The Fall: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 2) (4 page)

— day 2 —
 

T
he maid woke me before sunrise. I had been restless most of the night, listening for noises outside my enclosure, fighting the temptation to climb out the window and race until my lungs burned. But I couldn’t outrun the dogs. Nor could I know where to find my father or how to save him. The night had been an excruciating exercise in patience.

Miss Gooding brought my new clothing. She strung the corset up, buttoned the back of the dress the tailor had resized for me, and laced my patent leather boots. This every day routine for upper-class women felt embarrassing and useless to me.

While she helped me dress, I noticed her gaze sweeping over my face, neck and arms. Her lips tightened at the musculature and tanned skin, which came from working in the field and hunting rabbits and fowl at night. In her eyes, I probably looked like a savage. She must have wondered what I was doing in a house like this. But she did not dare ask a question; it would have been unsuitable.

She brushed my black curls, the strokes only reaching down to my neck, bristles tickling my skin and raising goosebumps. Surely, she must wonder about the shortness of my hair. Perhaps she thought I had sold it.
 

‘Thank you, Miss Gooding,’ I said as she stepped aside. ‘Do you think I could take a walk through the house and maybe go outside?’

‘Why could you not, Miss?’

‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled, telling my hand not to make contact with my forehead. ‘Is Mr Durham available?’

‘I will call for him, Miss,’ she said and took her leave.

I walked towards the vanity that stood by the wardrobe, changed my mind, and sat down on the bed. I did not dare look at myself and wasn’t quite certain why.

Durham let me wait for an inappropriate length of time. As we walked, I listened to the noise his shoes made on the various surfaces. The hard carpet of the corridors on the second floor, the creaking of the stairs. The first floor with carpeting identical to the second, and the steps down to the ground floor creaking louder.

At the end of the stairwell, we took a sharp right turn and our heels produced four clacks on the stone tiles in the hall before we entered the dining room. It was a beautiful mixture of elegant and rustic features, with a white lime plaster ceiling and smoked oak beams stretching from one wall to the other.
 

A row of neatly dressed servants lowered their heads in unison, were introduced by Durham, and swarmed back to their respective tasks. I was amazed. As far as I had learned, Moriarty lived without wife and children. Yet he employed a scullery maid, a kitchen maid, a parlour maid, a chamber maid, a laundry maid, two cooks, a lady maid, a page, and a manservant.

Durham bade me to sit at the massive oak table, then cleared his throat, took position next to the door and stared at me until my breakfast was served. With a clipped voice and an air that tasted of bleach, the housekeeper introduced herself as Austine Hingston. Her movements were precise and swift; her rank below Durham did not allow her the freedom to show any of the disrespect she clearly felt for me. Only her eyes betrayed her. Whenever she gazed at me, the hint of warmth that seemed to be reserved for Durham only, disappeared. What had Moriarty told his servants about the new guest? Certainly not the truth.

‘What’s on the program?’ I asked Durham after Hingston had left.

He lifted his eyebrows. ‘You think I am to entertain you?’

‘You have a peculiar sense of humour,’ I mumbled.

His expression did not change in the slightest — very appropriate for a manservant. Today, he wore a slight sneer. I wondered what it would be tomorrow. Most likely the same.

‘Shall we go for a walk, Mr Durham? The sun is shining, the day is mild, the geese are calling to go south,’ I babbled, knowing that he did not care in the least. He shook his head.
 

‘Well, I think I shall go by myself, then. After all, one could easily get sick without regular exposure to fresh air.’ Shock touched his face as I rose to my feet.

‘I will accompany you,’ he announced.
 

Good, a little leverage over the manservant could prove useful one day. Especially if he wouldn’t dare tell his master about this small slip in controlling the captive.

Two hours later, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling as impressions of the morning flitted through my mind.

Durham and Hingston appeared to have some kind of comradeship, and both seemed to agree I was a thorn under their fingernails. Clearly, neither of them would help me willingly. But if they had a secret romantic relationship, I might be able to put them under pressure. Yet somehow, I found it hard to imagine that these two could embrace anything but a cold pillow.

I pushed the issue aside for now. Most pressing was the meeting with Moriarty. He would want to discuss the isolation of bacteria, probably the laboratory setup as well. All I wanted to discuss was the wellbeing of my father or, rather, beg for him to be released. What a waste of time this would be! I had to control myself and I needed help. Someone who could take my father to safety while I acted against Moriarty. There was only one person I knew, but how could I possibly contact him? Simply walking into the post office and sending Holmes a letter was out of the question. Ah! The name I had given him last spring!
‘Promise me that you’ll place an advertisement into
The Times
, asking for Caitrin Mae, when this case is either solved or threatens your life. I’ll find you then.’

Would I ever get any opportunity to send a message? How much time would I have? It would take months to isolate bacteria, test their virulence, and produce a large enough amount to be used as a weapon. My stomach clenched at the memory of my human test subjects — paupers abducted from workhouses last winter. Men and women who happily accepted two sovereigns in exchange for their lives. They would have sold their children to us, if I had allowed it.

Evening arrived and Durham led me down to the dining room. The table was set with porcelain and silver, and several candles were lit. The door closed behind me. Swallowing a breath, I stepped forward.

