Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin

pleasant; it offered views London had long lost: greenery, fresh air and once in a while a glimpse of the river that still had the ability to reflect sunlight. Once the Thames entered the city it turned into the dirtiest stretch of moving water in the whole of England. Crawling through London it became saturated with cadavers from each of the many species populating the city, including their excrements. The river washed them out onto the sea, where they sank into the deep to be forgotten. London had an endless supply of filth, enough to defile the Thames for centuries to come. At times this tired me so much that I felt compelled to pack my few things and move to a remote village. Perhaps to start a practice or breed sheep, or do both and be happy. Unfortunately, I was a scientist and my brain needed exercise. Country life would soon become dull, I was certain.
    The hansom came to a halt at a wrought-iron gate with a prominent forged iron sign arching above it, its two sides connecting large pillars of stone. Behind it was a brick complex made of three impressive towers on either side of a two-storey building. Hampton Water Treatment Works were built in response to the 1852 Water Act, after the progressive engineer Thomas Telford had annoyed the government for more than twenty years. He had argued that Londoners were drinking their own filth whenever they took water from the Thames, which resulted in recurring cholera outbreaks and other gruesome diseases. The inertness of official forces whenever money and consideration were to be invested amazed me rather often.
    Roughly half a mile east from where I stood, an enormous reservoir was framed by crooked willows and a variety of tall grasses. My somewhat elevated position allowed me to look upon the water’s dark blue surface decorated with hundreds of white splotches. The whooping, shrieking and bustling about identified them as water birds.
    I stepped away from the cab and walked past three police officers — two blue-uniformed constables and one in plain clothes being Gibson. The Bobbies answered my courteous nod with a smile, while Gibson looked puzzled. The man I was aiming for was, I hoped, a water works employee.
    He was a bulky yet healthy-looking man of approximately seventy years of age. His face was framed by bushy white whiskers and mutton chops topped up with eyebrows of equal consistency. He gave the impression of someone who would retire only when already dead. And he was looking strained as though his shoulders bore a heavy weight.
    ‘I am Dr Anton Kronberg. Scotland Yard called me because of a potential cholera fatality in the water works. I assume you are the chief engineer?’
    ‘Yes, I am. William Hathorne, pleased to make your acquaintance Dr Kronberg. It was me who found the dead man.’
    I noticed Gibson huffing irritably. Probably I undermined his authority yet again. Although it would require a certain degree of learning ability on his part, I was still surprised that he obviously hadn’t yet become accustomed to my impertinence.
    ‘Was it you who claimed the man to be a cholera victim?’ I enquired.
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘How did you know?’
    He harrumphed, his gaze falling down to his shoes. ‘I lived on Broad Street.’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly, wondering whether the loss of his wife or even a child had burned the haggard and bluish look of a cholera death into his memory. Thirty-five years ago, the public pump on Broad Street had infected and killed more than six hundred people, marking the end of London’s last cholera epidemic. People had dug their cesspit too close to the public pump. As soon as both pump and cesspit were shut down, the epidemic ceased. With a tightening chest I wondered how many people would have to die when a cholera victim floated in the drinking water source of half the Londoners.
    ‘Did you move the body, Mr Hathorne?’
    ‘Well, I had to. I couldn’t let him float in that trench, could I?’
    ‘You used your hands?’
    ‘What else would I use? My teeth?’ Naturally, Mr Hathorne looked puzzled. While explaining that I must disinfect his hands, I bent down and extracted the bottle of creosote and a large handkerchief from my bag. A little stunned, he let me proceed without protest.
    ‘You kept your eyes open. I could see that as I came in. Can you tell me who else touched the man?’
    With shoulders squared and moustache bristled, he replied, ‘All the police officers and that other man over