professor. A predator may play with its prey. But ultimately, prey always ends up the same way.’

‘It is a pity you see it that way, Dr Kronberg.’

‘How else could anyone see it? Even if you would not treat me the way you do, if we were to grow bubonic plague germs we could unintentionally wipe out the whole of London.’

Without reply, he turned and walked away.

‘I know nothing about warfare,’ I continued after having caught up with him, ‘but I assume that whatever weapon you hold in your hand should be controllable. At least to some degree.’

‘And you claim to be unable to control the Plague? Well, maybe I erred,’ he muttered. ‘I will find one of your students. Someone should be willing to do what I ask.’

‘You can choose to walk through life and pay people for the opinion you want to hear. Truth exists nonetheless.’

‘Interesting theory,’ he answered, now walking faster.
 

He started hunching a little, with his left shoulder pulled up more than his right. When we had supper together, he had held the fork in his right hand. His handwriting also looked as though he were right handed, but I had seen him using his left hand for most other tasks. He must have been born left-handed and I wondered whether little James Moriarty had complied quietly, or whether they had to break the boy to make him behave “normally”.
 

I scrunched along the walkway and did not see it coming. Moriarty wheeled around. His pupils were pinpricks, and spittle sprayed onto my cheeks as he hissed, ‘Be very careful. Your choice of words may one day cost you your life.’

He turned and walked stiffly back towards the house. I noticed how much more crooked he suddenly appeared.
 

Walking up the stairs towards the entrance, I considered what I had witnessed. He was controlling and possessive; I had learned that two days ago. Curiously, though, a sign of opposition appeared to cause his muscles to clench, as though his mind were bending his body. Wondering whether I had found his weak spot already, I stepped into the house.

‘Come here!’ his voice shot through the hall. I saw him walk through a door opposite the dining room, and I followed. It was large, its walls covered with bookshelves. The massive desk bore piles of books and papers. He sat down, rubbing his neck, blinking often. I wondered how severe his headache was. He did not invite me to sit, so I remained standing, feeling the rage ooze off him like a rabid dog’s saliva.

‘Is it not true that the Black Death would be the most dangerous weapon to hold in one’s hand?’ he asked, his half-closed eyes directed at the desk.

‘Yes.’

‘So why do you think you know better? Or is it that women are generally incapable of murder? The weak sex? The ones who faint when an inappropriate word is uttered?’

‘Interesting. You seem to know nothing about me after all,’ I replied.

A moment of harsh silence later, I continued. ‘In the 14th century, the Tartars catapulted thousands of corpses — their own soldiers — over the walls of Caffa. The bodies carried the bubonic plague. Imagine mountains of plague-infested flesh enclosed by a city wall, Professor. It was the stench of rotting cadavers and the fear of the disease that drove the people out of Caffa. They took the Black Death with them; onto trading routes and into Mediterranean ports. This is the first historical account of using the bubonic plague as a weapon, and it resulted in the greatest health disaster in the history of mankind. Twenty-five million victims. Half the European population.’

The Black Death, Europe, 14
^th
century. (2)

Silence fell yet again. The tension was sharply visible, straining the space between him and me and driving itself into the flesh between his shoulders.

‘You chose me because I am a skilled bacteriologist and a thinking one,’ I added quietly. ‘Developing germ warfare is a creative process. You don’t want a soldier-type who indiscriminately does what you command. You want a scientist who has her own mind and uses it continuously.’ He did not move, but his rage and resistance seemed to dampen a little. ‘I need access to a library, to study historical accounts of germ warfare. I haven’t been reading any scientific publications for several months now. There must be an alternative.’

Irritated, he jerked his chin down and waved me away.

I exited to find Durham waiting in the hall. He led me to my chamber, where, exhausted, I undressed and got ready for the night. I took my pillow and blanket and sat next to the door with the glass to my ear and my eyes shut. For a long time I heard nothing. The glass sank into my lap as I drifted off to sleep.

Footfall awoke me. I glanced at the clock — past midnight. Just like the night before, Durham locked my door and Moriarty went into the room next to mine. Weary, I rose and listened at the wall to his room.
 

The rustle of him undressing, the clonk of his watch on the dresser, followed by a female, ‘Oh!’

The bed creaked and I heard him grunt. My ear felt as though it wanted to rot off my head, but I kept listening. I needed to know whether the woman was there of her own free will, but she made no other sound. Then, I heard him climax and pushed myself away to sit by the door again.

