Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin

said, turning back to him. ‘One of the peculiar things I’ve noticed is that almost all women with knife wounds in their lower abdomen were victims of attempted rape. And all of those who survived the attack reported that the rapist had used a knife because he was unable to penetrate them. He was unable to produce an erection. Doesn’t that add a very different angle to the Ripper’s motives?’
    Holmes leant back in his seat and stared out of the window. After several long minutes he turned his face back to me and said, ‘The Ripper used several prostitutes, speaking of a high sexual drive. If he indeed was never able to finish a sexual act, he must have accumulated a great amount of frustration.’
    Passengers close by started coughing and wagging their fingers at us. Some took their children by the hand and left the compartment. Holmes ignored their protests and I had my hand over my mouth to hide my grin, but my eyes betrayed me. He noticed my amusement and shot me an indignant glance.
    ‘My sincere apologies, Mr Holmes. I couldn’t help but think that any other man,’ I leant forward and lowered my voice, ‘would have at least felt awkward saying that very same sentence straight into a woman’s face.’
    ‘As what shall I treat you then? Male or female?’ he said sharply, which resulted in the full attention of our fellow passengers being turned towards our peculiar conversation.
    ‘I want to be treated with respect, and you did that. Thank you,’ I said in earnest and with a hint of a bow. There was a long moment of silence, both of us measuring the other until some kind of common ground seemed to have been reached.
    ‘The fact that one victim was not enough, that he needed to kill more, also tells us a lot about the murderer,’ I added quietly.
    ‘He craves power,’ noted Holmes
    ‘He has none otherwise.’
    ‘Indeed!’ he exclaimed. ‘Everyone searches for the bird of prey when the mouse is the culprit!’
    His excitement soon dissolved into thoughtfulness as he recommenced staring out of the window. The long, silent stretches interrupting our conversation did not feel uncomfortable. Neither of us liked small talk.

    ~~~

    Chertsey was a neat little town with old houses, small front yards, and the occasional goats or cats passing by and wondering who the deuce these two intruders were.
    ‘Ah!’ exhaled Holmes disappointed as we reached the street flanking the wetland. We had expected to find perfect footprints on the paths here, as the ground was always moist, but the cobblestones prevented that.
    Bent low over the sides of the narrow street, he strained his eyes to identify potential traces of the Hampton man’s activities. Occasionally, he was on all fours, almost touching the dirt with his nose, his magnifying glass at the ready.
    Meanwhile, I scanned the meadow. The wind moved the grass like waves and the sun painted flickering lights on their tips. The gentle movement revealed faint criss-crossing patterns where hares and deer must have passed. I bent down and investigated the base of the grass and the small tunnels shaped by animals foraging for food. Our progress was depressingly slow and so far without results. After about half an hour I got impatient and excused myself. Holmes only grunted in response.
    At a nearby willow, I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my trousers and sleeves, and climbed up the tree. A gap in the foliage allowed a grand view of the whole of Chertsey Meads. I saw Holmes, who was yet again on all fours. The man was quite assertive, I thought. Larks were blaring and a harrier flapped its long, black-tipped wings, swaying across the river.
    Then I saw it: among the faint animal tracks was one that had several broken grass blades farther up. Only a large animal could have produced that. I stuck two fingers into my mouth and blew hard.
    Holmes stood erect and looked around. It seemed as though he had just noticed my disappearance. I whistled again and he spotted me.
    ‘Another twenty-five yards, Mr Holmes!’ I yelled through the funnel of my hands. Instantly, Holmes turned and walked the recommended distance. He inspected the ground and the grass for a moment, cried out in surprise, and darted off towards the Thames.
    I climbed down, grabbed my shoes and socks, and took a shortcut to the other end of the trail. As a child I had learned that running barefooted through a wetland with long strides can cause the sharp grass to cut in deep between the