Read Online The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) by Annelie Wendeberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Annelie Wendeberg
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a fresh shirt on. ‘Everyone will expect you to remain in bed for a few hours at the least.’
I nodded and watched him carrying away the girl, the placenta, and his blood wrapped in a towel.
One-eyed, I peeked out of the window, careful not to move the curtain. His slender figure crossed the street. People stepped out of his way, eyeing the package under his arm, quickly drawing their fingers across their chests — up-down, right-left — then hastily turning away. Bad luck. I longed to get away from here, but the charade needed to be played to its end.
I used the rest of the water to wash the blood off my skin. The red in the bowl reminded me of my days in the slums. So often had I placed my hands into someone’s wound. To stitch them up, sometimes to saw off a limb. I had been tougher back then.
Light rain tapped against the window. The morning sun peeked through cracks in the cloud cover, rays prickling through the drops on the windowpane and refracting into a hundred small rainbows.
Our belongings were already packed. For authenticity’s sake, Sherlock carried both the rucksack and the large bag while I was to lean on him. We stumbled down the stairs, through the small parlour, out into the drizzle, and across cobblestones that were steaming with rain and horse manure.
The station emerged from the mist, a red brick building, its roof streaked white from gull droppings. The birds called and circled while we waited for the train. Soon came the hooting and the wisps of steam, before the locomotive pushed into the station. The stationmaster saw us step into the train. None of the Littlehamptoners saw us exit on the other side. Even if we had been seen by passengers, they were all taken away to New Shoreham, Brighton, or London.
Sprinkling camphor in our wake to spoil the tracking fun for Moran’s dogs, we walked to the river Arun. The chain ferry took us across. The ferryman thought we were early tourists. He had never seen us before, and the rumours spoke of a doctor and his ailing wife, who certainly wouldn’t be expected to walk about laughing, pointing at the scenery, and chatting as I was doing now.
Once we reached the other side of the river, we went down to the dunes to set up our tent.
‘How long, in your opinion?’ I asked.
‘It depends on the dogs. How quick they tire, how often they lose our scent, and how quickly they find it again. It could be any time from this very instant to up to two days from now.’
He pulled out his telescope and scanned the area where the river spilled into the sea. ‘Look. There.’
I took the instrument from his hand and searched where he had indicated. On the other side was a small pile of rocks where the dunes softly rolled down to the beach. One of us would always be keeping an eye on it.
Littelhampton Harbour, 1890s (6)
— eight —
W e watched boats going in and out of the river’s mouth, heard fishermen praise their catch, oystermen haggle for a better price for their harvest, and gulls scream at the sea. The wind combed the grass; the tent’s oilskin flapped lazily.
While he kept his telescoped eye directed to the other side of the river, I gazed up at the sky, one hand on my stomach, feeling the growing weight of the child and wondering what the next day might bring. ‘In two or three weeks, this stomach will be too large to hide.’
‘Hiding it won’t be necessary for much longer. We will go to London as soon as Moran discovers the grave. I need to know whom he contacts. After that, we’ll pay Moriarty’s solicitors a visit.’
‘Moran will be delighted to learn that the child is dead. No need to wait three years; he can take revenge immediately.’
‘Precisely.’ He lowered the telescope and rubbed his eyes, then turned to me. ‘If all goes as planned, Moran will take the train to London, believing we are already there. I have only one problem.’
‘What problem?’ I sat up.
‘Evidence against Moran and Parker is weak. If
I nodded and watched him carrying away the girl, the placenta, and his blood wrapped in a towel.
One-eyed, I peeked out of the window, careful not to move the curtain. His slender figure crossed the street. People stepped out of his way, eyeing the package under his arm, quickly drawing their fingers across their chests — up-down, right-left — then hastily turning away. Bad luck. I longed to get away from here, but the charade needed to be played to its end.
I used the rest of the water to wash the blood off my skin. The red in the bowl reminded me of my days in the slums. So often had I placed my hands into someone’s wound. To stitch them up, sometimes to saw off a limb. I had been tougher back then.
Light rain tapped against the window. The morning sun peeked through cracks in the cloud cover, rays prickling through the drops on the windowpane and refracting into a hundred small rainbows.
Our belongings were already packed. For authenticity’s sake, Sherlock carried both the rucksack and the large bag while I was to lean on him. We stumbled down the stairs, through the small parlour, out into the drizzle, and across cobblestones that were steaming with rain and horse manure.
The station emerged from the mist, a red brick building, its roof streaked white from gull droppings. The birds called and circled while we waited for the train. Soon came the hooting and the wisps of steam, before the locomotive pushed into the station. The stationmaster saw us step into the train. None of the Littlehamptoners saw us exit on the other side. Even if we had been seen by passengers, they were all taken away to New Shoreham, Brighton, or London.
Sprinkling camphor in our wake to spoil the tracking fun for Moran’s dogs, we walked to the river Arun. The chain ferry took us across. The ferryman thought we were early tourists. He had never seen us before, and the rumours spoke of a doctor and his ailing wife, who certainly wouldn’t be expected to walk about laughing, pointing at the scenery, and chatting as I was doing now.
Once we reached the other side of the river, we went down to the dunes to set up our tent.
‘How long, in your opinion?’ I asked.
‘It depends on the dogs. How quick they tire, how often they lose our scent, and how quickly they find it again. It could be any time from this very instant to up to two days from now.’
He pulled out his telescope and scanned the area where the river spilled into the sea. ‘Look. There.’
I took the instrument from his hand and searched where he had indicated. On the other side was a small pile of rocks where the dunes softly rolled down to the beach. One of us would always be keeping an eye on it.
Littelhampton Harbour, 1890s (6)
— eight —
W e watched boats going in and out of the river’s mouth, heard fishermen praise their catch, oystermen haggle for a better price for their harvest, and gulls scream at the sea. The wind combed the grass; the tent’s oilskin flapped lazily.
While he kept his telescoped eye directed to the other side of the river, I gazed up at the sky, one hand on my stomach, feeling the growing weight of the child and wondering what the next day might bring. ‘In two or three weeks, this stomach will be too large to hide.’
‘Hiding it won’t be necessary for much longer. We will go to London as soon as Moran discovers the grave. I need to know whom he contacts. After that, we’ll pay Moriarty’s solicitors a visit.’
‘Moran will be delighted to learn that the child is dead. No need to wait three years; he can take revenge immediately.’
‘Precisely.’ He lowered the telescope and rubbed his eyes, then turned to me. ‘If all goes as planned, Moran will take the train to London, believing we are already there. I have only one problem.’
‘What problem?’ I sat up.
‘Evidence against Moran and Parker is weak. If
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