The Journey E-Book

Annelie Wendeberg

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

Beschreibung

Book 3 of the award-winning Anna Kronberg Mysteries.
For Anna Kronberg, time is running out. Hunted by an assassin, she has to find the true motivation behind her dead husband’s plan to create weapons for germ warfare.  Bit by bit, she and Sherlock Holmes unravel a web of crime, espionage, and bioterrorism that spreads across continents. But all too soon, Anna realises that she can’t outrun the brutal and cunning man who follows their every step.

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 their 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

Editing: Tom Welch

Interior design: Annelie Wendeberg

ISBN: 978-91-989004-2-2

Bonus material at the end of this book:

Preview of Silent Witnesses - An Arlington & McCurley Mystery

CONTENTS

Title Page

All you need to know…

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Silent Witnesses

Arlington & McCurley Mysteries

Keeper of Pleas Mysteries

The 1/2986 Series

More…

Acknowledgments

Credits

appendix 1

appendix 2

ALL YOU NEED TO KNOW…

…is here:

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Hear my soul speak.

Of the very instant that I saw you,

Did my heart fly at your service.

W. Shakespeare

MAY 1891

Hunger, exhaustion, and cold stiffened my every move. We had been walking for three days. Our provisions were reduced to two handfuls of salted meat and a sliver of stale bread. A curtain of drizzle surrounded us. The dripping of water from above merged with the squish-squish of two pairs of feet: mine and the ones of the man walking a yard ahead of me. The broad rim of his hat hung low, feeding streams of rain down on his shoulders, one of which was still drooping. He had dislocated it while throwing my husband off a cliff.

With my gaze attached to his calves, I placed one foot in front of the other, imagining him pulling me along on an invisible string, forward and ever forward. Without his pull, I wouldn’t go anywhere. My knees would simply buckle.

Holmes led the two of us with stoicism. His trousers were rolled up to his knees, bare skin splattered with mud, feet covered in it. He avoided the coast, with all its roads and people. We walked through the heath without cover from view or weather. Then we took off our boots and continued through moorlands. Sickly white feet emerged, toes wrinkled like dead raisins, heels raw from friction and wetness. Water had stood ankle-high in our footwear.

When the day drifted toward a darker grey, I saw him growing tired. The slight sway of his hips became stiffer and his gait lacked its usual spring. Within the hour, he steered us to a suitable place to set up the tent and protect our few dry belongings. It had been one frigid night after the other. A series of dark and restless hours, all lacking a warming fire, all without enough food to fill our stomachs.

There was nothing to be done about it.

‘Over here,’ he called, his hand motioning toward a group of trees. I was hugging myself so hard now, I felt like a compacted piece of bone and skin. He took the rope from his bag and strung it low between two crooked firs, then flung the oilskin off my backpack and over the rope, securing it with rocks on its ends. As I hunched over the rucksack to protect it from rain, I watched Holmes, knowing precisely which move would follow the last, as though my eyes had seen it a hundred times and his hands had done it equally often. As soon as the oilskin was in place, I stepped underneath, pulled out another piece of oilskin and spread it out on the ground.

I extracted our blankets, and anxiously probed for moisture. But my fingers were so numb they felt little but the needling cold. As exhausted as we were, wet blankets would bring pneumonia overnight. Brighton, the closest town large enough for a chemist and a physician, was a brisk six-hour walk from where we were. No one would find us but foxes and ravens.

During our first day on the run, we had established a firm evening routine. One might call it effective. And it was indeed so. But I, for my part, didn’t care too much about how quickly we got out of the rain, as long as we did, so I could shut out the world and the struggle.

The peaceful moments between closing my eyes and beginning to dream were all I looked forward to.

In less than three minutes, we’d shed our soggy clothes and let the rain wash the stink and dirt off our skin. We hung our shirts, trousers, skirts, and undergarments out in the rain. They wouldn’t dry in our makeshift tent anyway.

We squeezed water out of our hair and dove under the blankets. Holmes opened my rucksack to pull out the one set of dry clothes we had for each of us. We stuck our trembling limbs into them, and clung to one another, sharing our blankets and the little heat that was left in our bodies.

