Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin

obvious. She had offered to send the maid to help me wash myself. I had refused, hoping that she would take my protest seriously and not write it off as the ramblings of someone too sick to think.
    It took two days of drifting in and out of consciousness, expelling body fluids, and wishing I could die rather sooner than later, before some of my strength returned.
    Finally I decided to have enough energy to wash, so I bolted my door and undressed, undoing the bandages from around my chest. Already I felt quite out of breath.
    Warm water was waiting in the jug next to the washbasin and I scrubbed my reeking body. It needed two changes of fresh water to finally feel clean again. Panting and naked, I sat down in my armchair and let the blaring fire toast my front.

    ~~~

    At the morning of the third day I felt my appetite returning. The bits of dry bread I had for breakfast did not urge themselves up my throat again and I knew that cholera lay behind me.
    Just as I had undressed and started to wash the night sweat off, I heard a knock on my door.
    ‘Who is it?’
    ‘Mrs Wimbush. Havin’ a telegram for ya,’ she shouted a little too loud through the closed door.
    ‘Thank you, Mrs Wimbush. Could you please leave it at the top of the stairs? I am not fully dressed at the moment.’
    She harrumphed — I assumed in the affirmative — and stomped down the stairs again.
    I waited until I heard her door slam shut, then opened mine a small crack and snatched the wire. Its content made my neck tingle
    Will call tonight at seven. J. Bowden.’
    I stared down at the piece of paper, hoping the letters would disappear. Unfortunately, they didn’t.
    I wasn’t ready for Bowden, yet. My brain felt as thick as honey. The only person I could think of now, the only one who may know what I could do, was Holmes. So I put my teapot in the windowsill as a sign for him to come. I had barely washed and dressed when a rap on the door announced his arrival.
    I opened, and Holmes stepped in, still wearing his pauper clothes and the workhouse stench. How long would it take to solve this case? I wondered.
    ‘Good Lord! What happened to you?’ he cried out.
    ‘Cholera,’ I said, and retreated to my armchair, with my cold feet close to the fire. I had seen myself in the glass earlier — my already gaunt complexion had transformed to a rather famished look with dark shadows under my eyes, scaring even me.
    Holmes exhaled a loud huff. ‘Why the deuce did you not call me earlier?’
    ‘Because I know how to treat cholera and you don’t,’ I offered as an explanation.
    He opened his mouth to retort, mumbled something like ‘pigheadedness’, then dropped the issue.
    ‘And how can I be of service today?’ he asked sarcastically.
    I frowned and was about to give him the wire when I noticed the state of his hands.
    ‘How long have you been picking oakum now?’ I asked. He didn’t answer.
    I fetched a pair of forceps from my doctor’s bag.
    ‘Sit down, please.’ I motioned to the armchair and sat next to him on the armrest. Awkwardly, I took his hands and started extracting oakum shrapnels from his skin.
    ‘How odd,’ I said quietly, ‘that no one notices that your hands are not used to hard work, that the workhouse’s stench cannot cover the smell of Muscovy soap and tobacco, that you have a decent haircut, that your ears are clean, that you shaved with a sharp blade, that…’
    ‘It never fails to surprise, does it?’ said he, while I pulled a particularly thick splinter from underneath his thumbnail. He didn’t even flinch.
    ‘It never surprises me that people can’t see me ,’ I answered, and saw his expression flickering from quizzical to nonplussed before he put his mask back on.
    I was done with the splinter extraction and let go of his hand.
    ‘Bowden sent me a telegram,’ I said with a thin voice. ‘He will call tonight.’
    I got up again and rummaged in a drawer until I had found a small jar with a thick yellow paste in it. Silently, I worked it into his hands and he started smelling like a sheep.
    ‘Lanolin,’ I explained, ‘will help to heal the skin quickly and has antibacterial qualities.’ I released him then and looked into his face. ‘I’m not ready for Bowden; I can barely think.’
    I didn’t mention that I was about to panic, but I guessed it didn’t escape his notice.
    ‘Bowden knows you have been ill?’
    ‘Yes, he does. I asked Mrs Wimbush to send a wire to the medical school three days