The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (21 page)

— fifteen —

O
n the following day, I paid a visit to Superintendent Rowlands to resign my position at Guy’s. Rowlands, however, was not surprised by the turn of things. He had already heard from his old friend Stark that the London Medical School had made me an attractive offer. Rowlands and I parted with a firm handshake — the second one since my appointment at his hospital.
 

Three days later, my bacterial pure cultures and I moved into a large and well-equipped laboratory. Two assistants were placed at my disposal to help develop vaccines against the two diseases that cost London more lives than any other: tetanus and cholera. Compared with these two, the death toll of murderers was negligible.

It took a while to convince my new employers, but at the end of a heated negotiation they agreed that only I — the trained bacteriologist — would handle the hazardous viable bacterial cultures, while my assistants would clean and disinfect the lab ware, prepare the culture medium, handle the heat-killed germs, and record the experimental procedures and observations.
 

For weeks we tested tetanus bacteria on rabbits and mice that were kept in the small outdoor area behind my lab. We could reach an immunity of up to fifty per cent — five out of ten animals would not contract tetanus when immunised a week before the infection.

Unfortunately, there was a problem with mortality. The heat-killing of germs was not reliable — one-third of the inoculated animals contracted tetanus and died.

The small kitchen corner of my room smelled of fresh bread. I cut off two slices, spread them with butter and sprinkled a little salt on top, then took the kettle off the flame and poured boiling water onto expensive tea leaves. The hissing gas lamp spread its dim light, sufficient to see what my hands were doing and to let the men down on the street know that I was still at home and moved about.

Today had been their sloppy first attempt at tailing me. I had noticed their presence from the moment I left the medical school.
 

With my sandwich in one hand, I walked towards the small window and cautiously peeked through the tattered curtain. They were arguing in the shadows next to a shop window, hands flicking at each other’s faces, a fist raised in my direction. A good sign! I walked down the flight of stairs, opened the door to the street, and called, ‘Fancy a cup of tea?’

Their heads jerked in my direction. I stepped aside while holding the door open. They crossed the street, appearing indecisive, almost scared.
 

‘Good evening,’ each one of them said, probably not knowing what else would be appropriate. They passed me and entered the house. I followed and noticed how readily they walked up to the first floor and into my room. Tonight, I would pull fine silk threads from a kerchief, then wrap one loosely around the outside doorknob every time I left my room. Anyone trying my door would move the thread from its original position.

‘Dr Reeks, Dr Hindle, Dr Kinyon, and Dr Nicolas,’ I said as coolly as I could manage, ‘you have followed me and watched my window for the last forty minutes. What do you have to say?’

The men looked at each other, their faces betraying insecurity. Hindle harrumphed and answered in a defiant tone, ‘We don’t trust you!’

‘That’s not my problem,’ I replied.

‘Why do you live in this shabby place?’ Reeks barked.

‘None of your business. But you are my guests now, and as your host, I must make an attempt at being polite.’ I smirked and showed them my incisors. ‘I live simple because luxury dulls the higher senses. A detail that certainly slipped your comprehension.’
 

They began fidgeting. ‘We think you are hiding something from us,’ Hindle said, attempting to sound cold and threatening.

I laughed wholeheartedly. ‘Interesting theory. What information do you have to support it?’

Their irritation almost let the air between us crackle. ‘We talked to your former colleagues at Guy’s. Some say you are soft. You were reportedly treating patients nicer than anyone else.’

‘Well, that is, of course, rather horrible,’ I replied with mock concern, and somewhere in the back of my head I wondered whether I had got suicidal.

‘From what we heard, we cannot believe that you would be able to—’ Hindle was cut off by Nicolas’s elbow making painful contact with his ribcage.

My heart rate increased, but I gained control over it soon enough. ‘Hindle, if you don’t trust me, why are you trying to reveal a secret that Nicolas clearly doesn’t want me to know?’

Hindle’s face fell and small beads of sweat appeared on his forehead despite the cold in my apartment.
 

‘I… I didn’t mean to…’ he stammered.

I interrupted, ‘Clearly not, no. Yet, I wonder what Dr Bowden would say?’

Their eyes widened in shock. These men were obviously not Bowden’s favourites. And that was precisely the information I wanted.

‘Gentlemen, I suggest you leave now. Should I ever see you following me again, I will make sure your bloated bodies float in the Thames,’ I said softly, opening the door and wishing them a good evening. All four left without protest.