While necessity demanded proximity, we avoided each other’s eyes. And we avoided talking. Attached to Holmes, I felt like a foreign object with my flesh about to wilt off my bones.

He had to spend an hour each evening attached to the woman who had bedded his arch-enemy. How uncomfortable he must feel, I could only guess.

But I tried not to.

Holmes shot his wiry arm out into the cold and retrieved the meat from his bag. He cut off a large slice and gave it to me, then cut off a smaller bit for himself. This was the only trace of chivalry I allowed. The day we had left my cottage, he had insisted on carrying my rucksack. I told him I’d have none of it, and walked away. The topic was closed.

But I sensed his alertness, his readiness to run to the aid of the damsel in distress should the need arise. His chivalrous reflexes annoyed me greatly.

We chewed in silence. The food dampened the clatter of teeth. Gradually warmth returned. First to my chest, then to my abdomen. As soon as the shivering subsided, we each retreated into the solitude of a blanket. And only then did we dare talk.

‘How do you feel?’

I nodded, taking another bite. ‘Warm. Good. Thank you. How is your eye?’ I had seen him rubbing his right eye frequently.

‘Not worth mentioning.’ He gazed out into the rain, as though the weather might be worth conversing about. ‘We need to replenish our provisions,’ he said, and added softly, ‘We have two destinations from which to choose, one is a city large enough for a skilled surgeon.’

‘It’s too late. Choose what place you judge best for your needs.’

‘Too late?’ Again, that soft voice as though words could break me.

‘Five months now. The child is as large as a hand. It cannot be extracted without killing the…mother.’

He lowered his head in acknowledgement. The matter required no further discussion. ‘We have to talk about Moran.’

I didn’t want to talk about that man. All I wanted was him dead.

‘Tell me what you learned about him,’ he pressed.

‘Nothing that you wouldn’t know.’

‘Anna!’ He made my name sound like a synonym for pigheadedness.

‘Damn it, Holmes. I tried to avoid the man whenever possible. All I can provide is what you already know: the best heavy-game shot of the British Empire, free of moral baggage, in the possession of a silent air rifle, very angry, and out to avenge his best friend and employer, James Moriarty.’

I stuck my hand out into the rain where the oilskin was dispensing water in a thick stream, filled my cup, and washed the salty meat down my throat.

‘You lived in Moriarty’s house. I didn’t. It follows that you must know more about Moran than I.’

‘If he cannot find us, he’ll set a trap. It was you who said that he once used a small child as tiger bait.’ I coughed and rubbed my tired eyes.

‘Precisely. Now, what trap would he arrange for us? I cannot use information about his behaviour in India ten years ago and extrapolate it to the near future. How does this man’s mind work? You must have observed something of importance!’

I pulled up my knees and tucked in my blanket, trying to keep the heat loss at a minimum. ‘Just like James Moriarty, Moran doesn’t have the slightest degree of decency. He made a fake attempt at raping me so James could stage a rescue. Perhaps they hoped I would be naive enough to sympathise with James after he saved me from Moran. But whatever their true intentions, they enjoyed themselves, I’m certain.’

Coughing, I turned my back to Holmes and shut my eyes. Sleep would take me away in mere minutes. ‘Moran’s brain is exceptionally sharp when he is hunting,’ I added quietly.

‘Your cough is getting worse,’ he said.

‘So I’ve noticed.’

Listening to his breathing, I wiped the memories of Moran and James away, knowing it wouldn’t be long before they returned. As soon as the dreams woke me, I’d take the second watch.

* * *

Someone screamed. My eyes snapped open. Oilskin above my head. The gentle tapping of rain. A hunched figure next to me. I wasn’t in bed murdering James.

‘You can sleep now,’ I croaked and sat up. Tinted with fear, my voice was a stranger to me.

He settled down and rolled up in his blanket. ‘Wake me in two hours.’

I didn’t want to talk about James, nor did I seek consolation. On our first night, Holmes had accepted my wishes with a nod. I was glad I’d never detected pity or disgust in his face.

He could conceal his emotions well.

