Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin

there.’ His furry chin pointed towards the ditch.
    Surprised, I turned around and spotted the man Hathorne had indicated. He was unusually tall and lean, and for a short moment I almost expected him to be bent by the wind and sway back and forth in synchrony with the high grass surrounding him. He was making his way up to the river and soon disappeared among the thick vegetation.
    Gibson approached, hands in his trouser pockets, face balled to a fist.
    ‘Dr Kronberg, finally!’ he barked.
    ‘I took a hansom, I can’t fly,’ I retorted and turned back to the engineer.
    ‘Mr Hathorne, did you turn off the pumps?’
    ‘Course I did, but who knows how long the dead fella was floating in there.’
    ‘Is it possible to reverse the direction of the water flow and flush it from the trench back into the Thames?’
    He considered my question, pulled his whiskers, then nodded.
    ‘Can you exchange the entire volume three times?’
    ‘I certainly can, and it shouldn’t even take very long.’
    ‘Very good, Mr Hathorne, thank you for your help. Inspector Gibson, I will examine the body now. If you please?’
    Gibson flapped his hand for me to follow him and lead the way up the path.
    ‘I will take a quick look at the man,’ I told Gibson. ‘If he is indeed a cholera victim, I need you to get me every man who touched his body.’
    After a moment of consideration, I added, ‘Forget what I said. I want to disinfect the hands of every single man who entered the water works today.’
    I knew Gibson didn’t like to talk too much in my presence. He disliked me and my harsh replies. And I had issues with him, too. After having met him a few times, it was quite obvious that was a liar. He pretended to be hard-working, smart, and dependable, while his constables backed him up constantly. Yet, he was still an inspector at the Yard, and I was certain that being the son of someone important had put him there.
    We followed a narrow path alongside the broad trench connecting the river to the reservoir. I had seen it from the cab but now wondered about its purpose — why store water when great quantities flowed past every day? But I was not an engineer and dropped the issue.
    The grass was high; if I strayed off the path, and I felt compelled to do so, it would tickle my chin. Large dragonflies whizzed past me, one almost colliding with my forehead. They did not seem to be accustomed to human invasion. The chaotic concert of water birds carried over from the nearby reservoir. The nervous screeching of small sandpipers mingling with the trumpeting of swans and melancholic cries of a brace of cranes brought back memories of my life many years ago.
    The pretty thoughts were wiped away instantly by a whiff of sickly sweet decomposition. The flies had noticed it, too, and all of us were approaching a small and discarded-looking pile of clothes containing a man’s bluish face. A first glance told me that the corpse had spent a considerable time floating face down. Fish had already nibbled off the soft and protruding flesh — fingertips, lips, nose and eyelids.
    The wind turned a little, and the smell hit me directly now. It invaded my nostrils and plastered itself all over my body, clothes and hair.
    ‘Three police officers are present. Why is that?’ I asked Gibson. ‘And who is the tall man who just darted off to the Thames? Is this a suspected crime?’
    The Inspector dropped his chin to reply as someone behind me cut across in a polite yet slightly bored tone, ‘A dead man could not have climbed a fence, so Inspector Gibson here made the brilliant conclusion that someone must have shoved the body into the water works. ’
    Surprised, I turned around and had to crane my neck to face the man who had spoken. He was more than a head taller than I, and wore a sharp and determined expression. He seemed to consider himself superior, judging from the snide remark about Gibson and the amount of self-confidence he exuded that bordered on arrogance. His attire and demeanour spoke of a man who had most likely enjoyed a spoiled upper-class childhood.
    Keen, light grey eyes pierced mine for a moment, but his curiosity faded quickly. Apparently, nothing of interest had presented itself. I was greatly relieved. For a moment I had feared he would see through my disguise. But as usual, I was surrounded by blindness.
    The sharp contrast between the two men facing me was almost ridiculous. Gibson was lacking facial muscles and possessed a