The Devil’s Grin E-Book

Annelie Wendeberg

• Herausgeber: Annelie Wendeberg
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Anna Kronberg Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Illustrated edition of book 1 in the award-winning Anna Kronberg series.

A series of systematic murders. A killer the police don't seem to see. A brilliant woman with dark secrets.

When a corpse surfaces in the city's waterworks, the Metropolitan Police fear a cholera outbreak. They summon bacteriologist Dr. Anton Kronberg, who spots something far more sinister hinting at the victim's excruciating end.

The police lose interest when evidence of foul play seems too weak and far-fetched. To catch the killer, Kronberg is forced into an alliance with Sherlock Holmes. Their suspicions deepen when a second victim is found, and both stumble into a world of abduction, abuse, and systematic murder.

But this isn't Kronberg's biggest problem. Catching a killer and staying alive would be much less challenging if the doctor didn’t have dark secrets of … her own.

If you love dark historical mysteries and psychological thrillers with an unforgettable female lead, witty dialogue, spine-chilling twists, and Sherlock Holmes joining a chase that will keep you guessing to the final page, this British murder mystery series is your next must-read.

Praise for the Anna Kronberg & Sherlock Holmes Mystery Series:

Awarded the "Blue Carbuncle" for best Sherlock Holmes novel 2014

"...one of the best Sherlock Holmes novels of all time." - Sherlock Holmes Magazin

"...a formidable dark-romantic conspiracy novel. A duel of two deduction monsters." - Welt

"...a powerful debut." - Stuttgarter Zeitung

"...the new dream team of detective literature." - KrimiLese

"...provocative and original..." - Peter Kavanagh, CBC Radio Producer

"A brilliant page-turner..." - BookBub

Warning: medical procedures are depicted without apology.

Leseprobe

Copyright 2012 by Annelie Wendeberg

Illustrated eBook Edition

This is a work of fiction. Yet, I tried to write it as close to the truth as possible. Any resemblance to anyone alive is pure coincidence. Mr Sherlock Holmes, Dr John Watson, and Mrs Hudson are characters by Sir A. C. Doyle and are now in the public domain. All other names, characters, places and incidents are products of my imagination or lived/happened/occurred a very long time ago. I herewith apologise to all the (now dead) people I used in my novel. I also apologise to all Sherlock Holmes fans should they feel I abused Holmes. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the copyright owner.

Cover: Nuno Moreira & Annelie Wendeberg

Interior design: Annelie Wendeberg

Editing: Tom Welch

ISBN: 978-91-989003-3-0

Bonus material at the end of this book:

Preview of The Fall - Anna Kronberg Book 2

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

seventeen

eighteen

nineteen

twenty

twenty-one

twenty-two

twenty-three

Preview: The Fall

Anna Kronberg Mysteries

Arlington & McCurley Mysteries

Keeper of Pleas Mysteries

The 1/2986 Series

More…

Acknowledgments

Credits

DEDICATION

To Magnus - Husband, Lover, Brother-in-Arms

…and to all the girls and women who live disguised as men to escape violence and oppression — in our past, present, and future.

Join our reader community!

for exclusive short stories, voting rights, bonus chapters, character art, all of my newest books long before publication, and a juicy discount in my bookshop

The Devil’s Grin was awarded the Blue Carbuncle by the German Sherlock Holmes Society for best Sherlock Holmes Mystery 2014.

Thanks, you crazy bunch of Holmes fans!!!

* * *

History is indeed little more than the register of the crimes, follies,and misfortunes of mankind.

E. Gibbon

I have finally found the peace to write down what must be revealed. At the age of twenty-seven, I witnessed crimes so heinous that no one dared tell the public. It has never been put down in ink on paper — not by the police, newspapermen, or historians. The general reflex was to forget what happened.

I will hide these journals in my old school, hoping that they’ll be found one day and made public. These crimes must be revealed and future generations warned. And I wish as well to paint a different picture of the man who came to be known as the world’s greatest detective.

* * *

Summer 1889

One of the first things I learned as an adult was that knowledge and facts mean nothing to people who have been subjected to an adequate dose of fear and prejudice.

This simple-mindedness is the most disturbing attribute of my fellow two-legged creatures. According to Alfred Russel Wallace’s newest theories, I belong to this same species — the only one among the great apes that has achieved bipedalism and developed an unusually large brain. As there is no other upright, big-headed ape, I must be human. Though I have my doubts.