The sound of water rolling off leaves and cracking down onto our tent, along with Holmes’s calm breathing, was all I could hear. Nature’s quietude was a beautiful contrast to London’s bustle. It almost felt as though we were silent together, nature and I.

Holmes’s feet twitched a little. Only seconds later, his breathing deepened. I waited a few minutes, then struck a match. A dim golden light filled the tent, illuminating his face. It amazed me every time. He looked so different. His sharp features were softened, his expression left unguarded.

I flicked the match into the wet grass, peered outside, and thought of the day I’d kissed him. The memory was far away. Violence and betrayal had bleached it to a dreamlike consistency.

A shy flutter — as though I had swallowed a butterfly and it now brushed its wings along the inside of my uterus. I put my hand there, trying to feel more than just the touch. Where was the love I was supposed to feel for the small being inside? For the first time in my life, I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to find the energy to keep fighting. Hadn’t I found solutions to the most impossible situations? Even the fact that women were prohibited from studying medicine hadn’t kept me from entering a university. My abduction by James Moriarty — a master in manipulating the human mind and will — hadn’t stopped me from manipulating him in return, and breaking free.

But giving birth to his child, and raising it, seemed a very high mountain to climb.

Too high for me.

I listened to my heartbeat. How fast was the child’s heart beating? Like a sparrow’s, perhaps?

Was this non-love based on my hate for its father? Or was I so egoistic and driven that I could not endure the life of a woman?

Being of the lesser sex and unable to disguise it any longer, medicine and bacteriology were out of my reach. A single mother was hardly acceptable, but a widow and mother who refused to marry long after her mourning year was over wouldn’t stand in much higher esteem.

No medical school would take me as a lecturer. The only alternative for me was to open a practice. But who would choose to be treated by a woman if there were plenty of male practitioners? No one, certainly.

But these were mere difficulties, easy to overcome with enough willpower and energy. Why could I not welcome this child? Was it truly so dreadful to be a mother? Until a few weeks ago, I had no reason to even think about it, for I’d had believed myself barren.

Mothers were other women, and I was something else entirely.

Gradually, realisation crept in and a chill followed suit. I was terrified of never being able to love my child, of not being the mother a newborn needs. All my accomplishments had been won through lies and pretending. I had pretended to be a male medical doctor, affected a wish to develop weapons for germ warfare, and faked love for James.

I would never be able to feign love for my child, the one person who would surely see through my charade.

Holmes began to stir, coughed into his blanket, and cracked one eye open. ‘You did not wake me.’

‘You said two hours.’

‘How long did I sleep?’

I shrugged. How would I know? His watch had produced its last tick yesterday when it fell in a puddle.

‘It stopped raining a while ago,’ I said. ‘Sleep. I’m not tired.’ At that, my traitorous stomach gave a roar. Holmes reached for the bag, but I stopped him. ‘At my rate of food intake, we’ll have nothing left by tomorrow morning.’

When he gazed at me I wished I were far away. ‘I’ll hunt fowl,’ I mumbled.

‘We cannot make a fire.’

‘Humans must have eaten raw meat before they discovered what fire is good for.’ I pulled my crossbow and the bolts from the rucksack. It was an old and worm-eaten thing, made for a child to hunt rabbits and provide for his family. I had found it hanging on the wall of my cottage, and its small size and lightness served me well.

I pushed the oilskin aside. Water dripped from the trees. The ground was muddy.

‘I will stay close and watch for any movements. This,’ I held up a bolt, ‘makes even less noise than Moran’s rifle. Go back to sleep now.’

Holmes grunted, pulled his blanket tighter around his form, and shut his eyes as I slipped out of the tent.

I wiped my hands on the wet grass. The fresh green turned to a dull red. Holmes opened his eyes as I entered the tent. The light grey of one of his irises was rendered pink.

‘Your right eye is even worse today. Let me check.’ I bent closer to examine him. Yellow pus encrusted his eyelashes. ‘Infected. I’d thought so. Hmm…’ I threw a glance outside. The sun was rising. Her golden rays tickled fog from the heath. ‘I’ll make a fire. Pine might burn well enough. I need to prepare medication before the infection spreads to your other eye.’

