The Fall E-Book

Annelie Wendeberg

• Herausgeber: Annelie Wendeberg
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Anna Kronberg Mysteries
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Illustrated edition of book 2 in the award-winning Anna Kronberg Mysteries.
Anna Kronberg wakes up with a gun to her head. James Moriarty offers her a single bargain: to develop biological weapons for him, or she and her father will die. As Britain’s foremost bacteriologist, she certainly has the skills. But will she make a deal with the devil and aid in mass murder? Or will she sacrifice the only family she has left? Anna sees only one way out: She has to play a dangerous game of deception. If she fails, her experiments with deadly diseases will have terrifying and far-reaching consequences.

Leseprobe

Copyright 2014 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

Interior design: Annelie Wendeberg

Editing: Tom Welch

ISBN: 978-91-989004-0-8

Bonus material at the end of this book:

Preview of The Journey - Anna Kronberg Book 3

CONTENTS

Title Page

All you need to know…

South Downs

Two Men

Day 1

Day 2

Day 3

Day 10

Day 14

Day 19

Day 40

Day 49

Day 52

Day 53

Day 54

Day 55

Day 57

Day 58

Day 59

Day 62

Day 63

Day 64

Day 66

Day 67

Day 69

Day 71

Day 74

Day 81

Day 82

Day 89

Day 90

Day 91

Day 93

Day 94

Day 104

Day 131

Day 142

Day 151

Day 152

Day 160

Day 171

Day 183

Day 184

To the Continent

Anton

The Fallen

The Journey - Preview

Arlington & McCurley Mysteries

Keeper of Pleas Mysteries

The 1/2986 Series

More…

Acknowledgments

Credits

ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW…

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August Moon in the South Downs (1)

And soon the rotting corpses tainted the air and poisoned the water supply, and the stench was so overwhelming that hardly one in several thousand was in a position to flee the remains of the Tartar army.

Gabrielle De’ Mussi, 1348, on the Siege of Caffa

For this moment, this one moment, we are together. I press you to me. Come, pain, feed on me. Bury your fangs in my flesh. Tear me asunder. I sob, I sob.

Virginia Woolf

WEDNESDAY NIGHT, OCTOBER 22, 1890

Cold metal pressed my head hard against the mattress. Two sharp clicks and the scents of gun oil sent my heart jumping out of my throat. The muzzle was flush against my temple. If fired, the bullet would rip straight through my brain, driving blood and nerve tissue through the mattress and down onto the floor. If the gun were tilted just a little, the bullet would circle inside my skull, leaving a furrow in the bone and pulp in its wake.

I don’t know why those were my first thoughts. What does one normally think when faced with imminent death?

‘Get up,’ a male voice cut through the dark. ‘Slowly.’

I opened my eyes.

‘Sit over there,’ he rasped, waving a bullseye lantern toward the table. I rose and shuffled over to a chair. My knees felt like water. I sat and the backrest squeaked in protest.

A match was struck, illuminating a face chiselled in hardwood, cracked by tension and age. Sulphur hung in the air. A man of approximately fifty years sat across from me. He held the match to a candle and cast the room into unsteady light.

He sat back and stared at me, waiting. Waves of goosebumps rolled over my skin. He seemed to be waiting for me to speak, to ask what he was doing here, and why he was holding me at gunpoint. But I had no words.

‘You are good at hiding,’ he said.

Not good enough, though. I swallowed. Would I beg at some point? Should I, even? Probably not. It was more likely that a word — a wrong word — would end my life in an instant.

Suddenly, my ears picked up a sound. Nearly inaudible. I tried to analyse it, play it back in my head to understand what had caused it, what it meant. It wasn’t one of the noises an old house made when the wind leant into it.

The man interrupted my thoughts. ‘Last spring, a group of physicians was captured by the police and led to trial. Only two months later, they found their end at the gallows.’

