The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) Read Online Free PDF Page A

accepted as normal and necessary bore no logic to me at all. I failed to see logic in many things humans did, especially when they acted as a mass.
    We began walking again and an hour later, we reached Littlehampton. Strangers that we were, and quite tattered ones on top of it, we drew everyone’s attention. Holmes enquired after an inn with guest rooms; people pointed and we found it within minutes: the George Inn.
    The landlord was a stout man sporting a mighty moustache and cheeks the colour of maple leaves in autumn. He eyed us with suspicion when Holmes said, ‘Good day to you, sir. I am Dr Cyril Baker and this is my wife, Mrs Clara Baker. We’ve run into a spot of bad luck. We require your assistance and will pay you handsomely.’
    The man opened his mouth, but Holmes kept chatting, emphasising his educated speech a little too much. ‘My wife and I were robbed, but we were lucky that the ruffians didn’t search her dress. Or worse! By Jove! I’ve just now come to think of it!’ He clapped a hand to his chest and turned to me. ‘Don’t listen to me, my dear, don’t listen. It’s but the confused babble of a husband who has seen his beloved wife in too great a distress.’ He turned back to the landlord and gave him a grim nod. ‘My dear sir, have you two rooms for us?’
    The man cleared his throat. ‘I have a room for people who can pay the rent.’
    I slipped a hand into the folds of my dress, extracted two moist pounds, and slammed them on the counter. The moustache broadened considerably, its corners pointing upwards.
    ‘We both need a bath, a good meal, and clean clothing. Would that be possible, sir?’ said Holmes, and with that started an avalanche of service by both the landlord and his wife.

    A too-large bed in an empty room, walls echoing my footfalls, and the shallow breath of my lungs. Devoid of birdsong and the rustle of grass in the wind, this place felt empty. Like myself.
    The window dulled the chatter on the street below but could not entirely shut out the news of the strange doctor and his wife. Have you heard they were mugged and almost beaten to death? That poor woman, in the family way she is, yes, yes! Thugs have torn her dress apart! And so on. I was glad their vivid imagination had room for pity.  
    My hair was wet from the bath, my skin still burning. After removing the layers of grime, I had tried to remove James. But no matter how hard I pressed the coarse brush down on my skin, no matter how much soap I used, all that scrubbing only cleansed the surface. The resulting pain, at least, was good. For once it was physical, explainable, logical.
    When I emerged from the tub, the stink of my clothes hit my nostrils. More than a week of walking, sweating, and never washing properly had created an odour reminiscent of a fox den. I poked my toe at the layer of grit on the tub’s bottom. It was thicker than expected.
    A narrow door separated my room from Holmes’s. Light seeped through a crack in the thin wood. Earlier, he had dispatched a message to his brother; then we had dinner in silence, the unspeakable heavy on our lips. What thoughtlessness to attempt suicide in front of his eyes. What thoughtlessness to have kissed him two years ago. What thoughtlessness…
    Quietly, I moved around in my room, picking up my few belongings and packing them in my rucksack. I would have to wait until he was sleeping.  
    The candle began to flicker. I blew it out; darkness fell.

    A knock disturbed my thoughts.  
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘May I come in?’ His voice was soft and strangely controlled. As though he walked on raw eggs.
    ‘Yes.’ I sat up and lit the candle on my nightstand when he closed the door behind him.
    ‘May I sit here?’ He pointed to the edge of my bed. I nodded. ‘I see that you packed.’
    I didn’t answer.
    ‘Did you plan this, Anna?’
    ‘What?’ I asked to gain some time, or to prevent me from having to answer at all.
    ‘The suicide.’ A bare whisper. He was still