‘But the smoke—’ Holmes began.

‘Fog is rising. The smoke will not betray us.’

‘Well, then. I will make the fire.’ He sat up and rubbed his sticky eyes. ‘You haven’t slept enough.’

Sleep wasn’t my best friend those days. Reluctance slowed my movements as I climbed out of my boots and under the covers.

When Holmes was leaving the tent, I called, ‘If you come across chickweed, pick a handful.’

* * *

A hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me away from Moran’s fist. I found Holmes’s knees next to my chest, his face close to mine. Much too close. Coughing, I turned away from him.

‘Breakfast,’ he announced.

I followed him outside. The odour of fried meat produced a puddle on my tongue. A log served as a bench next to the fire he had made. The resin in the pine branches popped and crackled, spitting wood shrapnel at the animal that hung over the flames. My metal cup had already filled with rainwater. I placed it next to the embers to warm it up. ‘Did you find chickweed?’

Holmes pointed to a small pile of green behind me. I took a handful, picked off the dirt, and stuck it in the cup while he cut off the hare’s hind legs.

I wondered why he wanted us to be so careful about the fire. If Moran was tracking us — and I doubted it very much — I preferred him close. Arm’s reach would have been perfect.

‘A rather ropy specimen,’ Holmes remarked at his attempt to bite off a piece.

‘You look happy enough, though.’ My mouth was so stuffed with meat that my words came out mushed.

‘I merely stated a fact, not an emotional state.’

The water in my cup began emitting wisps of steam. I wrapped the hem of my skirt around my hand and moved the cup away from the fire.

‘What a curious little plant.’ He motioned at the chickweed. ‘I wasn’t aware it could be used to treat infections.’

‘Chamomile infusion is used more frequently for that purpose, but it leaves the cornea dry. Chickweed, on the other hand, doesn’t. There is only one thing that cures eye infections quicker than this plant.’

‘Which is?’

‘Breast-milk.’

He burst out laughing — one brief bellow accompanied by a flying piece of hare. We watched it land in the fire and transform into a fleck of coal. ‘I can’t imagine anyone wanting to pour mother’s milk into a patient’s eyes.’ He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and took another bite.

‘The middle and upper classes live a much more restricted life than us poor sods,’ I supplied. ‘And breast milk is not poured. It’s squirted.’

Another piece of hare shot into the fire.

We stripped the animal to the bone, and for the first time in four days, our stomachs were full to the brim. I touched the cup with the chickweed infusion. It was lukewarm and ready to use.

‘You’d better lie down on the log. I’ll wash both your eyes with this.’

Holmes did as asked. I knelt at his side, my skirt soaking rain off the grass.

‘Eyes are extremely sensitive to temperature,’ I cautioned. ‘Tell me how this feels.’ I spilled some liquid onto his cheek.

‘Good.’

With my one hand to hold his lids apart, I poured the infusion into one eye, then the other, until the cup was empty. I wiped his face with my palms, flicking the green droplets out of his four-day stubble. ‘We’ll have to repeat this.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, avoiding my gaze.

* * *

It didn’t rain the entire day and — according to Holmes — we were making good headway. Good headway to where, precisely, I didn’t ask. I could see plans brewing in his head, his half-here, half-there expression, his working jaws. Once in a while, my lack of interest surprised me, but the void of energy and willpower muffled all thoughts. For me, the days consisted of rising in the morning, walking from one place to another, and going to sleep to be woken by terror. The whys and whens and how-fars no longer mattered.

Twice, we spotted a farm and gave it a wide berth. Once, as we walked past a shepherd and his dogs, Holmes spoke in a thick accent I didn’t understand. I kept my head low and greeted the man with a nod.

When we set up the tent for the night, Holmes opened his mouth, then shut it again. He said, ‘Hum,’ narrowed his eyes, and shook his head.

‘You often talk to yourself when you are alone,’ I observed.

‘It usually helps to listen to someone with an intellect.’

‘You are a lonely and arrogant man.’

He froze for a moment, then ignored me, and settled down for his first watch.

Surprised at myself, I wondered where that acidic remark had come from. It might have been the truth, but thinking it and slapping it in his face were two very different things. After barely a week, we were already annoying each other.

