The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) (34 page)

‘He has no chance against Holmes.’ Desperate hope spoken aloud.
 

The man facing me shook his head. ‘Silly girl. Holmes has no chance against the Professor and Colonel Moran. You see, the two of you willingly ran into the trap he set up.’

‘Brilliant,’ I spoke through my teeth, my mind racing around possibilities or rather, the lack thereof. ‘And how am I going to die?’

‘Slowly of course, but not quite yet. The professor forbade us to harm you. He will allow you to give birth to his child and raise him to the age of three. Then, the two of you will be found.’ With that, he tipped his hat and slunk towards the back door. My legs wouldn’t move at first, and I almost fell forward in an attempt to catch him as I heard Mycroft snarl ‘Stop!’ Next came a bang of a door against its frame, three shots, grappling, and yet another shot. Something heavy fell, and I slithered to a halt. The heap was moving, inching towards the revolver on the floor. I kicked it away. Mycroft held his gun in his large hand, perfectly steady, his face a mask.

I bent down and saw blood seeping through the man’s waistcoat. The shot must have gone straight through his lungs. His chest was heaving aimlessly. I had no pity for him.

‘Mr Holmes, are you alright?’

‘Yes, thank you. He was about to shoot me as he spotted me behind the door. But how are you? What did he say to you?’

‘Your brother and Watson are in great danger. Moriarty’s plan was to separate us. Now he and Moran are hunting your brother and Watson. You must leave immediately.’

Mycroft Holmes stared down at the man, slowly pocketed his revolver. I picked up the other gun.
 

‘We thought it likely that this would be Moriarty’s plan. That is why I accompanied you. We were also aware of the possibility that your father would be long dead. Where is he? Did he say?’ He stuck the tip of his shoe in the dead man’s side. The blood had already started to coagulate, turning the black puddle into a flat clump.
 

‘He killed him,’ I whispered and turned away. ‘Mr Holmes, the neighbour next door will bring you to Grimma, the next city with a post office. Keep your brother and his friend alive, please.’ With that I left to notify the neighbour and see my father.

The Marketplace in Grimma. Late 19
^th
century. (22)

It was cold inside, colder than outside, but it had always been that way. The church was never quite inviting, with its tall walls, distant ceiling, the hollow echoing of heels on stone floors, and the bleeding Jesus, always suffering, always in a distance far up behind the altar and intimidatingly large.

They had laid my father down in front of the altar. A sheet was covering him. I could almost hear their heated discussions — that he had always been a good man, that he should be buried at his wife’s side in sacred soil, and the other voices that said it would be a sin to allow a man who had taken his own life to rest on church grounds.
 

I didn’t quite know whether I wanted to run to him — or else never approach his body, this fragile husk that no longer contained my father. My feet decided on a slow walk, my knees bent, and I fell down next to him. My hands removed the sheet, only a little at first, then flinging aside the whole cover.

The rustle of linen against the cold stone floor sounded like a scream. Or maybe that was me.

His face was white, his lips blue. I touched his chest, no heartbeat, no breath lifting the ribcage. What had I expected? I bent down to smell his lips and the faint odour of cadaver exiting his nostrils punched my stomach. I licked his lips, cold and stiff, and I tried not to retch. Nothing — no metallic taste, no stinging or burning. What poison had been used? My mind spun in circles and my eyes flew over his body, trying to analyse what had happened during the last minutes of his life.
 

What was I doing? Was it important to know which poison had killed him? No antidote could bring him back to life! Wasn’t this my brain that wanted to work on something, solve a problem, a puzzle, so as not to let the heart feel the pain?
 

I let my mind flee, and the task and the puzzle, placed my hand on my father’s cheek and lay down next to him. Perhaps sharing a little of my warmth would let him feel that I was close.

I had lost track of time, or time had lost track of me. I didn’t really know. The police had come, had taken the murderer away, had questioned me, had frowned and not understood. But how could they? The story was long and all they got to see was but one end of a severed thread.

My father was buried next to his wife — my mother — while Katherina, his lover and almost wife, stood by crying quietly. I felt nothing but curiosity over my own coldness.

I sat in my father’s living room with tobacco and a bottle of brandy as companions. The knocks at the door couldn’t motivate my legs to move. I stayed put and refilled my glass.
 

Perhaps mothers should not drink too much, rang in the back of my head. I would shed motherhood like an oversized cloak. But wasn’t it too late, the child too big? I shook my head ferociously at this thought. It would be too late when the child’s kicking could not be confused with bowel activities anymore, when the stomach was so large I could no longer hide it.