I remembered that day. I’d sat on this very same chair and read about the hanging of sixteen medical men along with the superintendent of Broadmoor Lunatic Asylum and four of his guards. All were convicted of murder and manslaughter. And I still remember the fear that had crept in when I realised that not one of the articles reported on the experiments these men have performed on abducted paupers. That same fear raised its head, and I knew what the noise behind me meant: the floorboards had produced a lone pop. The tiny hairs on my neck rose in response. As though to assess the danger lurking there.

‘All but one,’ the man interrupted.

My neck had begun to ache. There was another noise, behind me and very close: the soft hiss of air through nostrils.

Shock widened my senses with a snap. Was the man behind me a backup? Someone to break my neck, if needed? I coughed and flicked my gaze toward the window and back again. For a short moment, I shut my eyes, examining the reflection that burned into my mind: the small prick of candlelight, the table, the man sitting, myself in a nightgown, and a tall, slender figure behind me. I opened my eyes, hoping the behaviour of the man facing me would tell me more about the other.

‘Only Dr Anton Kronberg made his escape. He even overpowered Mr Sherlock Holmes. Odd, isn’t it.’

My fingertips grew ice cold. The Club! Holmes had given this dubious title to the group of physicians that tested deadly bacteria on workhouse inmates. It had taken us months to round them up. Yet we were unable to identify the head of the organisation who had caused so much suffering and death. Ever since my escape to the Downs, I feared he would find me and take revenge. I eyed the man in front of me, wondering why he talked to me at all, and what he planned to do to me before pulling the trigger.

‘Imagine my surprise when I finally found Anton Kronberg. He lives in a small village in Germany. Scrapes by as a carpenter.’ A smile tugged at the man’s face.

I couldn’t breathe.

‘The man has a single child. A daughter. But you know that of course.’ Again that half smile. ‘Tell me, Doctor Anna Kronberg, what shall I do with you now?’

‘What have you done to my father?’

He flashed a row of yellowed teeth. I made an effort to slow my frantic heart and stop my imagination from showing me the corpse of my father. I forced my senses outward, to the man behind me. He seemed calm. No hitch in his breathing, no quickening. All was according to plan, it appeared.

‘You do say rather little,’ the man in front of me said.

‘You have not asked a single question,’ I croaked.

No audible reaction from the man behind. The man facing me smiled a thin line and fingered his gun. His eyes were glued to my face, as mine flicked between his and the weapon’s hammer. He repeatedly pulled and released it. Click-click. Click-click.

‘Will you admit to these accusations?’ Click-click.

‘Your accusations must have escaped my notice.’

The clicking stopped. His eyes flicked sideways and back at me again, as though he wanted to check with the other man, but could not reveal that man’s presence by looking at him directly. Behind me, I heard a faint smack. It made me think of wet lips being pulled apart. Was he smiling? For a heartbeat, I had the insane thought it was Holmes.

‘Do I amuse you?’ asked the man in front of me. Click-click. Click-click. He had both elbows leisurely propped on his thighs, his weapon held loosely in his right hand. The lantern at his feet seemed to illuminate only the triangle of knees, hands, and gun. The light reflecting off the hammer’s silvery tip — polished by repeated toying — stung my eyes.

‘I find you remarkably unfunny,’ I answered.

He waited. We both did. And then I made a mistake. ‘What does a man from the military want from me?’ It was only a guess based on the few things I had seen: his physique, how he moved, how he expected instant obedience, how he held the revolver.

‘What do you know?’ he snapped, just before noticing that he, too, had made a mistake.

‘You broke into my cottage to press a gun to my head and tell me things I already know. There is a man behind me who is very calm, approximately six feet tall, and rather lean. I’m guessing that he is the brain of this operation, while you are merely the brute.’

There was no time to flinch before his fist hit my temple.

* * *

Whispers tickled my consciousness. I heard a groan; it came from inside my chest. My head thrummed, and blue flashes of light flickered across the inside of my eyelids. I found myself on my mattress, my hands bound across my stomach. I inhaled a slow breath, and the whispering stopped. Blinking, I turned my head. Two men sat at the table and looked at me as though expecting to be served tea and biscuits, plus the latest gossip.