I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders, and asked, ‘What would you do if I weren’t here?’

‘Don’t waste your time with what ifs.’

‘Would you hunt Moran? Or would you first go back to London to see your friend Watson and your brother?’

He was silent for a long moment, perhaps hoping I would fall asleep.

‘Colonel Moran escaped, and I know of two other men who eluded capture.’

‘What would you do if I weren’t here?’ I repeated.

‘Find them,’ he said.

‘I agree. That would be the best thing to do.’ Saying it felt like brushing a weight off my shoulders. Being so close to him hurt, and the last thing I wished was to be a deadweight. ‘We will part when we reach the next town.’

‘We will do no such thing.’ He turned his back to me with finality, cutting off all protest.

‘You are being sentimental.’

‘Go for a walk. Your foul mood is unbearable.’

‘No, thank you. I’ll climb a tree instead. Good night.’ And off I went, wondering what was wrong with me. One moment I could lie down and weep, the next I felt the urge to kick his balls.

Sunlight drew the moisture from our clothes and the tiredness from our limbs. Holmes’s eye was healed, and his interest in plants that had uses other than poisoning people grew.

With all our provisions eaten, we had to rely on what we found on our journey. During the day, we picked dandelion and chickweed leaves, chewing them while we walked. The dandelion roots were dug up to be cooked at night, together with a rabbit or pheasant that Holmes or I had shot. Now with the rain gone, he was more concerned about watchful eyes than protection from the elements. The spots he picked for our nights were in depressions, often close to a stream. The small fires we made were always well hidden.

With cold and hunger at bay, dark thoughts slammed back into my mind at full force. I longed for solitude. Perhaps when we arrived wherever it was he planned to go, I would…disappear.

But my brain was numb. Planning how best to escape Holmes felt tedious. Unable to invent anything complex, I settled upon simply turning a corner when he wasn’t paying attention. I knew this non-strategy was utterly foolish. No need to even attempt it. What I truly needed to escape from, was James and his child.

Three hours before nightfall, when the woods formed a dark and inviting line at the horizon, Holmes informed me that we were now turning south toward Littlehampton.

The orange sun hung heavy among the trees when I set out to hunt. Holmes didn’t seem to mind the odd distribution of tasks. While he collected wood, cleaned and oiled our revolvers, or explored the surroundings for emergency hideaways, I would venture out, armed with my crossbow.

I was glad to gain some distance from him and was certain he enjoyed the time of solitude just as much as I did. He appeared highly alert for the slightest change in my mood. Whether it was my physical condition or my reticence that annoyed him the most, I didn’t know.

Pheasants were easy prey that time of the year. The mating season had tired the cocks, and they settled on their sleeping branches early after sunset. If I’d had very long arms, I could have picked them off the trees like overripe pears.

Soon I found a sleepy specimen halfway up a beech. I raised my crossbow, aimed and fired, and was back at the tent less than an hour after setting out.

I plucked and gutted the quarry. Holmes poked at the embers, and I sat down opposite him, throwing some of the bird’s yellow fat into our skillet to melt. The instant it touched the hot metal, it hissed and bubbled. Heart and liver followed, sizzling and shrinking, blood oozing from the meat to mix with the melted fat, darkening to a deliciously crisp brown and throwing off a scent that made it hard not to reach out and snatch a piece before it was done.

While I busied myself with slicing meat from the bones, Holmes flipped our food in the pan.

‘Delicious,’ he hummed. Then his sharp eyes met mine. ‘You have been evasive long enough. It’s time for a longer conversation.’

My chest clenched. I nodded automatically.

‘It’s now eight days since we left your cottage. I very much doubt that Moran is closing in on us already. But I’m certain he will try everything in his power to catch us. The more information you provide, the more reliable my calculations on his exact plans and whereabouts will be.’

‘Naturally,’ I answered.

‘Excellent. Now, what precisely happened to you and Mycroft after Watson and I departed from Dieppe?’