Would I really kill—
 

My thoughts were interrupted by Mycroft Holmes rumbling through the door. Without a word, he sat down opposite me, took my glass, and poured it down his throat. It was then that I knew I didn’t want to hear what he had to say. My head wanted to tip forward, rest on the worn tabletop, and invest no more thoughts on loss and pain.

‘My information is based on only a few telegrams,’ I heard him say. He sounded oddly far off. ‘One from Watson, the others from two reliable friends.’ He bent forward and refilled the glass, pushed it over to me. Automatically, I tipped it into my mouth, greeting the dullness it would soon bring.

‘I am afraid he is dead,’ he exhaled, face falling into his palms. The large man shrunk, but I could not move to place a consoling hand on his shoulder.
 

‘I am sorry for your loss, Mr Holmes,’ my mouth spoke without involving my brain. ‘Please, feel welcome to stay overnight. The next train to Berlin should depart tomorrow before ten o’clock. Can I offer you supper?’

He coughed, sat erect, and nodded. ‘Yes, thank you.’

Was that how floating felt? Detached from everything, I did what needed doing to finish this day and start another. The decision had come so easily. I had loved two men. Both were gone, and I would follow.

— the fallen —
 

H
ow I got to my cottage, I cannot recall. Suddenly I found myself at the front door. There were wisps of memories: the decision to come here and not defile my father’s house with a suicide; then sitting in various trains, a ship, and wandering through the countryside. It had rained the entire day, I think. My trousers and waistcoat were sopping wet. I had forgotten to put the coat on; it hung limply over the bag I carried. Did I travel all the way with that revolver in my hand? I held it up and water ran out of the drum, down the gun’s butt, and into my sleeve. I shook it, wondering whether it still worked.

No need to go inside. I could do it here and watch the sunset. I dropped my belongings and sat down on the small rock next to my cottage, closing my eyes. How wonderful the sounds of water dripping off the roof, the quiet sizzling of warm compost turning rain into steam, the blackbird’s song announcing the end of the day. Swimming in music and the aroma of washed earth, I opened my eyes.
 

Three things happened simultaneously: the cloud cover tore open, and a red sun slashed through, hitting the wet ground at a sharp angle. Then, Death appeared at my side. All went quiet as if in deepest respect.

Expecting Death to be a haggard man clad in black robes, outstretching a skeletal hand to close it around my throat, I braced myself and turned towards him. A billowing cloak. Or was it…a dress? Softly flowing along curved hips, caressed by the wind and without a beginning or an end to the fabric, its edges melted into thin air. I was stunned — my Death was a woman! Perhaps because I wanted her to be female, hoping she would be gentle? But then, how I took my life wasn’t in her power .
 

She touched my shoulder, her hand neither warm nor cold and her outlines disappearing whenever I tried to see her clearly. It felt comfortable to have her at my side. I wouldn’t be alone when I left this world. Her hand on my shoulder was protective, neither pulling nor pushing me in one direction or the other. What I would do next was to be my own decision.
 

The blackbird’s voice tore at my marred heart. I turned the gun and stared into its gaping black mouth. Would I see the explosion? Would I see the projectile before it entered my head and ripped my brain apart? I pushed the hammer down. The clicking noise washed exhilaration through my chest, dulling the pain within. Keeping my eyes wide open, I moved my thumb to the trigger.

Death dropped her hand, abandoning my shoulder and pulling my attention towards my cottage door. The handle moved. A shy creak. The door opened. In one swift move, I rose to my feet and pointed the revolver at the tall man who stood in the shadows.

‘You bastard!’ I cried.

He plunged back inside the instant I pulled the trigger. Nothing but a wet click happened. Chasing after him, I pulled it again and again with the same result. I ran through the door and slammed it shut. With a cry of despair, I flung the useless weapon in his direction. The clatter told me I hadn’t even hit my target, only some innocent wall or cupboard. I pushed into a dark corner and forced my breath to come quietly so as not to betray my location. It was impossible to reach my kitchen cupboard and fetch a knife, but fury would make my hands strong enough to wring his neck. Certainty and foreboding vibrated in my limbs.

Soft footfall. A floorboard creaked, and a hand emerged from the shadows.

‘Anna.’ That unexpected voice sent me into a numbing suspense. How still everything was. Had it ever been so quiet? A second hand, followed by shoes, trousers, a waistcoat and Holmes’s face. Bruised and limping, his right shoulder hanging so low as though it were about to come off its hinge. I blinked and lifted my hand to touch his cheek, to feel whether he was real and not a product of my imagination.