The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (8 page)

‘An oncoming cold?’ I offered halfheartedly.

‘Her eyes didn’t look like it. Her voice didn’t indicate it, either. But then it could be early,’ he said.

‘I’m not convinced of that gunshot wound. He might have been injured while working in the fields,’ I noted.

‘He wore a small medal. It was tucked just above his waistcoat pocket; only its top was visible — a black suspension piece with simple ornaments characteristic of service medals from the Boer War. The ribbon was missing.’

‘But had he been injured at war or in his field?’ I insisted and the corners of his mouth twitched.

‘To be absolutely certain, we have to return to Littlehampton at once and undress the man,’ he said, whacking the table top.

‘It’s not too late. The next train should leave in an hour or two.’

‘Very well. Shall we wager?’

I grew cautious. He was convinced he was correct. I closed my eyes and imagined possible injuries a farmer could suffer. The horse kicks him hard — fractures, perhaps with the bone penetrating the skin, could result in a tilted foot if the fracture hadn’t been set properly. How had he walked? No shuffling, no limping, and the hip had seemed straight enough, so a considerable shortening of one leg due to false setting of the bones wasn’t likely. A fall, perhaps? Or a carriage driving over his legs? All I could come up with resulted in fractures. The tilted foot. Slight inward angle. No limp. No torsion of the hip. On the inside of my eyelids, I saw a bullet pass through various parts of the limb, severing muscles, nerves, tendons.
 

‘There is no way of knowing whether he was shot or cut in the leg. The cut could have been done with a scythe. Or,’ I interrupted myself, theatrically poking my index finger into the air, ‘her lover attacked her husband in the middle of the night, tried to cut the man’s throat but ended up slicing the calf muscle instead.’ I laughed. ‘Or he chopped wood and drove the axe in his leg. Either way, scarring of the calf muscle resulted in a shortening of the same, and ultimately, in a slight inward bend of the foot.’

He looked at me as though I had lost my mind.

‘But then it is rather complicated to cut oneself with a scythe or axe at that angle.’ I rose and made a sweeping gesture, trying to hack at the flesh on the back of my leg. The clientele regarded me with puzzled looks.

‘The man was lucky he didn’t lose his leg,’ I noted and sat down. ‘Battlefields are awash with germs.’

A satisfied smile flared up, accompanied with a nod.
 

‘I rather opt for a mild case of polio,’ I added.

‘Excuse me?’

‘As the cause for the man’s slightly tilted foot.’ All I got as a response was a pluck of his hand and a mischievous grin.

On the following day, we boarded the first train to Littlehampton and, as planned, I began the procedure a few minutes before our arrival. I took off my left shoe, pulled the stocking down, and opened the knife. ‘The cup, please,’ I said, waving at him.
 

A sharp pain, then the tinkling of thick liquid hitting the metal cup’s bottom. The cup began to fill and soon, my tongue felt dry and my ears sang quietly.

I fastened gauze over the small wound, pulled up my stocking, laced my shoe, and stuck my fingers in the cup. My blood was warm and was already congealing. The amount and its metallic odour felt alarming. I poured the liquid on my dress and rubbed it over the front and hem while Sherlock smeared it on his hands and cuffs. We looked as though we had butchered a piglet.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

I nodded. He slung the rucksack over his back, the bag over his shoulder, then stepped forward, offering me his free arm. I slumped against him and began moaning.

And so we left the train, called a carriage, and arrived at the George Inn only a day after we had left it.

The landlord carried our luggage up the stairs, constantly calling for his wife and most likely thinking us idiotic for taking yet another trip through the moorlands and then returning, yet again, all bashed up. Obviously, Londoners hadn’t much brain in their funny heads.

When the landlady finally arrived, she left with a long list of things that needed to be arranged. Towels, hot water, cold water, disinfectants, and surgical instruments for the poor doctor who had left all his tools and supplies in his practice. Who could have known that the short trip to the countryside would have such a detrimental effect on his wife? While buzzing around in the most nervous fashion, Sherlock let everyone in Littlehampton know that his wife was at the brink of a miscarriage and that she should not, under any circumstances, be disturbed.

It seemed Littlehampton walked on tiptoe. People didn’t even dare talk when passing outside our window. Only the sparrows and finches and swallows dared say a peep.

‘Well done,’ I whispered as he returned.

‘Likewise. And now, my dear wife, you haven’t done any moaning for at least ten minutes.’

‘Make me,’ I said.

Did I see him blush? I believe I did. Hiding my face, I doubled over and began to moan loudly.

The sun had begun to set. I watched its descent while producing ailing noises every few minutes. He had bled himself to stain the white towels red, then sent them down to the landlady. Littlehampton’s practitioner had asked whether we needed his help, but of course we didn’t.
 

‘Very good,’ Sherlock whispered after he had shuffled the doctor out of our room. ‘Should Moran ask questions, he will learn that a doctor and his wife had a miscarriage. He’ll conclude that you helped yourself, considering your medical knowledge.’ He lowered himself on a chair with a huff of accomplishment. ‘After all, a miscarriage is nothing but a birth.’