That trustworthy brain-machine of mine hauled in memories as demanded. ‘Nothing remarkable occurred on the train to Leipzig or on the ride to my father’s home. Once we reached the village, I instructed the driver to drop us off in the woods. That was about half a mile from my father’s home. The path led uphill, rather steep, and Mycroft fell behind. I had no patience so I ran ahead.’

Holmes listened, his eyes half-shut, his hand lazily poking a fork at the frying meat.

‘The garden looked as though he had not returned. The house was empty, the curtains drawn. Once inside, I noticed the lack of dust. The room smelled clean and fresh. There were two explanations. One, that he had asked someone to clean for him. But he wouldn’t have done that. The second and more likely possibility was that he had returned, but left again.’

Holmes held out the skillet and a fork for me. ‘Thank you,’ I said and impaled a piece of liver. He selected his dinner and leant against a tree, chewing and gazing into the void. I wondered whether he pictured himself inside the house, seeing the things I described.

I took my time eating and collected myself. ‘I did not notice the man until he spoke to me.’ At that, Holmes focused on my face, eyebrows angled sharply. ‘He said my father was in the church. He said he wouldn’t be buried in sacred soil, for he had taken his own life.’

I swallowed. ‘I was talking to my father’s murderer. He had poisoned him and let it appear to be suicide. I asked him how he was planning to kill me. He answered he’d kill me slowly, but not immediately. James had forbidden his men to harm me, he said. I would be allowed to give birth to his child and three years later, they would come to find me. Or…us.’

‘Intriguing,’ Holmes muttered and stared at the treetops.

‘The moment the man turned to leave, Mycroft entered. They fought, and your brother shot him. But…there is more. The man also said that James had set this trap. His plan was to separate you and me, to weaken us. What he did not consider, though, was that neither of us would be alone. You had Watson, and I had your brother.’

Holmes merely nodded. ‘What poison did he use to kill your father?’

My throat closed.

‘You didn’t examine him?’ A sharp shot with both tongue and gaze.

I grew cold and let the drop in temperature reflect in my voice. ‘What does it matter what poison was used? My father was dead. No matter how well I examined or studied my father’s corpse, he would not come back.’

Holmes cleared his throat. ‘I merely wished to know whether the mixture used to murder your father was identical to the one you used to poison Moriarty. That would indicate the scheme was far more complex than I was able to divine.’

I shut my eyes and drew several deep breaths. ‘I went into the church to see my father. I touched his skin, examined his eyes, sniffed his face, licked his lips even, but found nothing to indicate what poison was used. However, Belladonna can be excluded. His pupils weren’t dilated. An overdose of arsenic would have caused a blackening of his fingertips or discolourations in the mouth, eyes, or hands. I found none of those symptoms.’

Holmes lowered his head and folded his hands, tapping his index fingers against one another. ‘We can conclude Moriarty suspected you might poison him one fine day—’

‘He said that he had always suspected the wine,’ I interrupted.

‘But apparently he did not know what poison you would use. He did not discover the flask you asked me to obtain for you. Let us go back to what your father’s murderer said. That Moriarty had forbidden his men to harm you is quite revealing, don’t you think?’

Knowing James, the games he had played, and the layers of lies concealing one another, I wasn’t certain his actions revealed anything at all. I picked another piece of meat from the skillet and thought about various strands of possibilities.

‘When James saw his blackened fingertips,’ I began, ‘he must have known what poison I had used and that the arsenic would kill him soon. He would have wanted his murderer to suffer and die. What might have made matters more complex was that his murderer was also the mother of his unborn child. He had to make a compromise if he wanted it to live. That he would give me three years to raise it is odd, though. Why not have someone take it right after birth and kill me? All that’s needed is a wet nurse.’

Holmes scraped his heel over a bump of moss. ‘Hum… If I wished to abduct a small child, what would be the best time to do so? If I had to pay a band of ruffians, I’d make sure the child was old enough to survive a hasty and possibly long trip under harsh conditions.’

‘That would explain the three years.’

‘And should the child not be what he wanted?’

‘Why would…’ I trailed off, thoughts racing, picking up pieces and rearranging the picture. ‘Assuming he didn’t care about his unborn child, which is quite plausible, the ultimatum would only serve to torture me. He would allow me to give birth, to love the child, to live in fear for three years, and then take the child away to punish me with the ultimate pain caused by the loss of my child.’

