The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (17 page)

Soon, we reached Watson’s practice. Although it was well past midnight, the window was still lit. ‘Would you ask him whether he has finished his story on our last case?’ He turned towards me, his face hidden in the shadows.
 

‘Now?’

‘Yes, please. He needs to know about the danger he is in, and I need to remain officially and believably dead for a little while longer. He can keep secrets, but he’s not too good a liar. His report will be too cheerful should he write it knowing I’m alive.’

I nodded, approached Watson’s practice, and knocked on his door. It took him a while to open up. A cry of surprise shot from his mouth. A hopeful peek over my shoulder, and then his face collapsed, his shoulders followed. I squeezed them both and pushed us inside.

‘My apologies,’ he said, straightening his cravat. Then he took my hand in his and said, ‘Thank God you are alive!’

I smiled at him and asked, ‘Dr Watson, did you finish your report on your last case with Holmes?’ What a most unusual question under the given circumstances and at that time of the night.

He cleared his throat and turned away from me. ‘Do you wish to read it?’ A painful croak.

‘Is it finished?’

‘Yes, for days.’

‘Splendid!’ I clapped my hands together. Watson turned around, his face ashen. ‘My apologies, Dr Watson. I might appear heartless. But you will understand in a minute. May I ask you to sit down?’

‘I’d rather remain standing. Say what you must, Dr Kronberg. But then I must ask you to leave. I’m quite… busy.’

‘My dear Dr Watson.’ I stepped up to him. ‘Sit, please.’

All that happened was a broadening of the man’s chest and a strengthening of his resolution.

‘Very well, then. If you would excuse me for a moment?’ I didn’t wait for his consent, opened the door, and stepped outside.

A slender shadow broke away from the blackness lining the houses on the other side of the street and moved towards me. The moment his best friend’s face showed in the doorframe, Watson fell where he stood. We rushed to his side, seeing to his well-being and recovery. A drop of brandy between the moustached lips and life quivered back to his pale cheeks. Bleary eyes cracked open and darted from my face to Sherlock’s.

‘Holmes! Is it really you?’

‘I leave you two alone now,’ I said. ‘I share a room with Barry and Garret just across the street. Number fifty-five.’

Sherlock tipped his chin. ‘I will call tomorrow morning.’

— fifteen —

S
herlock chewed his toast, his face hidden behind a most hilarious moustache, his energy sparkling through the dining hall, unnoticed by all other hotel guests. They muttered quietly, clinking silverware against china, eyes still bleary from the previous night’s entertainments.

His invitation for breakfast had arrived early in the morning when Garret was still sleeping and Barry prowled the neighbourhood with his dog. My stomach yowled as I sat down. A plate with fresh toast appeared from nowhere, a gloved hand attached, all with a neatly folded white kerchief, sharply pressed black jacket, and underneath a pair of polished black shoes that clacked as the waiter disappeared.

Sherlock poured me tea while I tried to staunch the hunger.

‘How is Watson?’ I asked.

‘The good chap recovered quickly. I dare say he suffered from a nervous twitch in his right arm.’

‘He punched you?’ My toast was forgotten for a moment.

He lifted his chin for me to inspect.
 

I squinted and detected the faintest bruise. ‘He must have been quite dazed, judging from the little damage he caused. And this was a straight punch.’ I pointed to the tip of his chin, or rather, moved my fist in that direction. ‘I can imagine that a swing gains more speed, hence, would result in a stronger impact and would have hit the side of your face.’ I paused for a moment, puzzled. ‘You allowed it?’

‘He deserved revenge. More toast?’
 

My plate was empty, so he offered what was on his side of the table. I reached out and stole his eggs and ham. ‘Thank you. Why do you want people to believe you are dead?’

‘Call it a holiday.’ He leaned back, brushing breadcrumbs off his lapel. ‘There are several things I’d like to do without anyone suspecting my being behind these actions. Only Moran has seen me survive. The few other men he told about it will only believe him as long as he’s trustworthy. I should think they’ll doubt his judgment soon enough. Watson has completed the final draft of his latest story. I read it. It’ll have a heartbreaking effect on the public. He’ll publish it as soon as possible. The news will spread like fire.’ The corners of his mouth twitched, eyes twinkled. ‘So, before I continue, tell me why you’ve already packed.’

I wondered how he knew, but decided to show nothing of my surprise and curiosity. I leaned back and observed him. The shine of expectation darkened; then he seemed to ready himself for verbal combat.
 

I yawned. ‘I plan to buy a small farm in Dymchurch and take my friends to a safe place. I saw an advertisement in the papers and sent Barry to inspect it. He says it’s pretty. I wired the owners to let them know that Garret will arrive with the money today at noon.’

Barry hadn’t believed his luck when I’d asked him if he’d like to take a look at a potential future home three hours from London. At his ripe age of twelve, he had never seen a train from the inside, nor ever left London, although he had fed himself and his mother since he was four.

‘You received your dower already?’ asked Sherlock.

‘Yes. Surprisingly enough, the law protects me and the child from greedy relatives-in-law.’
 

I’d visited my bank daily, for I was in a hurry. The previous morning, the manager himself had received me. The man was beaming with expectation as though a considerable fraction of the newly arrived three hundred thousand pounds would magically rub off on him.

‘I’ll be back late tonight or tomorrow before noon,’ I continued. ‘In the meantime, could you please retrieve your notes? I need to know details of your investigation of James and his
friends
. Oh! Wiggins appeared. The boy is a little beaten up. Nothing serious, but I’m sure you could ask him to watch Moran’s house. The man will not be mobile yet. Parker should return from Littlehampton today. He’ll experience Moran’s fury at full force, I suppose.’