‘Funny,’ I said.

The taller of the two pulled up his eyebrows. ‘You do realise that having seen my face diminishes your chances of survival?’

I said nothing.

‘Shall we continue, then? How did you escape? And how the deuce did you overpower Mr Holmes?’

Oh, well. How indeed could a woman of my stature knock out a man who was said to never have lost a fistfight? I almost laughed. My throat tightened as I thought back to the day Holmes and I went separate ways. I certainly wouldn’t explain the details to those two men. Or anyone for that matter. I cleared my sticky that and said, ‘It was rather simple. I kissed him.’

The tall man’s nostrils flared. He threw back his head and barked a laugh. A heartbeat later, he recovered from the emotional outbreak. Turning to the other man he said, ‘Colonel, what about a drop of tea?’

At once, the Colonel stood and made for my kitchen. I heard a match being struck, the soft hiss of the oil 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 it seemed that 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 approached, bent over me, grabbed my neck, and pulled me up into a sitting position. Casually, he sat on the mattress next to me. ‘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 trembling chin betrayed my shock.

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

I felt the blood drain from my face and drop to my toes. ‘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 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 believed. 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 dipped his head and fraction, 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.’

‘How charming.’

‘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 might’ve been.

‘I am merely a bystander,’ the man said with a wink.

My skin crawled. ‘The bystander who pulls the strings?’

He said nothing for a long moment. Just looked at me as though he wasn’t quite sure what to ask next. I jumped when he leaned closer. He pulled a blanket over my shoulders and smiled. It made me think of how I killed my hens: I calmed them and caressed their heads and backs until they were entirely unsuspecting. And then I cut their head off.

‘You infiltrated theClub and brought them down with the help of Mr Holmes,’ he said.

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

He leant back a little, cocked his head, and nodded at me to continue.

And so I did. ‘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, who — like Holmes — knew my secret. 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.’

The man turned to his companion, and I got the impression that he grew impatient. My time was running out.

‘I 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.’ Images of a dying woman invaded my mind. I shoved them away. ‘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.

For once a reaction I had anticipated. ‘You are correct. He would have never asked such a thing from just anyone.’ I paused. It sickened me what I had to say next. ‘But Holmes 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 set me free.’ 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 gazed back at the man and said, ‘I know you want something from me, or you would not have given me the time to utter a single word. 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. He blinked the shock away so quickly, that I wasn’t sure I had even seen it.

‘You have my loyalty,’ I answered.

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

Finally, I noticed the peculiar situation — the brute had made tea, and the brain served it. I gazed at the two men. ‘What did you put 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 Professor 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.

Nausea hit as I opened my eyes. The ceiling wafted from left to right. The taste of vomit bit my tongue. I touched my face that felt like ants had built a nest under my skin. Blinking, I looked around. The nightgown I wore was unfamiliar, as was the room and the bed I was in. I had no recollection of how I had got here.

My throat tightened. I couldn’t breathe.

I slapped my cheeks and 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 words Moriarty said — before the poison swallowed me — hit me like a hammer. My father was a hostage! My breath came in bursts. I pushed myself upright, fighting to stay conscious. Bile welled up, and I forced it back down. Reality seemed to crack. I could almost see fissures forming around me. Shaking, I sank back onto the bed.

I threw an arm over my face and squeezed a sob into my sleeve. Part of my mind began puzzling over a way to fix this. Fix everything. But most of me was frozen in shock.

This won’t do. Pull yourself together! I sat up and found a glass on the nightstand. A cautious sniff told me it was probably only water. I drank it all and it helped clear my head a bit. I took deep breaths. In and out. My heart wouldn’t calm, but my mind slowly did. My goals were clear: save my father and foil Moriarty’s plans. But how would I get there? Could I even? Yes. I would and I could, because there was no other way.

Although I wanted all this to happen at once, I knew I needed patience. Patience to find my father and free him. And then I would find the weakness in Moriarty’s plan. The keystone that, once extracted, would make the vault crumple.

