The Fall (30 page)

‘Marry me,’ he whispered.
 

‘I can only marry you when you abstain from murder.’

‘Is that all you ask of me?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, shocked by how far I had gone already.

‘A simple request,’ he mused. ‘I will certainly grant you this wish.’

— day 171 —
 

J
ames had grown more and more obsessed with Holmes. My tension grew with his, but for a very different reason. I hadn’t spoken to Holmes for weeks and had no clue how far he had come in closing the case. Since the day James had proposed to me and I had consented, he freely shared sensitive information. I sent my water closet messages to Holmes every day, stuffed either with a few names and the nature of the connection between these men and James, or with observations of James’s everyday routine. I also learned that he had indeed attempted to influence a new draft of the Brussels Convention. Apparently, men were listening to him, but no new draft had been made thus far.

While I was working on vaccines, I kept a close eye on Goff. The man had turned into a maniacal germ-producing machine, brewing anthrax germs in small batches and developing variations of a spore-dryer that wouldn’t allow spores to escape into the surrounding air and infect us.

Every day, I had rearranged the laboratory setup, explaining that I was worried about his spores and wished to increase our safety. The changes were small; but gradually, I turned the warehouse into an oversized bomb.

The brougham waited, James held the door open for me. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘I’m making sure my fiancé and my child get enough to eat. You are working too much, my dear. Come, I reserved a table for us.’

Surprised, I climbed in. Just before he closed the door I spotted one of Holmes’s street urchins. Wiggins was his name, I believe. He looked hurried.

Garrow drove us up to Richmond and opened the door. James exited the carriage, then froze. I followed his gaze. Holmes! Without disguise he stood just across the street, looking me full in the face. I forced my head not to shake. He was too early!

‘What does this man want now?’ snarled James.
 

With pain in my chest, I took his hand, and gave Holmes a cold stare, hoping he would understand. James tucked my hand in the bend of his elbow and marched us off to the
Castle
, a nearby dining room.
 

Judging from James’s constant tension and Holmes advising me to run, Holmes must be very close to arresting James and his men. Three days ago, James had begun to hunch again. His headaches were bothering him constantly. Although my treatments gave him some relief, every evening he was to be found on his ottoman and smoking opium. The ageing cat was trapped and furiously pacing his cage.

James pulled a chair up for me, and I sat down. He didn’t speak until the waiter had taken our orders.
 

‘We will move to Paris in two weeks,’ he announced.

‘Is it Holmes?’ I said softly.

‘We will live in an apartment for a while until we find a house that suits us.’

‘What about the laboratory and our project?’

‘Goff will begin packing up tomorrow morning.’

‘Our first trial is almost finished, James. In eight days I could infect our immunised mules and the control group. Then we would know whether our anthrax vaccine works. Please, I need another two weeks!’
 

It would be a catastrophe if our laboratory were to be moved before I could destroy it.

James stared at the tablecloth, his jaw muscles working. ‘Very well, fourteen days. Not one day longer.’

‘Thank you.’ I placed my hand on his.

— day 183 —
 

I
felt as though I were translucent. Prolonged hardship can make personalities stronger, but it can warp them just the same. Yet I had believed myself strong enough to escape this fate. How curious the capability to live through torture and pain minute by minute, day by day, while the mind does not allow a view on the future self for even a second. Had I known James Moriarty would keep me for half a year, only to be invaded by his child and handcuffed by marriage, I would have let the dogs eat me on day one. Yet it was me taking every single one of these steps, one at a time, half-blind to the consequences. Who was to blame? While we drove up to a small cathedral outside London, I gazed at James’s face and wondered what hardships had removed his humanity.

Chingford Old Church, London, 1896 (19)

The ceremony was short and only Jonathan and Cecile were present to witness the unification of bride and groom. Cecile, in her naiveté, smiled happily, while Jonathan’s eyes betrayed suspicion.

