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

‘Thank you,’ I said. The taller of the two pulled his eyebrows up and seemed a little amused.
 

‘For showing your face,’ I explained.

‘You do realise that having seen me will likely diminish any chances of your survival?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Shall we continue, then? How did you overpower Mr Holmes?’

My throat tightened. How could I describe it? It was a long story and I would surely not tell the whole truth.

‘I kissed him.’

His eyes widened and he threw his head back, barking a single laugh.

A second later, he recovered from his emotional outbreak. Turning to the other man he said, ‘Sebastian, would you be so kind as to make us tea?’

Sebastian left. I heard a match being struck, the hiss of the gas lamp followed by the clonking of earthenware. The hearth was still hot. I used it to get a little warmth into the cottage during chilly autumn nights. In winter, I would have used the fireplace, too. But there wouldn’t be a winter for me here.

More wood was thrown onto the embers. The tall man observed me silently, and I realised he had come to decide whether I should be shot immediately or maybe a little later.

While we waited for the tea, he said, ‘We learned a few things about you, Dr Kronberg. But there are gaps I’d like filled.’ He bent over me, grabbed my neck and pulled me up into a sitting position.

Then, he commenced his speech. ‘You lived in London disguised as a male medical doctor for four years. You must have met Mr Holmes over the course of summer or autumn 1889, is that correct?’

I nodded, knowing my face showed my shock.

‘A little more information would help extend your lifespan.’

I cleared my throat. ‘I met Mr Holmes at Hampton Water Treatment Works in the summer of last year. A cholera victim had been found floating in the water and Scotland Yard wanted us to provide expert opinions. Mr Holmes saw through my disguise, but strangely decided not to report me to the police. The corpse bore signs of abduction and maltreatment, but the evidence was weak and the Yard did not think it worth investigating.’

I looked up at him. He was waiting for me to continue. And so I did, weaving lies and facts into one, ‘There was very little to go on, and Mr Holmes soon lost interest in the case. Or so I thought. Meanwhile, I did research on tetanus at Guy’s and later visited Robert Koch’s laboratory in Berlin. I was able to obtain tetanus germs in pure culture; it was a sensation, and the papers reported it widely. You are aware of this, of course.’

He tilted his head and I continued. ‘Only a few days later, Dr Gregory Stark invited me to give a presentation at Cambridge Medical School and I came into contact with all members of what Mr Holmes later called the
Club
.’

‘The
Club
? How charming!’ He chuckled.

‘I knew it couldn’t have been Bowden,’ I said. ‘You were the man at the centre.’
 

Holmes and I had believed that Dr Bowden was the head of the Club. Doubts about the importance of his role surfaced only at the very end of our investigation. But we could prove nothing and had no clue who the leader was. Until today.

‘I am merely a bystander, or assistant, so to speak.’

‘The assistant who pulls the strings?’

‘Perhaps,’ he said. I trembled as he bent closer yet again and pulled a blanket over my shoulders. I killed my hens the same way — I calmed them, caressed their heads and backs, then broke their necks and cut their throats.

‘You infiltrated the
Club and brought them down with the help of Sherlock Holmes,’ he stated.

I forced my eyes to look into his and remain steady. ‘Not quite, although in hindsight, even I could possibly interpret it as such.’

He leaned back, waving his hand invitingly.

‘Just after I returned from Berlin I was mugged and badly injured. I needed a surgeon, but whom could I have asked? Certainly not my colleagues! So I told a friend to find Dr Watson. That is how I met Holmes again, and only two days later he told me about his suspicions — that someone had been conducting medical experiments on paupers in Broadmoor Lunatic Asylum. I thought he was out of his mind.’

‘Pray proceed,’ he urged, as though time were running out.

‘I had started working at London Medical School, developing vaccines against tetanus. We also had the prospect of a cholera vaccine. But we knew that wouldn’t come without sacrifices.’ I shoved away the picture of the soiled and dying woman. ‘Holmes kept insisting that what I was doing was wrong and I should instead help him arrest my colleagues.’

‘Mr Holmes would never have asked you for your assistance. You are a liar, my dear,’ he declared. A reaction I had anticipated.
 

‘He would have never asked such a thing from just anyone, you are correct. But he and I are made of the same material. He was fascinated by a woman as intelligent as he and equally strong-willed. And I fell for him because I had never met such an observant and sharp man in my life. That is the reason I saved his life in Broadmoor and the reason he let me go.’ And I remembered the kiss, that singular kiss, and turned my gaze away to look out of the small window where night slowly retreated and the sky paled to greet the new day. Would I see the sun? Maybe it did not matter much. I had seen it many times already.
 

I looked back at him and said, ‘I know you want something from me, or you would not have given me time to utter a single word tonight. If you allow me to make a guess — you need a bacteriologist to continue your work. I am your first choice, but you do not trust me. Naturally.’

He smiled again. It was worse than a gun pressed to my head.

‘No, I do not trust you in the least. And yes, I require the services of a bacteriologist. Although you are the best to be found in England, you are also the one bearing the greatest risk. I need to be certain I have your loyalty.’
 

What could I possibly offer? My life? He already had it in his hands.
 

‘Of course, you could choose to be shot right away. But decide quickly now, or I will do it for you.’

I gazed down at my hands, anticipating the moment I would drive a blade into the man’s throat. Slowly, I let go of all the air in my lungs.

‘Am I to isolate pathogens for warfare?’

Another warm smile.

‘You remind me of him,’ I whispered. His stunned expression opened a wide spectrum of possibilities for me. A second later he had blinked the shock away.

‘You have my loyalty,’ I answered.

All I got as a response was a scant nod. ‘Drink your tea,’ he said, filling my cup.