Yes. And a stillborn is considered nothing but waste, I thought. Should Mycroft make the mistake of offering money for a stillborn, people would throw them at him.

Around seven o’clock, Sherlock went down to fetch supper for both of us, saying that I was sleeping at last, but should I wake in the middle of the night, I might need sustenance.

He lit the candle on the nightstand and we ate in silence. ‘I’d like to wash,’ I told him when supper was finished. He retreated to his room.

I undressed and removed the bandage from my ankle. The cut was small and pale. I cleansed myself at the washbowl, disinfected the wound, wrapped the cotton strip around it, and dressed in my nightgown. Then I knocked at his door.
 

‘Yes?’ he called and I entered. He had already washed and changed as well.
 

‘I need to disinfect your cut,’ I said.
 

He saw the iodine in my one hand, the kerchief in the other, and nodded.

He placed his foot on the bed, I sat next to him and unwrapped the bandages. ‘You washed it already. Good,’ I said, dabbing disinfectant on the small wound, and then lightly wrapped the cotton strip around it again. ‘We can take the bandages off tomorrow as long as the shoes don’t rub on the cuts.’

He remained silent, staring at my hand holding his foot. I cleared my throat and rose to my feet, wishing him a good night.

Back in my room, I hoped not to cry out in my dreams. I wanted him here when he wished to be here, not when he believed I needed consolation.

— seven —

I
produced more noise the following morning while Sherlock met with his brother. As soon as he returned, I began screaming in earnest.

‘We will need more blood for this.’ I indicated the two packages he brought. He nodded and, without comment, bent down and opened a vein on his other ankle. ‘Enough!’ I warned when the cup was half-full.

I spread the liquid on my nightgown and on the sheets, then asked him to give me the first package. Reluctantly, my fingers peeled off the layers of wax paper. Inside lay a tiny girl, wrinkled and grey. A newly hatched moth. The odour of decay didn’t come off her yet; she must have been only a few hours old.
 

I had helped mothers give birth. Mothers from the lowest classes who were suffering from malnutrition and hadn’t had the strength to carry a child to term. I had seen many stillborns in my life. And yet, this dead girl hit me in the chest at full force. I pressed my hand over my mouth, growled, and put myself back together.

‘You should go down and spread the news,’ I said to him. He tipped his chin, took his hat, and left.

I placed the foetus on the sheet among the red smudges, poured blood on her, unwrapped the other package, took out the placenta and umbilical cord, laid them out, then tossed the paper under the bed. I smeared the last of the blood on my nightgown, then curled up in the mess, warming the small body with my own, and bending and massaging her limbs to loosen the
rigor mortis
.

A timid knock announced our first and only witness. Sherlock and Littlehampton’s practitioner stepped in. The latter saw that I was alive and comparatively well, and the child was not. He touched her lukewarm skin, nodded at the missing heartbeat, and seemed convinced she died an hour ago.

Then he left, for his help wasn’t needed. Too normal a sight, even here, far from London’s grime, disease, and poverty.

‘The landlady will soon bring us water. We can clean up. She informed me that there is no open grave at the moment. I told her that under these circumstances, we will bury our daughter down at the beach.’

‘We can build a small grave with a mound of stones and a small cross. Easy for Moran to see. He will dig her up to make sure there is indeed a dead child,’ I said.

‘Will you be alright?’

‘Of course.’

We sat on the bed, I staring at my hands and he staring at his knees, chewing on an imaginary pipe until a knock interrupted the grim scene and water, fresh towels, and sheets were delivered.

‘I will go alone,’ he announced after he had washed his hands and put a fresh shirt on. ‘Everyone will expect you to remain in bed for a few hours at the least.’

I nodded and watched him carrying away the girl, the placenta, and his blood wrapped in a towel.

One-eyed, I peeked out of the window, careful not to move the curtain. His slender figure crossed the street. People stepped out of his way, eyeing the package under his arm, quickly drawing their fingers across their chests — up-down, right-left — then hastily turning away. Bad luck. I longed to get away from here, but the charade needed to be played to its end.

I used the rest of the water to wash the blood off my skin. The red in the bowl reminded me of my days in the slums. So often had I placed my hands into someone’s wound. To stitch them up, sometimes to saw off a limb. I had been tougher back then.

Light rain tapped against the window. The morning sun peeked through cracks in the cloud cover, rays prickling through the drops on the windowpane and refracting into a hundred small rainbows.
 

Our belongings were already packed. For authenticity’s sake, Sherlock carried both the rucksack and the large bag while I was to lean on him. We stumbled down the stairs, through the small parlour, out into the drizzle, and across cobblestones that were steaming with rain and horse manure.

The station emerged from the mist, a red brick building, its roof streaked white from gull droppings. The birds called and circled while we waited for the train. Soon came the hooting and the wisps of steam, before the locomotive pushed into the station. The stationmaster saw us step into the train. None of the Littlehamptoners saw us exit on the other side. Even if we had been seen by passengers, they were all taken away to New Shoreham, Brighton, or London.