The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (10 page)

‘Er… In fact, I went to one of his talks on the works of Dr Snow. I mean, one of…her…her talks.’

The poor man seemed completely dumbfounded and I began to feel sorry for him.

‘Ah! Watson, my friend.’ Holmes leaned over to clap his friend on the shoulder. ‘Even a man like me came to accept that there are indeed women with a sharp mind. Although quite rare specimens, one cannot help but run into them once or twice.’

Coughing, I held on to my forehead while Watson shot a wild glance at the mantelpiece. Noticing the missing picture, he said sheepishly, ‘You took it away. I thought you were fond of her.’

Holmes ignored Watson’s remark and I decided to swallow my surprise or any comments on that matter. Instead, I held out the package to Holmes. ‘I wonder whether you can tell me anything about the man who wore these.’

Holmes took the bundle from my hands and laid it on his knees, undid the knot, and opened the paper wrapping. He gazed down at the pile of severed clothes and worn boots, then studied the soles.

‘Mr Big Boots,’ he noted. ‘You dissected him today?’

‘Yes. He had been found by the porter of Guy’s. The man reported that he heard the whinnying of a horse and the crack of a whip just before he heard the gasps of the man he then found just outside the gate. Together with a colleague, he carried him into my ward. Unfortunately, the man died within minutes. At first, I was unaware that he was Big Boots. I used him as the study subject for a lesson today. We found that he had no entry wound for tetanus and I remembered the man from Hampton, so I checked for restraint marks or needle punctures, but found none. But even if he had been restrained or injected, the marks would have healed during the course of a whole week.’

‘But you found something that brought you here, together with the shoes.’

‘Yes, I did, indeed. If he had eaten an animal with tetanus, he should have had the infection somewhere in his gastrointestinal tract, but there was nothing of that kind. I thought of strychnine next, until I finally found the tetanus infection. Hold on to your armchair, Mr Holmes,’ I said. He merely raised an eyebrow. ‘It was in his heart.’

‘In his heart!’ he cried. ‘How could it have got there?’

‘I don’t know.’ I sighed and rubbed my eyes while uncomfortable thoughts started creeping into my head.

‘What is it?’ Holmes enquired while Watson was silently listening and digesting the fact that I was not only a female medical doctor, but a well-known one on top of it.

‘The man from Hampton hadn’t had any infection in his guts, either,’ I explained quietly. ‘Well, aside from cholera. But no tetanus infection. Neither of the two men seemed to have ingested tetanus germs. For the toxins alone to be lethal, one would have to eat quite a lot of diseased animal — the size of a human, to equal the amount of a lethal dose, I’d guess.’

‘You did not section the left hemisphere of the Hampton man’s brain,’ noted Holmes.

‘No.’

‘Is there a way to obtain the hemisphere?’

‘Sadly not. Cholera fatalities are burned as soon as possible. The man is ash, Mr Holmes. I am very sorry.’

The man next to me stirred. ‘Would someone be so forthcoming as to explain why Dr Kronberg is a woman and why the two of you are investigating a case where, quite obviously, a crime has not been committed?’
 

I couldn’t help but think of the body-snatcher business many years ago. Anatomical research needed bodies for dissections, but only hanged murderers were delivered to medical schools. The result was that these corpses were reused so often that their remains looked more than just tattered. But where there is demand and money to pay for such services, someone will make an offer. Body-snatchers soon figured out that freshly buried people could be dug up in the dead of the night and sold to medical schools. Very soon, however, these few cadavers of mostly old or diseased people did not suffice…

Body snatcher, 1829 (13)

Holmes and Watson fell quiet. Their silence interrupted my train of thoughts. Both were gazing expectantly at me and I wondered whether I had missed a question.

‘Watson and I were just discussing the curious incident of the non-existent entry wounds. Watson believes it must be an airborne version of tetanus.’

‘Hmm… That could be a possibility, if tetanus germs weren’t strictly anaerobic. They peg out when they get a whiff of fresh air.’

Watson coughed. ‘Well, then someone must have injected it, but that is impossible!’

‘Why do you think so?’ asked Holmes.

‘Because no one could possibly do such a horrid thing!’

I rose to my feet, faced both men, and spoke quietly. ‘How do you think we learned so much about anatomy in such a short time? History is repeating itself, Dr Watson. Our species has always exploited the weak, be it actively or by ignorance. When anatomists wanted
fresh
bodies, it didn’t take long until they got them. How anyone could have believed their claim not to have known these were murder victims they procured is a mystery to me. Several medical doctors even placed orders — pregnant women, children, newborns, and malformed people. And they got these delivered as well.’