Finally I noticed the peculiar situation — the brute had made tea, the brain served it. I gazed at the two. ‘What else is in it?’

‘Chloral,’ the taller answered lightly.

‘Ah,’ I exhaled. ‘How much?’

‘A few drops.’

I nodded and took the cup. The harmless-looking tea produced circular ripples just before I tipped it into my mouth. The brew carried a peculiar sting. ‘You never introduced yourself,’ I noted.

‘My apologies. This is my friend and trustworthy companion Colonel Sebastian Moran, and I am Professor James Moriarty.’

Slowly, my surroundings unhinged. I looked at the window which seemed unnaturally far off. Had it not been rectangular a few minutes ago?

‘I forgot to mention a small detail,’ said Moriarty, his voice reverberating in my skull, words melting into one another. ‘By the time you regain consciousness, your father will be my hostage. Should you do anything that could jeopardise our work or my safety, he will die immediately and, I must say, rather painfully.’

The world tipped and the table approached with shocking speed.

— day 1 —
 

N
ausea hit as I opened my eyes. The ceiling wafted from left to right. The taste of vomit bit my tongue. I touched my face and throat, but found nothing soiled. The nightgown I wore was unfamiliar, as was the room and the bed I was in. Panic clamped me down.

I slapped my face, rubbed my eyes, and slowly, memories trickled back. I remembered two names — Professor James Moriarty, Colonel Sebastian Moran. I had never heard of them before…was it…yesterday?

The last thing Moriarty had said before the poison swallowed me echoed in my head and re-awoke the terror. My father was being held hostage! Sweat stung my skin. My breath came in bursts. I pushed myself upright, fighting to stay conscious. Bile welled up. I forced it back down. Reality seemed to crack. I could almost see fissures forming around me. My throat constricted and a sob squeezed through. Shaking, I collapsed back onto the bed.

It took a while to collect myself. I sat up, found a glass on the nightstand. A cautious sniff told me it was probably only water. I drank it all and it cleared my head a little more.
Find a way to help him,
blared my mind.
Find the weakness in Moriarty’s plan. The keystone that, once extracted, will make the vault crumple.

My eyes swept over the luxurious room. The two windows lacked bars. I rose and took a few steps towards the nearest one. A timid knock stopped me.

‘Yes?’ I croaked.

A small woman stepped in, curtsied, and said quietly. ‘Miss Kronberg, are you feeling a little better?’

‘Yes, thank you. Who are you?’

‘I am Gooding. Your maid, Miss,’ she announced.
 

I had a maid? ‘Can you tell me what time it is, Miss Gooding?’
 

She looked a bit perplexed. Perhaps she had expected me to throw a lone surname at her, omitting the Miss.

‘It is quarter past five,’ she answered, ‘in the evening. Can I help you get ready for supper, Miss?’

‘I’m not sure I can eat yet.’

‘Would you like to wash?’

I nodded. She left and closed the door. I waited for the sound of a key in a lock, but it didn’t come.
 

I walked back to the window and gazed out onto a large and beautiful yard two storeys down. The maple trees waved red and golden foliage at the evening sun. Old ivy scaled the brick wall below me. An escape route, easily laid out. I began to doubt my sanity.

The maid returned, laden with a jug of water, a towel, and a small package. She placed everything next to the washstand and looked at me inquiringly. Did I need anything else? I searched my confused mind. ‘Miss Gooding, can you tell me where I am?’

‘Why Miss, this is Professor Moriarty’s house,’ she answered, rather puzzled.

I nodded, instantly feeling sicker. ‘Could you show me my clothes, please?’

She rushed to a wardrobe that had escaped my notice, despite its size. She opened both doors, revealing several dresses. None of them were mine.

After she was gone I tottered around in the room, trying to make sense of what I saw. The only thing here that belonged to me was myself. Even my clothes had been taken away. No doubt this had been done on purpose. But why? To deny me any feeling of self-reliance?

 
My bare feet sank deep into the heavy rug, the soft wool snug between my toes. Underneath, the floorboards creaked. The bed was large, and its cherry wood frame supported an elaborately embroidered cotton canopy. My golden cage.

Then I discovered the letter. Night-blue handwriting rolled over the heavy paper.

Dear Dr Kronberg.
 

I do hope you are feeling better. My apologies for the inconvenience the chloral and this predicament might cause you. I trust that you have noticed the luxury, but I sincerely hope this will not lead you to incorrect assumptions. Any attempts to leave the premises will be futile. The dogs know your scent and will tear you to pieces. My manservant will accompany you wherever you choose to go, except of course in your private room. He reports to me immediately and has my full trust. Should you disappear for but a moment, your father will lose his left hand. A second disappearance will result in the loss of his right hand. A third time will cost him his head. I truly hope this will not spoil your stay in my humble home.
 

Yours, Professor James Moriarty.
 

PS: I am delighted to meet with you tomorrow at supper time.

The letter sailed back onto the mattress. With thoughts racing through my head and with my heart thumping wildly, I walked back to the wardrobe. The expensive silk dresses were all too large for me. I stepped back and spotted a small wooden box on a chest of drawers. Curious, I turned the key, revealing a collection of earrings, necklaces and rings adorned with pearls, amethysts, and other gems. The feeling that I was being held captive in a tomb slammed the air out of my chest and images of a former captive Moriarty had murdered wrenched the last bit of sanity from my brain. Frantically, I searched for blood stains on the walls or floors, looking for any signs of the identity and number of his victims, or how they had met their ends.
 

When my foot caught on the rug and my head hit the bedpost, I finally came to my senses.

Sitting on the floor, I held my aching forehead and analysed the few things that I had seen today.