My place of work — the ward for infectious diseases at Guy’s Hospital in London — is a prime example of the aforementioned human bias against facts. Visitors would show their delight as they entered through the elegant wrought-iron gate. Once on the hospital grounds, they were favourably impressed by a generous court with lawn, flowers, and bushes. The white-framed windows spanned floor to ceiling, showing bright and well-ventilated wards that gave the illusion of a pleasant haven for the sick.

Yet, even the untrained eye should not have failed to notice a dense overpopulation: each of the forty cots in my ward was occupied by two or three patients, bonded together by their bodily fluids, oozing either from infected wounds or raw orifices. Due to chronic limitations of space, doctors and nurses disregarded what they knew about disease transmission under crowded conditions, and death spread like fire in a dry pine forest.

The staff considered the situation acceptable simply through habit. Any change would have required an investment of energy and consideration, neither willingly spent for anyone but oneself.

Therefore, nothing ever changed.

If I’d had a yet more irascible temperament than the one I already possessed, I would have openly held hospital staff responsible for the deaths of countless patients who succumbed to lack of proper care and hygiene. But then, those who entrusted us with their health and well-being might share a portion of the guilt, as it was common knowledge that the mortality of patients in hospitals was at least twice that of those who remained at home.

Sometimes I wondered how these people could possibly have got the idea that medical doctors were able to help. Although circumstance occasionally permitted me to cure disease, this sunny Saturday seemed to hold no such prospect.

The wire a nurse handed me complicated matters further: To Dr Kronberg: Your assistance is required. Possible cholera case at Hampton Waterworks. Come at once. Inspector Gibson, Scotland Yard.

* * *

I was a bacteriologist and epidemiologist, one of the best to be found in England, a fact due mostly to a paucity of scientists working in this very young field of research. In all of London, we were but three, the other being my former students. For the occasional cholera fatality or for any other victim who seemed to have been felled by an angry army of germs, I was invariably summoned.

As these calls came with some frequency, I had the occasional pleasure of working with the Metropolitan Police. They were a well-mixed bunch of men whose mental sharpness ranged from that of a butter knife to an overripe plum.

Inspector Gibson belonged to the plum category. The butter knives, fifteen in total, had been assigned to the murder division — a restructuring effort within the Yard in response to the recent Whitechapel murders and the hunt for the culprit commonly known as Jack the Ripper.

I slipped the wire into my pocket and asked the nurse to summon a hansom. Then I made my way down to my basement laboratory and the hole in the wall that I called my office. I threw a few belongings into my doctor’s bag and rushed to the waiting cab.

* * *

The driver insisted on hitting every single pothole on the way to Hampton Water Treatment Works, yet I did enjoy the ride, for it offered contentments long lost in London: greenery, fresh air, and once in a while, a glimpse of a river reflecting sunlight. As soon as the Thames entered London, it turned into the dirtiest stretch of moving water in all of England. As it crawled through the city, it became saturated with cadavers of all of the many species that populated the city, plus their excrements. The river washed them out to the sea, where they sank into the deep to be forgotten. London’s endless supply of filth seemed enough to defile the Thames for centuries to come. At times, this tired me so much that I felt the urge to pack my few belongings and move to a remote village. Perhaps to start a practice or breed sheep — or do both — and be happy. Unfortunately, I was a scientist and my brain needed exercise. Country life would soon become dull, I was certain.

The hansom came to a halt at a wrought-iron gate with a prominent forged iron sign arching above it, its two sides connecting to pillars of stone. Behind it stretched a massive brick complex adorned by three tall towers. I alighted and stepped onto a dirt road. Roughly half a mile east of me, a reservoir was framed by crooked willows and a variety of tall grasses. My somewhat elevated position allowed me to look upon the water’s dark blue surface which was decorated with hundreds of white splotches. The whooping, shrieking, and bustling about identified them as water birds. A low humming seeped through the open doors of the pumping station. Apparently, water was still being transported to London. A rather unsettling thought, considering the risk of cholera transmission.

Hampton Water Treatment Works was a prime example of the inertness of the government whenever money was to be invested or consideration given. It had taken Thomas Telford — a progressive and brilliant engineer — more than two decades to convince the authorities that Londoners had been drinking their own filth for much too long, that taking Thames water resulted in recurring cholera outbreaks and other gruesome diseases, and that a sufficient supply of clean drinking water was urgently needed.