Not long afterwards, the door to the room next to mine closed with a snap. Moriarty reached my room. Two black shadows cut through the sheet of light underneath the door. I felt as though I were drowning. After a too-long moment he finally left. I sprang to my feet, opened the window and sucked in the cold night air.
 

The moon gazed down upon me.
La Luna
. I’d always liked that name more than
The Moon
, or
Der Mond
.
 

My thoughts drifted back to the Sussex Downs, to the day I had remembered my true calling. All because little Peter had needed help hatching from his mother’s womb. Soothing my mind were the images of softly rolling hills and a sunset that appeared, that evening, to be so much more beautiful than ever before. My hands had seemed different, then. I had realised they weren’t the hands of a farmer, but of a woman who practised medicine. When the sun had dipped into the horizon, wisps of clouds were splashed with orange, pink, and violent purple just before the sky darkened. The stars had begun to pinprick the black velvet cloth that stretched above me. And just like every night in the Downs, my thoughts had wandered to the man I loved, and still did.

— day 3 —
 

T
he maid clacked up the stairwell. Hastily, I collected my blanket and pillow and rushed to bed, pretending to sleep.

The sliding of a bolt, a quiet knock, footsteps approaching my bed. I wondered if she ever questioned the bolt. Would she find it perfectly normal that I was locked into my room? Perhaps, if the woman next door was imprisoned, too.

 
I opened my eyes and we exchanged pleasantries. She left me a jug of warm water and announced that my new clothing had been delivered.
 

‘Miss Gooding, last night I thought I heard a woman cry in the room next to mine.’ Her face snapped shut. ‘It might have been a bad dream,’ I added and saw her relax a little. Did she think Moriarty mounted me, too? The thought that he could expect that of me stopped my heart. I forced my gaze and thoughts out the window.

Miss Gooding left without a word. Her knees crackled a little as she curtsied.
 

She returned with a pile of clothes, placed them on my bed, and invited me to inspect. I noticed the quizzical look she tried to hide.

There were silk and wool walking dresses, wool skirts, lightly laced cotton and silk shirts, and a collection of undergarments and accessories. The pants, shirts, a coat, and cravats must have caused the confusion.

At the bottom of the pile I found a cloak. I knew very little about fashion, but this one must have cost a fortune — it was made of finest black wool, richly trimmed with silvery fur I could not identify. It looked like fox, but I had never seen one in that shade of grey. Was it Moriarty’s wish to turn me into a lady? How ridiculous! Obviously, he wanted me to masquerade as a male medical doctor during the daytime and be a decorative female in the evening. I shot a glance at Gooding, wondering whether she shared his bed, too. If so, she probably believed he loved her.

I dismissed her and picked a dress, feeling very revolutionary. I had lived as a man for so many years among a then exclusively-male medical establishment. However, women were now allowed to enrol at British universities. That suited me well, because there was no urgent need to hide my sex any longer. But most importantly, I could visit the lady’s lavatories at the medical school without my assistant’s company. That gave me the much needed space for planning an escape. I did wonder, though, how many female medical doctors had found employment at the London Medical School. Possibly none except myself.

After a too-rich breakfast and a surprising lack of comments on my female outfit, the manservant led me to the waiting brougham. The driver greeted us with a nod, his face hidden behind his cloak’s collar. A stiff wind fingered my ankles and blew cold drizzle down my neck. With a shiver, I climbed into the carriage and Durham shut the door.

Kensington Gardens, 1890s. (3)

How curious! No one had blindfolded me or permanently darkened the brougham’s windows. As we left the premises, I understood why — the house I had seen from my window now came into full view: the All Saints Church of Kensington Palace. It was famous enough; I should have recognised it. Moriarty had his home in the most expensive street of the British Empire — Kensington Palace Gardens. I thought of Garret, then, wondering whether he had ever dreamed of burgling this area. I closed my eyes and leaned back, losing myself in memories of my former lover with his flaming orange hair, his rough hands and gentle lovemaking.

We arrived at London Medical School after a two-mile ride. The driver jumped off and opened the door, offering a helping hand. I took it and gazed up at him. His muffler was pulled up over his mouth, his brown eyes were slightly bloodshot. Black hair stuck out from underneath a wool hat that hid his brow. All I could see was a strip of face that was mostly hair, eyes, and nose.