Good. A plan always made me feel better. I let my eyes sweep the room. There was only one word to describe this place: luxurious. Oddly, the two windows lacked bars. I rose and took a few steps toward the nearest one. A timid knock stopped me.

Hastily, I sat back down and pulled the blanket over my legs. ‘Yes?’

A short woman stepped in, curtsied, and said, ‘Are you feeling a little better, Miss?’

‘Yes, thank you. Who are you?’

‘I am Gooding. Your maid, Miss.’

‘You are jesting,’ I blurted out. She blushed and took a step back. ‘My apologies, I’m not used to…all this. Can you tell me what time it is, Miss Gooding?’

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

‘I’m not sure I can eat yet.’

‘Would you like to wash?’

I nodded.

‘Very good. I will bring warm water and towels in a moment.’ She curtsied again and shut the door. I waited for the sound of a key in a lock, but it didn’t come.

Had I dreamt of my abduction? What a stupid thought. I shook my head and instantly regretted it. My brain was sloshing around in my skull. I doubled over, gulped air until I felt better, and walked back to the window.

There was a large, well-tended garden two storeys down. Maple trees waved red and golden foliage at the evening sun. Old ivy scaled the wall of this side of the house. An escape route, easily laid out. I began to doubt my sanity.

The maid returned, carrying an ewer, 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 sluggish mind. ‘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 where my clothes are?’

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’d left I tottered around in the room, trying to make sense of what I saw. The only thing there that belonged to me was myself. Even my clothes had been taken away. No doubt this had been done on purpose. But why? To leave me feeling even more vulnerable?

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

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

Dear Dr Kronberg.

I hope you are feeling better. My apologies for the inconvenience of the chloral. I trust you have noticed the comforts offered to you, but I do hope these will not lead you to incorrect assumptions. Any attempt you should make to leave the premises would be futile. The dogs know your scent and would tear you to pieces. My steward will accompany you everywhere, except of course into 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 will cost him his head. I sincerely hope this will not spoil your stay in my humble home.

Yours,

Professor James Moriarty.

PS: I shall be delighted to meet with you tomorrow at suppertime.

The letter sailed back onto the mattress. I pressed my knuckles to my mouth to stop the cry that wanted to tear my throat wide open. My poor father…

My cheeks felt wet. I dashed at them, irritated. Not a single clear thought was to be found in my mind. My heart was hammering. Find something to do. Don’t fall apart.

I made for the wardrobe. The fancy silk dresses were all too large for me. I stepped back and spotted a small wooden box on a chest of drawers. I turned the key and blinked at a collection of earrings, necklaces and rings adorned with pearls, amethysts, and other gems I’d never seen before.

All of this had once belonged to someone. Was she dead? I couldn’t help but look for bloodstains on the walls and furniture, for any sign of the identities and number of Moriarty’s victims, or how they might have met their ends.

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

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

The yellow-haired, doe-eyed maid. The cap she wore made me think of an embroidered mushroom. Comical. If her naiveté was genuine, I might be able to extract information without her noticing.

I looked up. The lamp hanging from the ceiling looked entirely different from any gas lamp I’d seen. I pulled up a chair and investigated the contraption. Inside it was a glass bulb shaped like a pear, with a cable leading from the device to a switch next to the door. Electricity! The house had to be in a city. Maybe even London? Hopeful, I rushed back to the window, trying to find something familiar. I saw only trees, bushes, lawn, fencing, and more trees and lawn. I tried the window. It opened easily and I leant out. Far to the right, I spotted the bluish roof of a large house with a small tower in the middle. It, too, was obscured by trees but looked faintly familiar.

There were no other houses on the premises, which was good — no one could easily watch me through the window. But there were no other houses or streets within view. Sending light signals would make little sense. And would be too dangerous.

The water in the jug was still warm. I opened the package, revealing a small can of toothpowder, a toothbrush, a hairbrush, and a bar of soap. The scent of patchouli curled up, contrasting with the stench of vomit stuck in my hair. I washed thoroughly. My temple was still sore from Moran’s punch, but I found no blood on it.

