The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) (6 page)

I thanked him and the wrinkles around his eyes suggested a smile. Then he turned and waved to a man across the street who had just started towards us.
 

‘Miss, may I introduce myself? Dylan Goff,’ the man said as he reached us, hand outstretched and expression quizzical. He threw a searching look into the carriage, then gazed at the driver. ‘Where is Dr Kronberg?’

‘I am right here.’

Goff’s eyes snapped back at me and he huffed indignantly. ‘I have no time for such childish games.’

‘Me neither. Would you be so forthcoming as to show me to my laboratory?’

Goff threw a glance at the coachman, who observed our exchange with some amusement. ‘You better do what she says, my friend,’ he said through his muffler.

Goff blinked twice, as though to wipe away the picture of a female medical doctor not fitting his reality. He pulled himself together soon enough, nodded, and bade me to follow. I turned to the driver. ‘Thank you Mister...’

‘Garrow,’ he offered, then flung himself back onto the brougham and flicked the horses. Steam rose where the whip had bit the animals’ skin.
 

Mr Goff started across the street, then turned and looked back at me with impatience. Weary, I gazed up at the five-storey building that contained nothing but dreadful memories. I knew I could expect many more to come.

Despite knowing our destination, I let Goff lead the way while I thought of adopting a behaviour suitable for upper-class women: to speak little and only if asked, to never show emotion, to pretend to faint once or twice a day, and to seek his company for safety’s sake. As though I were not able to think or decide for myself. As though I would not detect and use any slip in his guard to my advantage.

We reached the laboratory. It was clean and empty, safe for shelves and workbenches.

Goff spoke with determination. ‘I need to procure a rather large amount of equipment. Glassware, an incubator, Bunsen burners, an autoclave.’

I nodded, slightly amused. He did know he was my assistant? Or did he not? Was the simple fact that I was a woman and he a man enough for him to believe we could reverse the hierarchy?

‘I also need gelatin, at least ten pounds, mineral salts, beef broth, and swine blood once we prepare the media,’ he continued. ‘You are not writing this down?’ His gaze flicked towards me, a little annoyed. I smiled innocently, indicating that I had neither pen nor paper.

‘Professor Moriarty would like us to isolate the bubonic plague,’ he said.

‘I see.’ I put a hint of consideration into my voice. Goff seemed to have no idea where to place me. I decided to let him roast a little longer. Soon, uncertainty drove heat into his face.

‘Hum. I wonder how we can obtain the germs…’ He huffed, and I noticed that he had hoped I would answer his question. For a moment, I saw him sitting through an exam, eyes darting left and right, trying to catch a clue from his fellow students but never acknowledging them once they provided the much-needed help. What a twisted situation: I was supposed to be his superior in profession, but his inferior in sex, character, and intellect. The prospect of letting him clean up after me felt rather satisfying.

‘What, in your opinion, are we to do with bubonic plague germs, Mr Goff?’

The man froze. ‘We are not to talk about such details without the professor present.’
 

That meant he knew that whatever Moriarty was up to wasn’t purely charitable. ‘What is Professor Moriarty’s field?’ I asked.

‘Mathematics, but he is retired now.’

Why would he retire so early? I wondered. ‘Where did you study bacteriology, Mr Goff?’

‘Cambridge.’

‘An excellent school. How did you enter this employment?’

‘Erm…,’ he said, absentmindedly scribbling on a notepad and obviously producing the list he had wanted me to write. I did not move. He had his back to me and I used the moment to inspect the room. The place felt like as had a year ago. I almost expected to see remnants of cholera-contaminated faeces on the floor, and a heap of dirty blankets, a dying woman within.

As he turned, I looked at him expectantly.
 

‘I am not allowed to talk about it.’

Ah, what an interesting answer. The man was all enveloped in secrecy and seemed to love it. I wondered whether his ties to Moriarty went deeper than the mere connection of an assistant.

‘You have worked here before, I understand?’ Goff asked without looking at me.

‘Yes.’

‘I never heard of a female medical doctor working here. Or anywhere else in London, for that matter.’

‘Me neither.’

Exasperated, he turned towards me. How could he be so dense and believe that the Dr Kronberg sitting in front of him and the Dr Kronberg he read and heard about were two different people?

‘So how could you possibly be a medical doctor?’

‘I masqueraded as a man.’

His gaze flickered, as though he suspected something behind my facade. Then, it finally hit him.

‘
You
are Doctor
Anton
Kronberg?’

‘Yes,’ I said, taking off my hat and stroking any disorderly strands of hair back into place, sighed and placed my hands back in my lap. This little show seemed to be enough for Goff to relax into his previous superiority again. Inwardly, I smiled. Having Goff as an assistant was a gift. He would not see the truth even if I were to shove it up his nose. I would keep this charade up for a while, hoping that Goff would think me stupid or naive. Perhaps, he would accidentally slip information he otherwise would keep from me. Or he would give me a bit more space to manoeuvre, to plan my escape. It felt a bit as though I had to hide in two different shadows — plotting to get away without risking my father’s life.
 

After an hour of merely sitting and occasionally agreeing to Goff’s suggestions, I feigned boredom and asked whether he could show me to the library. I had some reading to do, in addition to the exploration of potential loopholes.

