Kronberg Crimes 01 - The Devils Grin

space to undress the guard and put the clothes on himself. While he pocketed the revolver, he asked casually, ‘How long until they expect you to have another patient?’
    I didn’t answer and he finally looked at me. ‘Anna!’ he ordered.
    ‘Ten or fifteen minutes at the most,’ I said automatically.
    ‘That should suffice,’ he noted and gingerly took my right hand and pulled it closer to his face. I hadn’t noticed that my knuckles were bleeding. Before he could examine it any further, I whisked my hand away.
    ‘What is your plan?’ I enquired.
    ‘I will break into Nicholson’s office and send a telegram to the local police to let them know that Broadmoor is suffering a mass break-out. That should make them come with the artillery.’ The smug smile put all the usual energy back into his face.
    ‘Listen, Sherlock — whatever happens — I must be Anton Kronberg for a little while longer. I’ll explain later.’
    He nodded, and I said, ‘Now, I should be believably unconscious. Knock me out.’
    He snorted, looked around and picked up a small piece of plaster from the floor.
    ‘You want to hit me on the head with that tiny thing?’
    ‘All you need is a little blood,’ he said, took a step forward, grabbed my neck and drove the pointy little rock into my brow. It was only a small cut but bled sufficiently.
    ‘Thanks,’ I noted wryly, and bent down to rub some dirt next to the wound.
    ‘Perfect!’ Holmes unlocked the door with the guard’s latch key. I watched him leave and then lay curled up on the ground. My heart was galloping in anticipation and worry, and I wished I could do more than just lay here, pretending to take a nap.

Chapter Twenty-Two

    Lying on the cold floor, I felt like the eye of a tornado. Holmes was the storm and I the centre, waiting for destruction to surround me. I closed my eyes again and listened into my own dark and to the soft click-click of blood dripping down onto the stone tiles.
    After a few minutes, the tempest began with a timid rap on the door. I remained silent and the knocks became more urgent, then turned into shouts. ‘Dr Kronberg? What is going on? I demand you open the door immediately!’ It was Stark’s voice.
    Then I heard him fumble the lock and try to force it. Several minutes passed until they had found a spare key and finally opened the door. He stuck his head through the gap and shouted, ‘An escape! Guards! Hurry!’ on his way back through the hall.
    The blood had drawn a tiny black pond on the floor, and I let my thoughts tiptoe back to the night at the bog lake.
    After a while, Nicholson walked in. I saw him through my half-closed eyes. Methodically, he planted one foot on the ground and then the next. A quiet tap-tap. I pictured him flicking a forked tongue in and out of the slit of his mouth, like a great anaconda tasting the air, trying to detect the next meal.
    Then he stuck the tip of his shoe into my abdomen. This, too, he did slowly and deliberately. I had to suppress an angry growl, feeling the urge to eat him alive. Only a quiet groan escaped my lips and he stopped, put his foot back to the floor, and left me alone.
    Then I heard a great hustle in the hall — people shouting, several gunshots, and Holmes’s commanding voice. It spread a very warm feeling through my chest.
    Two policemen walked in. One jerked me up to my feet, slapped my face to wake me, while the other cuffed my hands behind my back. I let my head hang low so as not to show the triumphant grin I couldn’t wipe off my face. They walked me out of the room with a firm grip on the scruff of my neck. The other men were handled the same way — Stark, Nicholson, Bowden, several guards and the Broadmoor staff. Among them was Holmes, looking pleased. We avoided each other’s eyes.
    They loaded us criminals into a dog cart with two officers pointing guns into our faces. The other policemen and Holmes were behind us in a hansom and Bowden’s brougham. It looked as though Holmes had engaged the entire local police force.
    On the way to the police station we passed over a particularly bumpy section of the cobblestone road. I stood up halfway and protested against this inhumane treatment of a medical doctor who had only wanted to save mankind — I did that rather loudly — and then head-butted Nicholson while falling on top of him.
    The crack I heard as my forehead made contact with his nose was very satisfactory indeed! The man protested with zest — throwing spit,