Three police officers stood on the walkway to the main building — two blue-uniformed constables and one in plain clothes, he being Gibson. The bobbies answered my courteous nod with nods of their own, while Gibson pulled his mouth to a shape that looked like a drunken comma, held up a hand, and watched me walk past him.

I aimed for a man who, I hoped, was a waterworks employee. He was a bulky yet healthy-looking specimen, perhaps sixty or seventy years of age. A face framed by bushy white whiskers and mutton chops was topped up with eyebrows of equal consistency. He gave the impression of someone who would retire only when already dead. And he was looking strained, as though his shoulders bore a heavy weight.

‘Good day to you. My name is Dr Anton Kronberg. The police summoned me to examine a potential cholera fatality. I assume you are the chief engineer?’

‘Yes, sir. William Hathorne’s the name. Pleased to make your acquaintance.’ We shook hands, and then he added, ‘It was me who found the dead man.’

Behind me, Gibson made an indignant noise and began talking to his constables. I guessed he felt I had undermined his authority yet again. Unsurprising, for it would likely have required a greater degree of learning ability on his part to have become accustomed to my impertinence.

‘Was it you who claimed the man to be a cholera victim?’ I enquired.

‘Yes. It was very…obvious.’

‘But the pumps are still running.’

‘Open cycle. Nothing is being transported to London at the moment,’ Mr Hathorne supplied.

‘May I ask what makes you think he had cholera?’

He coughed and dropped his gaze to the grass by his shoes. ‘I lived on Broad Street.’

We stared at the vegetation for a moment, and I wondered whether the loss of a wife or child had burned the haggard and bluish look of cholera death into his memory. A few years before I was born, the water from a public pump on Broad Street had killed more than six hundred people, marking the end of London’s last cholera epidemic. A cesspit had been dug too close to the public pump, allowing the disease to spread quickly. As soon as both the pump and cesspit were shut down, the epidemic ceased.

‘I am sorry,’ I said softly. With a tightening chest, I wondered how many people would die if massive amounts of cholera germs should ever spread through London’s drinking water supply. But these waterworks were far away from the city, and the great mass of water over distance would dilute the germs to an undetectable and harmless level before ever reaching London. As very few people dared drink directly from the river, an epidemic was unlikely.

I straightened up. ‘Did you move the body, Mr Hathorne?’

‘Well, I had to. I couldn’t let him float in that trench, could I?’

‘You used your hands, I presume.’

‘What else would I use? My teeth?’ Naturally, Mr Hathorne looked puzzled.

While explaining that I must disinfect his hands, I bent down and extracted the bottle of creosote and a large handkerchief from my bag. A little stunned, he let me proceed.

‘You strike me as a man who keeps his eyes and ears open. Would you be able you tell me who else touched the man? It’s important to know, to prevent the disease from spreading.’

With shoulders squared and moustache bristling, he replied, ‘All the police officers, and that other man over there.’ His furry chin jerked towards the ditch.

I turned around and spotted the man Hathorne had indicated. He was tall and unusually lean, and for a brief moment, I almost expected him to be bent by the wind and sway back and forth in synchrony with the high grass surrounding him. He was making his way up to the river and soon disappeared into thick vegetation.

Gibson approached, hands in his trouser pockets, face balled to a fist. ‘Dr Kronberg.’

‘Just a moment,’ I said and turned back to the engineer.

‘Mr Hathorne, am I correct in assuming that the pumps — when not running in open cycle — take water from the reservoir and not directly from the trench?’

‘Yes, that is correct.’

‘So the contaminated trench water that had already entered the reservoir, should have been greatly diluted?’

‘Of course. But…who knows how long the dead fella was floating in there.’

‘Is it possible to reverse the direction of the water flow and flush the trench water back into the Thames?’

He considered my question, pulled his whiskers, then nodded.

‘Can you exchange the entire trench volume three times?’

‘I certainly can. But it would take the whole day…’ He looked as though he hoped I would change my mind.

‘Then it will take the whole day,’ I said. ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Hathorne.’ We shook hands, then I turned to Gibson. ‘Inspector, I will examine the body now. If you would show me the way?’