He pointed a long finger at me. ‘Precisely. We need to take precautions that cover both possibilities.’ With that, he extracted his tobacco pouch and rolled a cigarette.

I had long lost the appetite for a smoke. ‘How ridiculous. I cannot believe he would have expected me to love his child. But… Perhaps he…’

‘Yes?’ Holmes asked, his fingers pinching the tobacco snug into a piece of paper. He held up a tinder and puffed until a small flame shot from the cigarette’s end.

‘I believe that James wanted this child. There were signs. He was upset when I tried to abort it. It seemed to hurt him deeply.’

Frowning, Holmes stuck his smoke between his teeth. He surely missed his pipe. His gaze flickered behind a cloud of tobacco smoke, his lips were pressed together, face hardened. Everything else about him seemed to relax and tense in waves, telling of his busy mind.

A long moment later, he pressed the cigarette butt into the grass. ‘What you need is a miscarriage.’

I snorted. ‘I would have liked one much earlier. But right away would be convenient, too.’

‘Quite obviously, that’s not what I mean.’

‘But that’s what I mean.’

He shut his eyes and leant his head against the tree trunk.

A miscarriage… I thought of Moran possibly tracking us. What fun that man must be having. If I had a miscarriage and he learned of it, that wouldn’t throw him off our scent. And that James had forbidden his men to harm me until his child had turned three, that wouldn’t keep Moran from hunting Holmes.

‘We need to see his solicitors,’ Holmes said. ‘As James Moriarty’s widow and soon-to-be mother of his child, you have the right to a dower. And we should be able to move all of Moriarty’s assets to a trust fund for his heir-at-law, and that would cut off all financial aid and reward to the assassins. That would certainly dampen their motivation.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to let Watson know you are alive and well?’

His expression shuttered. He had no wish to discuss this issue yet again. ‘I am very sure.’

I frowned at him but did not dig any deeper. It was his decision, and it could not have been an easy one. ‘But what about Mycroft?’

‘I sent him a telegram on my way from Meiringen to London. And I plan to contact him in a day or two. We’ll need his help.’ A dissecting glance later, he said, ‘You don’t believe it can be done. A feigned miscarriage.’

‘No.’ I inspected my hands as though they could speak for me. ‘It would require hiding my stomach from Moran and simultaneously convincing James’s solicitors that I am preparing to raise the child. A wire from James’s solicitors to his family, followed by another to Moran, would destroy the charade in minutes.’

‘There is a risk, indeed. But I believe I can use it to our advantage.’

‘How so?’

‘Too many strands of possibilities at the moment,’ he said, picking at fragments of greenery stuck to his boots. ‘The most essential is to make Moran believe your child died before it was born. He will inform the others of that sad fact, and once he learns that you received your dower and have moved all of Moriarty’s money to a trust fund, Moran must try to convince the solicitors of the child’s death. Moran knows that without Moriarty’s money, he is nothing. We must arrange it so that no one believes him. We must destroy his reputation. But most importantly, we must track his messages in order to identify his accomplices.’

I nodded, focusing on the main goal. ‘It should be fairly easy to obtain a stillborn from any hospital in London. Mycroft could bring one.’

‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted,’ grunted Holmes sardonically.

‘Do you occasionally wonder that people think you heartless?’ I asked softly.

‘It is a waste of time to wonder what others might be thinking. One only has to look at people. One opinion here, another there, and rarely is either based on facts. The heart is a thing that beats and pumps blood to the brain. Quite obviously, I have one.’

‘I know you do.’

‘Ah, the romantic! I must disappoint you. I avoid emotions wherever possible. They represent an unacceptable distraction. I am an intellect. The rest are bodily functions.’ He leant back, prepared another cigarette, and lit it.

‘Nonsense!’

Smoke shot through his nostrils. Grey eyes flashed in amusement.

‘I can prove it,’ I said.

‘A challenge? Very well.’ He sat up straight, anticipation in every breath.