Moriarty was not at home when I returned. That postponed the inevitable confrontation over my choice of clothing. A female medical doctor might produce publicity if I were introduced as one. However, using my male disguise would probably make matters worse. Dr Anton Kronberg might get arrested by Scotland Yard for medical malpractice, murder, abduction, and hitting Sherlock Holmes over the head. The prospect was rather enticing.

Durham led me up to my room, where my supper was served minutes later. I ate without appetite, thinking of Goff and his list of equipment and reagents. He could have assembled it without my help. My sole role was to isolate and test deadly bacteria. My assistant was too young and inexperienced for such dangerous work, but he would surely learn from me and one day I would simply be replaced, rendering my father and myself disposable. I did not plan to stay that long, anyway.
 

Goff’s relationship to Moriarty made me curious. Had the two men known each other before my assistant’s employment? He seemed to have information Moriarty would not likely share with a simple footman. I would have to assume that the two talked regularly and that circumstance would soon make my charade of a submissive female rather dangerous. Moriarty would grow suspicious if he knew.
 

Perhaps I could disguise my charade and officially play Goff’s assistant? That would make my presence at the medical school more acceptable, and my submissiveness would also suit Moriarty’s purpose. On the other hand, Moriarty would warn Goff not to trust my fake tameness.
 

I rubbed my tired eyes, pushing one problem away to deal with the next. My head was still spinning with the scientific publications I had read in the library — mostly from the
Proceedings of the Royal Society of London
and
The Lancet,
as well as historic reports on germ warfare.
 

Germ warfare was far from being a new invention. On the contrary, mankind’s history of using disease as an offensive weapon was long and diverse. Emperor Barbarossa had poisoned water wells with human bodies in Italy. The Spanish mixed wine with the blood of leprosy patients to sell to their French foes, the Polish fired saliva from rabid dogs into the faces of their enemies, and the British distributed blankets from smallpox patients among American Indians. Napoleon flooded the plains around Mantua in Italy to enhance the spread of Malaria, and the Confederate army sold clothing from yellow fever and smallpox patients to Union troops in America. The list was long and there appeared to be no limits to our resourcefulness. Mankind had invented endless methodologies for murder. The almost parallel advancement of both science and weaponry indicated a dark future for countries that were too poor to afford such research. The thought of poisoning them all with a deadly disease might appear to be a good solution. At least for someone who hated mankind. Was hate Moriarty’s motivation?
 

I had my own ambivalence towards my fellow humans. Often, I felt far away from the mass of men, women, and children. Why was that? Was I arrogant? Did I believe I had a superior mind? I was not sure, not today and not here. Moriarty had tipped my balance. Or had he? Had it not started tipping long ago? After I met Holmes, my cool distance from people had changed. I had noticed that I was no longer standing with both feet on the ground. That I was not feeling well, as I had believed for years. Gradually, but inevitably, I wanted to be a woman. A woman who practised medicine without having to masquerade as a man. Not having to cut my hair, bandage my breasts, and wear a fake cock.

I rose and walked to the door, sat on my pillow and listened to movements in the house. The room was dark, save for the little light seeping through the gap beneath the door. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander back into the labyrinth of possibilities and impossibilities. With my father held hostage, my alternatives were few. In fact, I could see none. I kept running into walls, and no matter how often I turned, I collided with yet another barrier. But there must be cracks in the structure. I would have to steadily enlarge them until Moriarty’s fortress fell.

— day 10 —
 

‘T
he master wishes to see you,’ announced Durham as I sat down to take breakfast.
 

‘When?’

‘After you have eaten.’ He took his usual position next to the door, eyes directed at an imaginary spot above my head. He appeared vacant so long as I busied myself with my food. As soon as my gaze strayed across the tablecloth, his eyes darted towards mine, as though he wanted to chase my thoughts back into a dark cave. “Do not analyse!” his face seemed to tell me. I showed him a smile and he put his vacant mask back on. What a well-trained servant he was.

How odd that Moriarty wanted to speak with me only one day after the laboratory had been set up and Goff and I were prepared to isolate bacteria. This request was certainly not a coincidence. I wondered how and when he had exchanged information with my assistant. In my ten days of capture, I had not seen or heard a single guest in the house. Moriarty himself was out frequently, and I wished I could follow him to find out where he kept my father.
 

I gazed down at my breakfast, wondering whether my father had enough to eat. I squeezed my eyes shut, but images of the lovely old man being mistreated, starved, and chained were impossible to get rid of.

With a heavy sigh, I rose and walked to the study with Durham in my wake. The manservant closed the door behind me. Moriarty sat at his desk, poring over a pile of papers. He did not bother to look up as I walked to a chair and sat there, bolt upright, hands in my lap.

‘Good morning,’ he said, gathering up the paper and placing it into a drawer. ‘I would like you to assume anything could be possible.’ He looked up at me. ‘Controlling the spreading of the plague, for example. I want us to simply theorise about possibilities and how they can bring success.’ The low rasp of his voice contrasted each sharp “s,” as though the cat’s soft paw occasionally extended a claw to puncture my skin.

I inclined my head, signalling agreement, while knowing that I would not give it.