Gibson squinted at me, tipped his head a fraction, and then led the way up the path.

‘I will take a quick look at the man. If he is indeed a cholera victim, I will need you to get me every man who touched his body.’ After a moment of consideration, I added, ‘Forget what I said. I want to disinfect the hands of every single man who has been in the waterworks today.’

Gibson didn’t like to talk too much in my presence. We had cultivated a mutual dislike. Backed up by his underlings, he pretended to be hard-working, intelligent, and dependable — but was none of that. He must have won his position as a police inspector as the son of someone important because only a few men were as unqualified as he.

We followed a narrow path alongside the broad trench that connected the river to the reservoir. I wondered about its purpose — why store water when great quantities of it flowed past every day? Perhaps because moving water was turbid and the reservoir allowed the dirt to settle and the water to clear? I would ask Hathorne about it.

Gibson and I walked through grass that was tall enough that should I stray off the path (and I felt compelled to do so) its tips would tickle my chin. Large dragonflies whizzed past me, one almost colliding with my forehead. They did not seem to be accustomed to human invasion. The chaotic concert of water birds carried over from the nearby reservoir. A nervous screeching of small sandpipers mingled with the trumpeting of swans and the melancholic cries of a brace of cranes and brought back very old memories.

These pretty thoughts were wiped away instantly by a whiff of sickly-sweet decomposition. The flies had noticed it, too, and a cloud of them accompanied us as we approached a discarded-looking pile of clothes framing a man’s bluish face. Fish had carved him an expression of utter surprise. Lips, nose, and eyelids were gnawed off. He must have spent a considerable time floating face down.

The wind turned a little, and the stink hit us directly. Gibson pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and nose.

‘Three policemen are present. Why so many?’ I asked him. ‘And who is the tall man who darted off to the Thames? Is this a case of suspected murder?’

The inspector dropped his chin to reply as someone behind me cut across in a polite yet slightly bored tone, ‘A dead man could not have climbed a fence.’

Surprised, I turned around and had to crane my neck. The man who had spoken was a head taller than I and wore a sharp and determined expression. He continued in the same bored, but slightly amused tone, ‘And so Inspector Gibson concluded that someone must have shoved the body into the waterworks. He further concluded that this was done to cause panic. Everyone remembers the Broad Street epidemic. Gibson summoned as many men as he possibly could on such short notice to assist him, and to keep this from the press. As we all know from experience, the number of people involved in a secret is directly proportional to the distance said secret will travel.’ His mouth twitched.

Keen, light grey eyes pierced mine for a moment and then slid away. Apparently, nothing of interest had presented itself. I was greatly relieved. At that moment, I couldn’t help but fear that he might see through my disguise. But, as usual, I was surrounded by blindness.

The sharp contrast between the two men in front of me was almost ridiculous. Gibson seemed to lack facial muscles and his lower lip was more rain gutter than a communication tool. He almost constantly worked his jaws, picked and chewed his nails, and perspired on the very top of his skull.

The other man, highly alert, seemed to consider himself a superior specimen, judging from the way he talked about Gibson in his presence (although I had to confess, I would likely have done the same), and by the self-confidence he exuded that bordered on arrogance. His attire and demeanour bespoke a man who had enjoyed a spoiled upper-class upbringing.

Gibson lowered the handkerchief and wiped the frown off his face. ‘Mr Holmes, this is Dr Anton Kronberg, an epidemiologist from Guy’s.’

I held out my hand, which was taken, squeezed firmly, and quickly dropped as though infected. ‘Dr Kronberg, this is Mr Sherlock Holmes,’ finished the inspector, making it sound as though I should know who Sherlock Holmes was.

I gave the man a nod and asked if the body had indeed been pushed into the trench.

‘Unlikely,’ Mr Holmes answered.

‘How can you be sure?’

‘There are no marks on either side of the Thames water’s edge, the body shows no signs of being transported with a hook, rope, a boat, or similar, and…’ He trailed off, and I made a mental note to go and check the Thames’s flow to ascertain that a body could indeed have floated into the trench without help.

Mr Holmes narrowed his eyes at me. His gaze flew from my slender hands to my small feet, swept over my slim figure and my not-very-masculine face. Then his attention got stuck on my flat chest for a second. A last look at my throat, the nonexistent Adam’s apple hidden behind a high collar and cravat, and his eyes flared with surprise. A slight smile flickered across his face while his head produced an almost imperceptible nod.