Sherlock tipped his chin. ‘I’ll send my street arabs to Watson’s practice and his residence, as well as to Moran’s. My notes are deposited at Mycroft’s. What precisely do you wish to know?’ he asked.

‘Anything that could give me a clue as to why James was convinced a war might be upon us. Information on the man he thought would be
talented to find useful friends on the continent
. What is his name again?’ I pressed my forehead in my palms, digging through memories. ‘Erving Hooks! I’d like to know what he knows. And that man from the foreign office. Whitman was his name, I believe.’

‘Both men are in Newgate. I can question them while you are gone.’

‘Excellent! Another thing: What brothels did Moran frequent?’ I asked.

‘Five establishments in Whitechapel. He was a well-regarded customer with a taste for deflowering.’ His upper lip curled in distaste.

‘That suits us well,’ I said. ‘Whitechapel is perfect; traumatised by the Ripper’s activities, Moran’s liking for young girls and children, his temper…’ I trailed off, wondering whether we could arrest Moran for buying the services of underage girls. Probably not. Virgins brought twenty to fifty pounds to a madam’s purse. Surely no one would point fingers at the gentleman who paid such generous amounts when all one could get for the second, third, and hundredth mounting were a few pence.

Sherlock’s intense gaze interrupted my thinking. ‘Having you as an enemy is rather unhealthy,’ he mused. ‘And it surprises me that I never saw Moriarty visit prostitutes.’

‘He had his mistresses delivered.’ I thought of the woman with the red mane, her empty expression, the silver brush gliding through her copper hair. ‘They came from the lower working class. Apparently, he fancied redheads. He provided a room, food, clothing, and opium. He bedded them every day.’

He paled. I hadn’t told him about that; I hadn’t believed it relevant.
 

‘Was that why you asked me about the torso case?’ he enquired.

‘Yes. James played with my fears, telling me his manservant had cut a woman into pieces and dumped her under a railway arch. You said the Pinchin Street torso was from a redhead, that she was clean and smelled faintly of patchouli, and that she had a dog’s bite mark on her hip.
 

‘It fit all too well. James used patchouli-scented soap to mark me. His dogs were trained to attack anyone who smelled of it. But these are only pieces of weak evidence and no proof. That torso could have come from anywhere. However, I know for certain that if anyone did such things for James, it was Moran.’

‘Was she still in his house when he began bedding you?’ he asked.

‘No.’

He lowered his head in acknowledgement. I could see it brush across his calm facade,
every day
.

‘We will catch the nine o’clock train,’ I said. ‘I must leave in a few minutes. Where can I find you once I return?’

‘Here.’

Garret, Barry, and I took the train to Folkestone, then a trap to Dymchurch. The farm was just as Barry had described it: a small stone house with a moss-covered roof, surrounded by rock-littered fields. The basic structure of the building appeared more than solid. The bargain was made, Garret put his signature under the contract, and the former landlord clamped the money purse under his armpit, a shine of triumph on his face. He wished us good luck and bade his farewell.

Once we were alone, I planted the sage and the mint I had bought in London, and instructed Garret how to use it to alleviate his symptoms. Then I examined him one last time. ‘Don’t let the farm work tire you too much. You need to breathe. Your lungs are not even half as good as they were a year ago.’

‘I’m not made of glass, Anna.’

‘Yes you are. For a little while, at least.’

‘You are in a hurry to leave,’ he observed.

‘I must go back to London.’ I nodded to myself as though bobbing my head up and down could hammer in the impression that there was nothing left to say.

‘Tell me,’ he said softly.

I sighed. ‘It feels as though my life will end in autumn.’ My feet took a step away from him.

‘When the child will be born?’

‘Yes.’ I heard him inhale, about to speak. My index finger poked the air in warning. ‘Don’t even think of telling me to simply accept my fate.’

‘I wasn’t going to say that!’ His hands went up as though I had threatened to shoot him. ‘I wanted to say that whenever you need help, I’ll be here.’

My shoulders sagged. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I mean it, Anna. The weeks in gaol gave me time to think. You know, one man’s last days on Earth and all that. I can let you go now only because you don’t want to be with me. But you are always welcome. I’ll never ask where you have been. Or with whom.’

It was indeed alluring. The thought to hide here, to grow old with a friendly man, to not have to worry too much.
 

I smiled at myself and took his hand, gazed down at it, stroked its back. ‘I will not return.’

I wouldn’t make him wait for me. He was my best friend and his offer meant safety, and perhaps my only home should I choose to keep the child. What an impossibility. Me, a mother?

‘I killed a man,’ he said all of a sudden. ‘Many years ago.’

My mouth fell open to ask
who
and
why
and
when
, but we were interrupted by Barry rumbling through the door. He slid to a halt. ‘What’s wrong with you two?’

‘Thank you, Garret,’ I said. ‘Barry, I’ll be leaving now. Could you ask one of the neighbours to drive me to Folkestone?’

‘Sure.’ He was out of the door in an instant, probably relieved to have escaped an awkward situation.

Garret picked up my bag.

‘Why did you kill a man?’

‘I… He was a murderer. Anna, do not ask me now. I shouldn’t have told you. I just… I thought you should know I’m not as nice as you think I am. You give me all this.’ He waved his free arm, a gesture encircling the house, the fields, and the orchard.