The thought of the homeless not daring to fall asleep on the streets drove a chill up my spine. The danger was ever-present; someone could suffocate them and cart them off to the next anatomical school. The two men were quietly listening — Watson had his shoulders drawn up, as though to cover his ears, and Holmes clicked the mouthpiece of his pipe against his front teeth.

I continued. ‘In a single year, Burke and Hare killed seventeen people in Edinburgh alone and sold all their corpses to Dr Robert Knox, who convinced the authorities that he’d had no idea they had been murdered. How can an anatomist not know that he is dissecting a murder victim?’ I cried. ‘After the trial against Burke and Hare, the Anatomical Act was passed. It gave free licence to medical doctors to use donated bodies for dissections. Tell me, Dr Watson, who would donate a loved and deceased child, mother, or husband?’

The execution of William Burke, 1829 (14)
 

His face paled. He didn’t reply, so I answered for him. ‘No one but the poorest, to feed their children, or themselves. Don’t you think the government knew what was going on? Don’t you think they turned a blind eye? Don’t you think they passed the Anatomical Act to make the butchering of paupers legal? Do you really believe that
no one
would inject a deadly disease into a pauper to test a cure for that very same disease? One
worthless
life — isn’t that an acceptable price to pay for the good of mankind?
Man
kind, Dr Watson!’

Watson gulped. I turned to Holmes and changed the topic. ‘What do we do next?’

‘We?’ ge replied, slightly shocked. ‘You won’t do anything, and I will do some thinking.’ With that, he lit his pipe again and leant back in his armchair. After a moment, Watson and I realised that we had been dismissed.

‘It was very nice to meet you, Dr Watson,’ I said down at the street, when both of us were about to part.

‘It was, er…interesting, Dr Kronberg, to say the least. May I ask you something?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Has your secret ever been discovered?’

‘Yes, by Mr Holmes.’

‘Of course, but I meant by anyone else?’

‘No. People usually believe what they see.’

He met my eyes for a short moment; it was the first time. Throughout the evening, he had avoided looking directly into my face.

‘I have the impression that I make you feel uncomfortable, Dr Watson. Should I have offended you, I am very sorry.’
 

It took him a moment to answer, but it was something that seemed to upset him greatly. ‘He has taken an interest in you!’ He choked the words out, as if the unspeakable had taken hostage of his mouth, forced his teeth apart to slip through his lips and escape his control. He regretted it instantly.

‘Please do not worry yourself, Dr Watson. Mr Holmes’s interest is that of a scientist in his study subject,’ I said as calmly as I could.

— seven —

T
he hansom dropped me off half a mile from home and I walked the rest of the way. Given my expensive clothing, this was a bit reckless, despite the fact that most people here knew me.
 

The evening sun threw its last rays over the rooftops, painting the slums in a softer light, making the people within look less dirty, sick, and poor. Amongst the red glow stood a tall and broad-shouldered man with hair like fire — the bright red stuck out every which way. The hint of orange on his cheeks and chin was a constant phenomenon, no matter how often he shaved. He grinned at me over everyone’s head and I smiled back. Garret O’Hare was a handsome Irishman, warm-hearted and naive in a charming way, with no clue that half the female population of St Giles regularly stared at his buttocks.

Like many of my neighbours, he earned his living by stealing whatever he got his hands on and selling it at the pawn broker’s. But, in contrast to most of his colleagues, he was exceptionally good at it. A fact that made me equally proud and anxious.

As everyone else here, Garret believed I was a young widow who worked as a medical nurse at Guy’s — lies I had planted to explain my lack of a husband and my skills in dealing with infections, stab wounds, fractures, and the like. In return for medical care, my neighbours offered me protection and friendship.
 

Still smiling, he walked up to me. ‘Anna! Ain’t you pretty!’ He came to an abrupt halt and contemplated, his brain visibly rattling.

‘You’ve not been seeing another…bloke?’ he enquired, scratching his chin and measuring me from soles to hat-band.

I pointed at his shoes. ‘You have new boots.’

‘Er…yeah. Where’ve you been?’

‘None of your business, Garret. I don’t ask you where you
find
all these things, do I?’

‘True.’ He cleared his throat, contemplated a little longer, then took a step closer and smiled a warm and fuzzy sensation into my chest.

The moment I wasn’t paying attention to anything but his face, he snatched my hand
 
— like a thief — and gazed at the smallness of it in his large and square paw.