The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) (25 page)

‘Too old and undernourished; I will not use him.’ I shoved Sherlock aside, suddenly glad this ordeal had made him look more like in his fifties than in his thirties. ‘Next one!’ I shouted over his shoulder, knowing I could expect a visitor tonight.

— twenty —

S
herlock had not appeared the previous night. Perhaps he had found another solution and taking part in the test trial wasn’t necessary. And after all, who was he to order me around?

But he was not to be seen at Fulham’s, nor in the other two workhouses we inspected the following day. After yet another night, I got so worried about his well-being that I placed the vase in the window.
 

But no one came.

The recent change of climate in my laboratory was palpable. My two assistants were more cooperative than ever. Although the surveillance was still under operation, my space to manoeuvre had widened considerably.
 

‘Strowbridge, I need to talk to Dr Bowden. Send him a wire, if you please,’ I said the moment I entered the laboratory early in the morning.

Strowbridge nodded and left at once. Now only Bonsell was with me in the room, and he was the less observant of the two.
 

Carefully, I took the beakers containing the liquid pure cultures of cholera germs and carried them over to the workbench. We would need both active and heat-inactivated bacteria for the tests on human subjects. My assistants had cleaned and sterilised four flasks for this purpose, and I would fill and seal the vessels now for the next days’ use.

‘Mr Bonsell, would you give me a hand?’

He approached and eyed the liquid cultures, all four beakers standing in front of me next to the lit Bunsen burner.

‘Be careful; they are active,’ I warned. A sideways glance at Bonsell’s hands told me that my words were having the desired effect, causing a slight trembling of the man’s fingers.
 

‘Take these empty Petri dishes. Use them to cover the beakers, then place the cultures into the water bath. It needs to be precisely eighty degrees Celsius for exactly two hours. In the meantime, I will get the active germs ready.’

Bonsell nodded. He did not know that the process of vaccine production would require only twenty minutes of heat inactivation to balance the killing of germs while leaving their cell surface proteins mostly intact. A risky undertaking, for the cultures were to be fed to humans. Any surviving germ could cause an infection — a great hazard, given the short time of the heat treatment. But I made sure that the cultures would be boiled to death and that no life could be threatened.

Bonsell picked up the beakers; the liquid inside trembled in unison with his hands.

‘Pull yourself together, man! The germs are in a bottle; they are not going to
jump
at you.’

His eyes shot nervously to me and back to the flasks before he took the Petri dishes and placed them carefully on the beakers’ mouths. The liquid shook and the glass made little clonking noises as he carried them over to the water bath. As soon as he had turned his back to me, I started to count down from twenty.

Quickly and carefully, as I had already done with the tetanus bacilli, I plugged the bottles containing the active cholera cultures with a rubber stopper and made sure the seal was very tight —
sixteen
. I opened my bag —
eleven
— removed two identical bottles —
eight
— and placed them on the lab bench —
five
. Then I slipped the bottles filled with cholera germs into two separate leather bags inside my doctor’s bag —
two
. At home, I would add a large amount of creosote and pour them into the Thames the next morning, after they would be rendered harmless.

Bonsell turned around and I was back under surveillance. After two more minutes, Strowbridge joined us.

Around noon a wire from Bowden arrived:
Will call tonight, six o’clock, your quarters, J.B.

I poured boiling water onto the tea leaves and placed two cups and the teapot on the coffee table. The armchair was for Bowden, my one kitchen chair was for me. The bell announced his arrival. I opened and beckoned him in.

‘Dr Bowden, thank you for coming. Please take a seat. Can I offer you some tea?’

He nodded and inspected the cup before taking a cautious sip. The
click
of the cup set back onto its saucer coincided with his expectant gaze catching mine.

‘The cholera cultures are ready, Dr Bowden. Bonsell and I prepared enough liquid of both active and heat-killed bacteria to test them tomorrow if you should so choose. However, I must caution you — we have to use them within the next two days. If kept at this state for too long, they will be rendered ineffective.’

Bowden lowered his head in acknowledgement. He hadn’t spoken a word yet. Slowly, I let myself relax against the back of my chair; the backrest produced a squeal. ‘Do you wish me to tell you what we should be doing next?’ I asked the old man.

Bowden’s mouth twitched at the corners, his pupils widening to their usual threatening black.
 

‘Dr Bowden, I know you trust me about that far.’ I held up my right hand, thumb and index finger almost touching. ‘But remember, I can be convicted for what I have done for you. I am open with you. So open, in fact, that it shocks you. Still, you cannot come to a decision whether to trust me or not. Why is that?’

‘You are German.’

I couldn’t help but bark a laugh. ‘Well, that is neither my fault nor should it be a problem. England is my home. I have very few memories I’m fond of when it comes to my life back in Germany.’

Bowden did not move; he only smiled coldly and unbelievingly.

‘Again, a decision I cannot make for you. I’m growing tired, Dr Bowden. I came to the conclusion that you must have secretly picked subjects for the cholera trial. You did so several days ago.’

He lost his smirk.

‘I am not stupid. That is, after all, why you chose me in the first place. I am observant. I noticed that a few paupers had disappeared from the workhouses, but only those individuals who signed the consent, had not been chosen for the tetanus trial, and have no family. These were not many. Twenty subjects, ten men and ten women, if I counted correctly. You had to move them to a different location because you want to infect them with cholera and you can’t do so under the eyes of all Londoners.’

My gaze was stuck to Bowden’s face. Gradually, all air his lungs contained was being pushed out in one long sigh. The body of the rigid man moulded itself into the gentle bends of my armchair.

‘Dr Kronberg, I think it is time I introduce you to Broadmoor.’ He sounded relieved as he said it.

‘I know Broadmoor and Nicholson. He is a driven man and probably the right one for you. He has no scruples or other moral baggage,’ I replied, trying to calm my frantic heart.

Only minutes later, we agreed on taking Bowden’s brougham to Broadmoor early the next morning.

Broadmoor Lunatic Asylum, plan of the men’s division. The high security blocks are depicted on the far left. Broadmoor, 1885. (22)
 

Bowden lead the way as we crossed Broadmoor’s courtyard and aimed for the high security blocks. ‘We chose a set of twenty subjects,’ he said, ‘as you correctly observed.’
 

I remembered the place, the fear, and the night spent under a tree. With haste, I flicked the memory away.

We walked through a large hall, the cold stone walls echoing our footsteps. We passed twenty small cots, each equipped with four fetters. Interwoven with the sharp
clack clack
of our heels was a quiet murmur; it seeped from the back of the hall and announced the arrival of horror.
 

I made for the noise, Bowden in my wake. We passed through an arched doorway and a narrow corridor that forked like a snake’s tongue. At the end of each tip was an iron door with a small barred window.

I aimed towards the left and stood on tiptoe to look through the square opening. Ten women, aged approximately between fifteen and forty, were squeezed together in a small cell. A bucket served as a privy and was full to the brim. I could taste the stink of fear on the back of my throat.

With foreboding so heavy I could barely walk, I made for the door to the right. The room harboured ten men. My heart cracked against my ribcage, but I didn’t hear it. I didn’t see the door, or the cell, or the other inmates. All I could see was this one man. And I felt my armour peeling off, like a skin too small and too brittle to be worn any longer.
 

Somewhere in Berkshire, an oriole male cried his melodic call, and the raspy answer of the female followed soon thereafter.

— twenty-one —

Clarity of mind means clarity of passion, too; this is why a great and clear mind loves ardently and sees distinctly what love is.

B. Pascal