I rose and approached him, then knelt in the grass next to him with my face close to his. ‘Cocaine.’

His pupils flared wide open, as though he could already taste the drug rushing through his veins.

I drew back and said, ‘I have seen a great number of scars from a needle on your forearms, Holmes. Your ability to use your left hand almost as well as your right impresses me. Injecting cocaine solution left-handed is quite a feat.’ I grabbed his right wrist, unbuttoned the sleeve and pushed it up. He stiffened. Slowly, I ran my index finger across his pale skin, counting the white dots.

He yanked his arm from my grip.

‘From what I observe,’ I continued, ‘I conclude that your emotional landscape is rather complex. So complex, in fact, that your mind must control it. You are a very controlled man, but I wonder what you were before you gained that control? Perhaps that was when you took cocaine so frequently that you scarred your forearms? These are old punctures. You seem to not need it any longer. Or I should say you do need it, but you are able to control that need.’

His face was set in stone. Only his black eyes betrayed the turmoil within.

‘You can make others believe that you don’t experience emotions. It fits your mask so neatly. But I don’t believe you. Cocaine is but one example. You took it because you craved it. Craving is a very strong emotion, is it not? Once the chemical hits your bloodstream, you feel intense pleasure, most likely you experience sexual arousal as well. You feel the rush of accomplishment, of being better and of higher intellect than anyone. You have a constant need to be the best, and this emotion controls you.’

Heat rose up his throat, colouring his ears. ‘Interesting observation,’ he rasped. ‘But you ignore the fact that it is only my mind that needs stimulation. In the absence of a case, I must invigorate my mental faculties with cocaine. Otherwise—’

‘The other emotion,’ I cut him off, ‘that seems to control you is your fear of me.’ Still, his pupils were wide open. Nothing else moved.

I retreated to my side of the fire and sat down. ‘Not to forget curiosity and passion — the two driving forces of every brilliant scientist.’

His jaws were working.

‘I will stop talking about emotions if it distresses you too much,’ I said.

‘I couldn’t care less.’ He rose, stomped on the cigarette butt, and walked away.

We stood on a hilltop. The moorland spread before us, wide and soft and green, interrupted only by splotches of treacherous mud. The sea was a good eight to ten miles to the south, but I already imagined smelling it.

‘I’ll go first,’ I said.

‘No. You walk behind me.’

‘I’m lighter, my baggage is on my back, which gives me a better balance, and I know how to move over swampy terrain. If you walk first, you’ll only block my view.’ I pushed past him and walked downhill toward a place most people avoided like the plague.

We walked in silence. Holmes’ feet made occasional slop-slop noises, telling me that he wasn’t always placing his feet where I placed mine.

I listened to birds singing spring songs to their mates who were probably sitting on a clutch of eggs, their eyes half-closed, their feathery bellies fluffed out. Would they feel their chicks moving about and scraping their stubbly wings on the insides of the hard shells? My child seemed to be sleeping now. How would it feel to grow so large that I could barely see my own feet? When its head was lodged in my pelvis, its feet kicking my—

My foot caught on a hidden branch. I tipped forward and slipped. There was nothing I could steady myself with, nothing to hold the world in place; instead, it rushed past without so much as a blink. So quick the fall. And yet, the descent, the sliding into the cold, wet bog, felt like an eternity. As though I had time to turn around and wave goodbye. My skirt billowed about my waist, and then it was around my chest, and my throat, darkening quickly as the fabric sucked up water and mud, growing heavy as a rock.

Holmes jumped toward me. He landed on the clump of grass I had been standing on. His eyes were wild, his cheeks on fire. I heard the sharp tsreee-tsreee of a bird warning its kin. Holmes shouted, ‘Your hand, Anna!’ as water flooded my ears.

Where was my hand? My eyes searched for it. There, that small white thing, holding onto a clump of grass. Why not? whispered my mind. I looked up at Holmes, felt calmness washing over me, and let go of my only support.

‘Don’t you dare!’

Black water swallowed my vision. Here was the solution I had longed to find. An explosion of happiness and relief spread through my chest, down to my feet, tickling my toes. I would have cried out in joy had the swamp not sealed my lips.