I rubbed my skin and hair dry with what must have been the softest towel in the world, thinking that whatever I found would be either important — or irrelevant — to my father’s survival.

Whatever might come at me, I would greet it without emotion.

And yet… My heart seemed unable to listen to my cold mind. It was still trying to crack my ribs.

* * *

With nothing else to wear, I dressed in the nightgown again and pulled the bell rope. The maid arrived a few moments later.

‘Miss Gooding, might I ask you to lend me a dress? These here,’ I waved at the wardrobe, ‘are too large.’ The maid was slender and small, her clothes should fit. But my enquiry seemed to shock her.

‘Oh, but Miss, the tailor should arrive any minute now.’

‘The tailor?’ I was stunned. ‘Miss Gooding, can you tell me whose room this is?’

‘Why, it’s yours.’

I wanted to jump at her. ‘Who lived here before me?’

She shrugged. ‘No one.’

‘Whose dresses are these in the wardrobe?’ I was getting desperate.

The door flung open. Miss Gooding clapped a hand to her mouth.

‘Gooding, go back to where you came from. Dr Kronberg, questioning the maid is useless, for she knows nothing.’ The man’s skull shone through sparse hair. With his jacket tails, and the impeccable shirt stretched over his barrel chest, he looked like an austere house martin in black and white. His stance and expression, though, were those of a bully with experience.

The maid used the moment of distraction to slip out the door.

‘Durham, the steward.’ He managed to dip his chin ever so slightly. ‘The tailor will arrive in a minute. Supper will be served in an hour. That is all you need to know for now.’ He turned on his heel, shoes squeaking, tails flying. The door snapped shut, and I relaxed my fists.

A knock announced the tailor. He was a small man with mouse-like features. He rushed in, closed the door with a jerk of his arm, and scurried toward me. His small hand took mine gingerly and he bent down to breathe on my knuckles. He introduced himself as Mr Nicolas Smith, of Smith and Associates. He pulled out a measuring tape, flicked it here and there, scribbled numbers onto his notepad, and was finished within seconds. ‘What materials and colours do you prefer, Miss?’

‘Dark, please. Simple cuts without buffs or laces, as they would hinder my work. I prefer front-buttoned dresses.’

His pointy face collapsed. Women of the upper class expected to dress elaborately, with useless appendages that made it impossible to even lace one’s shoes. God forbid they should dress or undress without the help of a maid! But I had no claim to a social status whatsoever — for years I had masqueraded as a man. The results were an obscene urge for independence and an education that far exceeded that of most women. I had always observed such social categorisation from a safe distance. But now I would have to pay attention, as I was being placed in the same cage as all the other pretty birds — wives, sisters, and daughters of men with more money than they had need for.

I dropped my gaze to the hems of my nightgown, already missing the freedom that trousers provided.

The tailor fidgeted and lowered his head in sad acknowledgement.

‘Thank you, Mr Smith.’ I said softly, upon which he blushed. ‘Can you tell me how long it would take you to finish one dress? Mine were destroyed, and now all I have is this.’ I picked at my nightgown.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ He pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Well, I think under these circumstances I could finish the first dress in two days. Would that be acceptable?’

Two days in a nightgown? ‘Mr Smith, do you think you could make one of these fit by tomorrow morning?’ I showed him the contents of the wardrobe.

He inspected each dress and chose one made of dark green silk. ‘This one should be fairly easy to resize. I could deliver it tomorrow morning.’

‘I am deeply indebted to you, Mr Smith.’ I produced a tiny curtsy.

He chuckled, red-cheeked, then left with a bow and a muttered ‘Farewell’.

I stared at the closed door, as though it were his back. The man had seemed friendly and caring but blushed so easily that I did not think him fit to lie for me without being discovered. I pressed my ear to the door. Footfall. No conversation.