Suddenly, my clothes felt too small, my hands too clammy, my neck too tense, and the rest of my body too hot. I was itching all over and had to force myself to keep breathing. Had he just discovered my secret? In these few minutes? It couldn’t be, could it? I’d fooled everyone else for years. No one had ever guessed who I was. Or what I was, I should say.

I took a deep breath. I was surrounded by policemen, and if I had indeed been discovered, my fate was sealed. I would lose my occupation, my degree, and my residency to spend a few years in jail. When finally released, I would do what? Embroider doilies?

Before doing something reckless and stupid, I pushed past the two men and made for the Thames. I would have to deal with Holmes when he was alone. The notion of knocking him on his head and throwing him into the river appeared very attractive, but I flicked the silly thought away and forced myself to focus on the business at hand.

First I needed to know how the body could possibly have got into that trench. The grass was intact. No blades were bent except for where I had seen Mr Holmes walking along. I looked around on the ground, somewhat irritated that Mr Holmes was observing my movements. Only one set of footprints was visible, which must belong to Mr Holmes. I picked up a few rotten branches and dry twigs, broke them into pieces of roughly arm’s length, and cast them into the Thames. Most of them made it into the trench and drifted towards me. A sand bank was producing vortices just at the mouth of the trench, causing my floats to enter the trench instead of being carried away by the much greater force of the river. Chances were good that it was only the water that had pushed the body in.

‘Your assertion might be correct, Mr Holmes,’ I noted while passing him. He didn’t appear bored anymore. That could only mean he was making plans on whether to blackmail me or report me to the police straight away.

As I walked back to the corpse, my stomach felt as if I had eaten a brick.

The exposed skin of the dead man indicated that he’d been in the water for approximately thirty-six hours. I knelt and opened my bag. Mr Holmes squatted down on the opposite side, too close to the body for my taste.

‘Don’t touch it,’ I said.

He showed no reaction, just swept his gaze over the dead man.

To better gauge Mr Holmes’s character and my chances of remaining undiscovered, or perhaps simply because I was nervous, I made conversation. ‘Do you happen to know how fast the Thames flows here, Mr Holmes?’

Without looking up he muttered, ‘Thirty miles from here at the most.’

‘Considering which duration of exposure?’

‘Twenty-four to thirty-six hours.’

‘Interesting. Do you have a medical education?’ He had correctly assessed the time the man had spent in the water. He had also calculated the maximum distance the corpse could have travelled downstream.

‘Merely that of a layman.’ He crouched lower, screwing his eyes half-shut.

I got the impression that he vibrated with an intellectual energy that wanted to be utilised. ‘Are you an odd version of a private detective? You must be. The police never call them in. At least, I’ve never heard of them doing so.’

‘I prefer the term consulting detective.’ He looked up briefly, somewhat absent-mindedly, then turned his attention back to the corpse.

‘I see.’ I, too, turned my attention back to the body. The man was extremely emaciated. His skin had the typical blue tinge and looked paper-thin. This was most definitely cholera in the final stage. I reached out, about to examine his clothes for signs of violence when Mr Holmes barked a sharp, ‘Wait!’

Before I could protest, he yanked a magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket, elbowed me aside, and hovered over the corpse. The fact that his nose almost touched the man’s coat was rather unsettling. ‘He must have been dressed by someone else,’ he said.

‘Was he now.’

Looking a little irritated, he held out his magnifying glass to me, an eyebrow at a mocking angle. I wiped my hands on the grass and took the offered tool.

Mr Holmes started to talk rather fast then. ‘The man was obviously right-handed — that hand having more calluses on the palms, and appearing generally stronger. Yet you will observe greasy thumbprints pushing in from the left-hand side of his coat buttons.’

I spotted the prints, put my nose as close as possible, and sniffed — corpse smell, Thames water, and possibly the faintest hint of petroleum hiding underneath the aforementioned stink. ‘Petroleum. Perhaps from an oil lamp,’ I muttered more to myself.