A simple
“I do”
and I was James’s. Now he owned all that I had and I owned nothing. My clothes had been his before. I felt sorry for my cottage, though. He could sell it or burn it down. Whatever he chose to do, no law could hinder him. He could lock me up in my room and violate me, and it would be legitimate. By signing the marriage papers, I was robbed of all freedom. Should I ever regain it, I would shed my female identity forever. Being Anna Kronberg only meant a constant struggle with societal laws that I always failed to recognise and obey. I was too tired to do this any longer.
 

I put a timid smile on my face as James took my hand into his to lead me back to the brougham. We had been quiet for a long moment, with him gazing at me while I observed the streets and houses flying by.

‘You are not with me, Anna.’

‘I am sorry, James. I haven’t been myself lately.’

‘To be honest, me neither,’ he replied, slamming a fist against the window. ‘This Holmes is getting on my nerves. He is like a bloodhound, won’t be led off track and is all over my men lately.’

The brougham came to a halt, James climbed out and offered me his hand. ‘Mrs Moriarty?’ he said with pride. I tried a smile and his face fell.

‘I shouldn’t have rushed you,’ he said.

‘Perhaps.’ I gazed at my shoes, fighting for words. ‘We had no time to get to know each other as man and woman, James. We work and sleep with each other, but we have never considered spending our lives together, let alone having children.’

‘Well, what is done is done,’ he said, kissing my hand. ‘You cannot have a child and be unmarried. Come.’ He led me up the marble stairs into the house. Lunch was awaiting us. The odour of fish pudding made me sick. Upon my request, Hingston removed it from the table. The vegetables looked inviting enough, though.

‘It is time to change tactics with Holmes.’

I swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I will put an end to this. The man is a nuisance.’ James tried to shovel peas onto his fork, but they wouldn’t obey. He began to stab them ferociously. Silverware screeched on china.

‘Are you breaking your promise?’

‘No. I will let someone else murder Holmes. But let us not talk about such gruesome issues, my dear. We have a wedding to celebrate. I would very much like to see you in the afternoon light.’

Hingston blushed and left the room.

— day 184 —
 

Friday, April 24th, 1891

I
stepped out of the tub, watching the water run down my body and the steam rise from it. The Moroccan soap coloured the air heavy and sweet. What I felt would be hard to describe.
Precise,
maybe?

The decision had been easier than I anticipated. While having supper with James, the certainty fell upon me as light as April rain. He had tried to murder Holmes. First attempt: in person, at Holmes’s apartment, but Holmes had his loaded revolver at the ready. Subsequent attempts were carried out by James’s men, be it stones thrown from rooftops or horse carriages trying to run him over. I had told James I was shocked. There was no way to disguise what I felt. Why should I not be? My husband had put himself in danger; I was entitled to be upset.

I worked almond oil into my wet skin, then rubbed excess moisture off with a towel. The crystal flask waited on a chest of drawers, the clear liquid inside refracting the candlelight into sparks of red, blue, and orange. I watched the small rainbows, marvelling at the beauty of my murder weapon, then stepped forward and pulled the stopper.

The treacherous fluid clucked through the phial’s neck and fell on my palm. I applied it to my breasts and let the dew soak into my skin. I spread another handful on my vulva and pubic hair, and a final droplet on my lower lip. Then, I opened the tin of activated carbon tablets and swallowed them all. His kisses would transport some of the poison into my mouth and I would inevitably swallow it. The carbon had to absorb it all or I would die, too.

I brushed my wet hair which now reached past my chin — the same length it had been before the head injury a year and a half ago. My fingers probed the scar. It still felt sensitive to the touch. I stepped closer to the looking glass and wiped its cloudy surface. I met my gaze.
You will murder a man tonight, Anna,
I whispered to myself.
Yes
, I answered. Condensation crept in and obscured my face again.

I put the camisole on and strung myself into the corset. He fancied unpacking me. No drawers, only garters and silk stockings covered my legs. He liked that, too — immediate access to the most important parts.