Durham must have been puzzled by Mr Smith’s state. But then, I was in a nightgown. For a man to blush and be nervous around a scantily clad woman would be considered normal. And perhaps I was giving Durham too much credit.

My fear was giving him too much credit. And the sluggishness of my mind was making me even more fearful.

I drank all the water from the ewer to wash out the remaining poison. Then I inspected the room again, starting with the area around the bed. There were no doors to neighbouring rooms. Good. I wasn’t certain whether or not I tended to talk in my sleep.

But something essential was missing. I rang for the maid.

‘Miss Gooding, I could not find the chamber pot….’ Her lopsided smile stopped me.

‘We have water closets, Miss.’

‘Oh.’ The rich all had plumbing and hot water. Of course.

‘May I show you to it, Miss?’

‘Where is Mr Durham?’ I had barely finished speaking when his heels came clacking over floorboards, were briefly dulled by carpet, and then his head showed in the door frame.

‘Miss Kronberg wants to see the water closet,’ the maid explained, her head bowed.

‘I will take it from here,’ Durham said. ‘Follow me, please.’

We walked through a corridor and turned to the right. He opened the door to a small room with wood-panelled walls and a flowery porcelain bowl with a wooden seat.

Without a word, I entered and shut the door.

I had never seen a water closet in a private home. Its drain looked different from the ones I had seen at Guy’s and the medical school — it appeared…S-shaped? Definitely not straight. The nonexistent stink was puzzling. I almost thrust my hand into the drain to investigate.

Was it possible that the water standing in the bend of the drain prevented foul odours from rising up through the plumbing? If every Londoner had a water closet installed, would it prevent the spreading of disease? We could possibly even get cholera epidemics under control. How would London change if people no longer dug cesspits? I stood back, wondering whether the problem of disease transmission would truly be reduced, or only relocated, together with the waste.

My chest froze. Water exited this house unsupervised. The question was, how I could use this to my advantage.

Durham stood at attention only inches from the door when I emerged.

‘How can I reach the water closet when you are not available?’ I asked, cringing at the thought of being at his mercy for such private matters.

‘Gooding will bring you a chamber pot.’

Back in my room, supper waited on a small table. The smell of cabbage was sickening.

* * *

It was past eleven o’clock at night. An oval moon peeked through the window, casting silver onto the floor. My bare feet walked irregular helices, in and out of the moonlight, from the rug to the naked floorboards and back again, gradually covering the entire area. By the end of my third round, I could recall every one of the sixteen places that produced a squeal when stepped upon.

I took a break and drank cold tea, forced the patterns from my mind and watched the yard below. The moonlight had painted the maples’ foliage silvery blue. Fog rose and swirled up where the dogs ran. Four large, broad-chested animals with short coats and flapping ears — mastiffs, perhaps? I had never been afraid of dogs, but I knew well enough that they were predators. In that, they did not differ much from mankind.

I shut my eyes, turned from the window, and walked blindly to the door and back to my bed without producing the slightest noise. Satisfied, I went back to the door and placed the empty teacup like a stethoscope on the wall.

Shuffling. Quiet breathing. Durham must have been leaning against the wall precisely where my head was. I pushed away and went all around the room, listening to every wall, but could hear nothing. The wall facing the corridor was the thinnest. The others were all weight-bearing and fairly massive. Durham could easily listen to all my movements in the room. It felt like being displayed in a fishbowl. Was Moriarty aware it worked both ways?

I took the small clock off the sideboard, placed it in the sheet of light that pushed through the gap beneath the door, and listened. Durham didn’t seem to move much. I sat down and wrapped a blanket around myself. It would be a long night.

Despite the exhaustion, worries about my father kept me awake. I tried to push my imagination aside. It only served to terrify me. I replaced it with old memories, closed my eyes, and smiled at the small horse he had made for my tenth birthday. Its mane and tail were bits of rabbit fur, its glass eyes had tiny lids made of thin black leather. A little worn, with eyes not as shiny as eighteen years earlier…it now stood in the window of my old room gazing out into my father’s garden.