Examining his hands, I found superficial scratches, swelling and bruises on the knuckles of the right hand. Probably from a fistfight only a day or two before his death — odd, given his weakness. His hands seemed to have been strong and rough once but had not been doing hard work for a while now, for the calluses had started to peel off. His fingernails had multiple discolourations, showing that he had been undernourished and sick for weeks before contracting cholera. He must have been living in extreme poverty before he died. I wondered where he had come from. His clothes were tattered and a size too large. Debris from the river had collected in folds and pockets. I examined his sleeves, turned his hands around, and found a pale red banding pattern around his wrists.

‘Restraint marks,’ said Mr Holmes. ‘This man used to be a farm worker, but lost his occupation three to four months ago.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. He must have based his judgement on the man’s clothes, boots, and hands. ‘However, the man could have had any other physically demanding occupation. He could as well have been a coal miner. The clothes are not necessarily his.’

Mr Holmes sat up. ‘We can safely assume that he owned these boots for about a decade.’ He pulled off a boot and held it next to a pale and wrinkled foot. The sole, worn down to a thin layer of rubber, contained a major hole where the man’s heel used to sit, and showed a perfect imprint of the shape of the man’s foot and toes. The shape of a thick callus on the man’s heel fit perfectly the hole in the sole.

‘I figured that you must have taken a close look at him before I arrived, for you spoke about the lack of signs of transport by a boat, a hook, or rope. Now it appears you’ve touched and even undressed the corpse?’

‘It was but a superficial examination. I found it more pressing to investigate how the body entered the trench.’

I blew out a breath. ‘You have put your hands to your face at least twice, even scratched your chin very close to your lips. Quite reckless, don’t you think? It is rather likely that his clothes are contaminated with faecal germs — an unfortunate circumstance of uncontrollable diarrhoea.’

His gaze darted to the corpse, then to his hands, and my face. I passed him a handkerchief soaked in creosote and he wiped himself off with care. Then, without further comment on the matter, he bent low over the corpse yet again and pointed at something. ‘What is this?’

I picked at the smudge he had indicated. It was a small green feather that was tucked into a small tear just below the coat’s topmost buttonhole. I smoothed it and rubbed off the muck.

‘From an oriole female. How unusual! I haven’t heard their call for many years.’

‘A rare bird?’ he asked.

‘Yes, but I can’t tell where this feather has come from. I have never heard this bird’s call in the London area. The man could have found the feather far away from here, could have been carrying it around for quite a while…’ I trailed off, examining the small quill and the light grey down.

‘The quill is still somewhat soft,’ I murmured, ‘and the down is not worn. This feather wasn’t plucked by a bird of prey or a fox or the like; it was moulted. He had it for a few weeks at most, which means he must have found it just before he became ill, or someone gave it to him while he was sick.’

Surprised, Mr Holmes sat back, and I felt an odd urge to explain myself. ‘In my childhood, I spent rather too much time in treetops and learned a lot about birds. The quill tip shows that the feather has been pushed out by a newly emerging one. Most songbirds begin moulting in late spring. The farther north they live, the later moulting starts. The bird must have shed this feather in late spring or midsummer this year. Wherever this man spent his last days is close to the nesting place of an oriole pair. A female is never alone at that time of year.’

‘Where do these birds live?’ he enquired.

‘In old forests, where water is nearby, such as a lake or a stream. An adjacent wetland would do, too.’

‘The Thames?’

‘Possibly,’ I mused and was suddenly reminded of the lurking danger. The brick in my stomach became unbearable. I didn’t know if he had truly seen what was behind my facade, but I had to know. ‘Are you planning to give me away?’

There was not a trace of surprise or puzzlement. Instead, he looked amused. He knew precisely what I meant. ‘You don’t fancy going to India, I presume.’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement. The few British women who had managed to get a medical degree eventually gave in to the mounting social pressure and left for India, out of the way of the exclusively male medical establishment.

‘No, I do not. You have not answered my question.’

‘If I believed in the validity of all our societal norms and fashions, I would have reported you the instant I discovered your secret. However, I have always believed women are more capable than men credit them for. If they give them any credit at all.’

‘I had hoped it would not be so evident,’ I said quietly.

‘It is evident to me. I fancy myself rather observant.’

‘So I’ve noticed. Yet you are still here, despite the fact that this case appears to bore you. I wonder why that is.’

‘I haven’t formed an opinion yet. But it does indeed seem to be a rather dull one. I wonder…’ Thoughtfully, he gazed at me and I realised that he had stayed to analyse me. I represented a curiosity.