The Professor sat in an armchair, bent over a book. The lit fireplace behind him made his silhouette flicker.

‘Good evening,’ he said, closing the book with a soft thud. He rose to his feet and walked to the table like a large cat, gleaming eyes focused on his prey. His voice carried a low purr underneath the hardness. A tall gaunt figure with a high forehead and greying temples — an ageing cat, possibly in his forties. His long hands closed around the back of a chair. Invitingly, he pulled it towards him.
 

I obeyed, yet turning my back to him felt very wrong. My neck ached in anticipation of a blow.

‘You may breathe now,’ he noted and lifted the silver top off a casserole. ‘Allow me to be your servant tonight.’

I wondered whether Durham was guarding the door.

The bird was carved, with vegetables decorating its outlines. Moriarty arranged parts of the animal on my plate, peas rolling about until they were drowned in gravy.

‘Thank you,’ I squeezed out.

‘My pleasure.’

We ate in silence, both assessing the other. When we were finished, I could not recall the taste of what I had eaten.

‘May I ask how you found me?’
 

He seemed amused by my attempt to control my burning interest. The corners of his mouth twitched a little.

‘An acquaintance stumbled upon an article in the
Brighton Gazette
. Apparently, a simple woman had performed a Cesarean section with great skill. I took a chance and sent Colonel Moran to investigate. When he returned and described you to me, it appeared as though you looked like Dr Anton Kronberg’s sister. Oh, he did not make too much of it. But I wondered who this woman could be. Naturally, I paid a visit. It was unmistakable.’

I dropped my gaze to my plate, silencing a groan. Such a small gesture had betrayed my father and me. After having ignored it for months, I was forced to finally pick up my doctor’s bag and run to my neighbours’ aid. Mary had been on her bed, moaning, rolled up protectively around her enormous stomach, blood seeping through her skirt. Her uterus had been hard as a rock, trying to push out the infant that refused to emerge. John’s pale face, sweat glistening on his forehead, his trembling hands helping with the ether and stroking his wife’s hair while I slit her open. I had peeled the child out of its enclosure, the shimmering water bag covered with a spiderweb of blood. A boy with skin so blue I thought he was dead. I had sucked the mucous from his mouth and nose, massaged his tiny chest, and blown air into his small lungs. After only a minute, he began to squirm.
 

I looked up. ‘Can we take our discussion outside? I’d prefer a walk.’ I missed the countryside sorely.

‘But of course. The sunset will certainly be appealing.’

Once outside, I started towards the large maples at the far side of the premises.

‘Tomorrow you will be inspecting your laboratory, or what remains of it.’ Seeing my surprise he added, ‘You will have your former space at the medical school.’

A place I already knew. It made things easier.

‘My coachman will take you there and bring you back again. The same rules apply at the school as do here at my home. Your assistant will keep you under surveillance.’

I nodded. ‘I need to know what germs you want me to isolate and how you are planning to use them.’

‘We will be discussing that in a minute, my dear. Germany and France are considering chemical warfare. So far, their attempts have been premature. The incentive is not great enough, I suppose; a war seems too distant.’

‘What is your incentive?’ I wondered aloud. He ignored me and kept walking. ‘Money? Ah, power. You don’t necessarily want to end or win a war? A man like you could live anywhere, sell his
services
to anyone?’

‘I see.’ He stopped in his tracks, took my hand, and kissed my vibrating fingers. ‘I am very pleased to have made your acquaintance, my dear.’ His voice was saturated with mockery.

I couldn’t push the growl down. The man played with his food! My hands curled to fists, yearning to punch his arrogant face.
 

‘I am not your dear. I used to be England’s best bacteriologist until I ran into that incapable group of doctors you employed! If Bowden had had a brain, he would have trusted me earlier and this whole operation would not have come to its abrupt end!’

With a sneer, he took a step forward and closed his hand around my throat. ‘I am aware that using Bowden was a mistake. But trusting
you
would be an even greater one. Attempting to wrap me around your finger is not only futile, it insults my intelligence!’ His face and mine were only an inch apart. I saw the brown specks scattered along the rims of his grey irises, the large pupils — two bottomless pits. My stomach cramped and the sweat itched in my armpits.

‘It is your choice what you do,’ I huffed through my constricted windpipe. ‘However, I need to know how you plan to deliver fatal germs. How will the enemy be infected? What other weapons are going to be used? The vector and the pathogen have to be a perfect match; otherwise, you will fail.’

He released me, his expression empty. ‘We will start with the obvious: soldiers and horses.’

‘How specific do you want me to target?’

He looked at me quizzically and I explained, ‘Disease does not know who is friend or foe.’

‘You are a poet,’ he chuckled. I looked away from him, holding onto my hands. ‘You want to know how important it is to prevent collateral damage?’

‘Yes,’ I could guess the answer from his tone.

‘There are soldiers on both sides. Men march into battle and die. Collateral damage is acceptable as long as significantly more losses are reported on the other side of the enemy line.’

‘That makes things easier,’ I noted. We had now reached the maple trees and I picked up a leaf — blood red flowing into orange — a souvenir from the outside world.

‘What diseases were you thinking of?’

‘The Plague,’ he answered.