I pressed my face into my sleeve and swallowed tears. I shifted my weight, focusing my attention on the noise outside the room. Nothing happened for a long time. Until, close to one o’clock, sharp footfalls echoed in the entrance hall. Then someone climbed the stairs and passed through the corridor below. The stairs creaked again, this time closer, and feet approached to stop at my door.

‘Professor,’ Durham said.

My heart galloped. I pressed a fist against my breastbone.

‘Is she inside?’ asked Moriarty.

That confused me. Certainly, he would know I was here with Durham guarding my door?

‘As you wished,’ was Durham’s answer.

‘Bolt the door. Then you may retire.’

‘Of course, Professor.’

A key was turned, and a bolt slid into place. Two pairs of feet walked off in two directions. Durham’s softer footfalls left for the stairs, while Moriarty’s sharper heels went only a few steps further. A door was being unlocked, then it snapped shut.

He couldn’t be sleeping in the room next to mine!

Gooseflesh prickled on my neck. I crept to my bed and pushed my ear against the wall. I heard him kick off his shoes and walk about softly. An occasional rustle, a clonk — perhaps from his watch being placed on a table or dresser. I thought I heard him go to bed with a growl. But he was tossing and turning, not finding rest. I kept listening until a sharp noise cut through the wall. I jerked my head away. My blood turned to ice.

In Moriarty’s room, a woman cried out.

The 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 did 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. As she strung up a corset that was slightly too large, her gaze swept over my face, neck and arms. Her lips tightened. Fine ladies didn’t have tanned skin, god forbid discernible musculature. Impossible to get those from sitting in pretty parlours, doing needlework, and sipping tea all day long. In Gooding’s eyes, I must have looked a savage. Yes, I thought, wonder why I am here. In a house like this. Begin to ask questions.

But she did not dare ask. It would have been unsuitable.

To need a servant to get dressed was highly embarrassing for me, though a normal routine for women of social standing. Disgusting. I’d use this quiet time with my maid to get to know her better. To prod and probe. Everyone has a weakness.

Even my captor.

I followed her with my gaze until she disappeared behind me to button the back of the dress the tailor had resized for me. We did not speak, and I let the silence grow heavy. She knelt and laced my boots. She cleared her throat as she stood, but didn’t look me in the eye. Her lids fluttered and her breath hitched.

She picked up a brush from the vanity and began pulling it through my black curls. Each stroke reached down to my neck only. The bristles tickled my skin and raised gooseflesh. 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 might take a walk through the house and perhaps go outside?’

‘Why would you not, Miss?’

‘I was told not to leave the room.’

She blinked.

‘Is Mr Durham available?’

‘I will call for him, Miss.’ She curtsied and left.

I made for the vanity but changed my mind and sat on the bed. I did not dare look at myself and wasn’t sure why.

Durham arrived eventually. 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 the length of the room.

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 learnt, Moriarty lived without a wife and children. Yet he employed a scullery maid, a kitchen maid, a parlour maid, a chambermaid, a laundry maid, an in-between maid, two cooks, a lady’s maid, a page, and a manservant. Whatever for?

Durham bade me sit at the massive oak table in the centre of the room. He cleared his throat, took up a position beside 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 Mrs 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 her gaze slid over to me, the hint of warmth that seemed reserved for Durham only, vanished.

I wondered what Moriarty had 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.

There was not the slightest change in his expression. Very appropriate for a servant. 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, and 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 dare not tell his master about this small slip in controlling the captive.

* * *

Later that day, 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 either of those two would embrace anything but a cold pillow.

I pushed the issue aside. More pressing was the meeting with Moriarty. He would want to discuss the isolation of bacteria, and probably the laboratory setup as well. All I wanted was to discuss the well-being of my father or, rather, to 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 man 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.

I sat up. I could use the name I had given him last spring! ‘Promise me that you’ll place an advertisement in The Times, asking for Caitrin Mae, when this case is either solved or threatens your life. I’ll find you then.’