When I arrived at home the following night, I found Holmes sitting in my armchair. Swallowing the shock, I closed the door quietly and pressed my back against it.

His already thin frame must have lost a considerable amount of weight. He looked haggard and pale, with hollow cheeks and dark shadows under his eyes. I dropped my gaze to avoid his stare.

Apparently he had noticed my searching look and commented lightly, ‘I’m spending most of my time in workhouses. The food there is neither sufficient to sustain even a child, nor does it taste like anything but paper mill sewage.’ He tried a smile. ‘But that is of no importance now. Do you know Mr Samuel Standrincks?’

I shook my head.

‘He is the chairman of the Holborn Union Board of Guardians. During the last week, he met with several members of the
Club
.’

‘The
Club?
’ I interrupted, accidentally looking into his eyes and regretting it the same moment.

‘In lack of a title, I named our group of criminal doctors the Club.’ He waved his hand impatiently. ‘I could overhear a conversation between Standrincks and your dear Dr Stark. A so-called health examination in all of the Holborn Union workhouses will be conducted in one week’s time. The Club is about to choose their test subjects.’

He looked up expectantly; I did not move a muscle. After a short moment, he said, ‘Did you know that Standrincks, as chairman of the Board of Guardians, is paid by the government? The board usually sees very little of the workhouses; it receives reports from committees it appoints. The pay for the committees comes directly from the chairman, who also receives the reports and picks the committee members. Every piece of information the board receives is first filtered through Standrincks. And all reports from the board are first passed through Standrincks before they reach the government.’

‘Why does one need a board, then?’ I muttered sarcastically.

‘Precisely! Its sole purpose is to show that the government cares for paupers. Its members receive money and take part in meetings. But as everything passes Standrincks’s desk first, their decisions are futile. Needless to say, I will dedicate some time to Mr Standrincks and see whether the government is involved in any way. By the by — how is your research for the Club proceeding?’

Slowly, I shifted my weight from one leg to the other and answered, ‘I am testing the tetanus vaccine on animals. They also want a cholera vaccine, but we lack suitable patients to isolate the germs. I am expecting the Club to deliver one soon, though.’

Holmes turned slightly rigid. It was probably the coldness in my voice. I decided to modulate it a little. ‘We are now reaching the limits of testability. Only after testing them on human subjects can we say for sure that the vaccines are working.’

‘You will suggest it?’ His voice was now as cold as mine.

‘I may have to. Their actions are still legal.’

‘They are tailing you,’ he said, cautiously changing the subject. I pulled up one corner of my mouth and answered, ‘I know. I’m the newest addition to the Club. They need to make sure they can trust me.’ After a short pause, I added, ‘It’s not good you are here.’

‘You underestimate me,’ he growled.

‘You underestimate me, too.’

‘I don’t think so. But what you are doing is not healthy.’

I barked a laugh. ‘You should see yourself!’

The prison-like workhouse, 1830s (20)

— sixteen —

T
hree days later, Stark called at my quarters in the late evening to inform me that a suitable cholera specimen had now been delivered to the laboratory.

Although I had known this moment would come, I wasn’t prepared for its arrival. I stared across my room at the small window. The knowledge that ordinary life bustled on behind the dark rectangle gave me a little strength.

‘How has it been delivered?’ I asked and
it, it, it
echoed in my brain, bouncing off cold walls like the shrieking of bats.

‘Female from Dundee, delivered in a brougham,’ answered Stark in a bored telegram style. I made a mental note — Dundee was more than four hundred miles north. How far did the Club’s tentacles reach?

‘The cabby is a reliable man. We have used him for other…tasks.’ Stark scratched his chin, lost in thoughts, and I sensed the gaping cleft within the man who did not quite trust his young colleague but had been ordered to share sensitive information. ‘He was well paid and instructed not to listen to any noise she made. We told him she is insane and seriously sick,’ he explained. ‘The man must have whipped his horses like the devil to get to London in such a short time!’

He chuckled and clapped his hands in delight.
 

I felt hate boiling in my chest. Slowly, I took a deep breath, told my heart to shut up and my fists to uncurl. In my brain, though, I went berserk: I would beat Stark unconscious and tie his arms and legs with a rope. Then I would infect him with cholera and wait a few days. After the disease had turned him into an intestine-expelling wreck, I would leave him outside in the cold, lying in his own shit and vomit, without food, water, or even a consoling word for his remaining days. A trial would be the least thing Stark would have to worry about.