‘What made you change your identity?’ he enquired.

‘That’s none of your concern, Mr Holmes.’

Suddenly, his expression changed as his modus operandi switched to analysis, and after a moment he seemed to reach a conclusion. ‘I dare say that guilt might be the culprit.’

‘What?’

‘Women weren’t allowed a higher education until very recently, and so you had to cut your hair and disguise yourself as a man to be able to study medicine. But the intriguing question remains: Why did you accept such drastic measures for a degree? Your accent is evident — you are a German who learned English in the Boston area. Harvard Medical School?’

I nodded once. My odd mix of American and British English and the German linguistic baggage were rather obvious.

‘At first, I thought you lived in East End, but I was wrong. You live in or very near St Giles.’ He pointed a long finger to the splashes on my shoes and trousers. I wiped them every day before entering Guy’s, but some bits always remained.

‘The brown stains on your right index finger and thumb appear to be from harvesting parts of a medicinal plant.’

‘Milk thistle,’ I croaked.

‘You probably treat the poor free of charge, considering you use a herb that is certainly not used in hospitals, and the location in which you choose to live. London’s worst rookery! You seem to have a tendency towards exaggerated philanthropy!’ He flicked an eyebrow, his mouth lightly compressed, a mix of amusement and dismissal shining on his face.

‘You don’t care much about the appearance of your clothes,’ he went on, ignoring my cold stare. ‘They are a bit tattered on the sleeves and the collar, but surely not for lack of money. You have too little time! You probably have no tailor blind enough not to discover the details of your anatomy.’

I shot a nervous glance over his shoulder, assessing the distance to Gibson or any of his men. Mr Holmes waved at me impatiently, showing that my anxiety about being discovered by yet another man meant nothing to him. Fury roiled hot in my stomach.

He continued without pause. ‘You have no one you can trust at your home, no housekeeper or maid to keep your secret. That forces you to do everything for yourself. In addition, there are your nightly excursions in the slums to treat your neighbours. You probably don’t fancy sleep very much?’ His voice was taunting now.

‘I sleep four hours a day, on average.’

He continued in a dry, machine-like rat-tat-tat. ‘You are very compassionate, even with the dead.’ He pointed to the corpse between us. ‘One of the few, typical female attitudes you exhibit, although in your case it’s not a thing merely learned — there is a heaviness, a weight behind it. I must conclude that you feel guilty because someone you loved died. And now you want to help prevent that from happening to others. But you must fail repeatedly because death and disease are natural. Considering your peculiar circumstances and your unconventional behaviour, I propose that you come from a poor home. Your father raised you after your mother died? Perhaps soon after your birth? Obviously, there hasn't been much female influence in your upbringing.’

Utterly taken aback by the triumph in his demeanour, I snarled, ‘You are oversimplifying, Mr Holmes.’ Rarely had anyone made me so angry, and only with effort could I keep my voice under control. ‘It’s not guilt that drives me. I would not have got so far if not for the passion I feel for medicine. My mother did die and I resent you for the pride you feel in deducing private details of my life. Details I do not wish to discuss with you!’

The man’s gaze flickered a little.

‘I met people like you at Harvard. Brilliant men, in need of constant stimulation of their mind, who see little else than their work. Your brain runs in circles when not put to hard work, and boredom is your greatest torture.’

Mr Holmes’s eyes sharpened.

‘I saw those men use cocaine when there was nothing else at hand to tickle their minds. What about you, Mr Holmes?’ His pupils dilated at the word “cocaine.” I smiled. ‘It doesn’t help much, does it? Perhaps it is the cello that puts some order into that too-chaotic mind of yours?’

I pointed to his left hand. ‘The calluses on your fingertips. And how you hold the wrist of your right hand at times, as though you are holding a bow. But no, it’s not the cello. The cello wants to be embraced. You prefer the violin — she can be held at a distance. You are a passionate man and you hide it well. But do you really believe that outsmarting everyone around you is an accomplishment?’

His expression was controlled and neutral, but his pupils were dilated to the maximum.

I rose to my feet, took a step forward, put my face close to his, and said softly, ‘It feels like a stranger just ripped off all your clothes, doesn’t it? Don’t you dare dig into my private life again.’ I tipped my hat, turned away, and left him in the grass.