The Devil's Grin - a Crime Novel Featuring Anna Kronberg and Sherlock Holmes by Annelie Wendeberg Page A
Authors: Annelie Wendeberg
Tags: Romance, Murder, Victorian, Abduction, sherlock holmes, women in medicine, 19th century london, history of medicine
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could not afford losing them, she allowed me to install an extra lock at the door to which only I had a key. An unusual arrangement, but she needed the extra shilling I paid her each week for my secret dressing chamber.
I bolted the door and started my daily ritual. I lighted the two oil lamps standing on either side of a locked wardrobe, slipped the key in and turned. It clicked open and the glass on inside of the door revealed a view of Dr Anton Kronberg, respectable member of the medical establishment, dressed in a sand-coloured cotton shirt, cotton trousers of a darker shade, and patent leather shoes. His hair was combed back into his neck and sleek with makassar oil.
I unbuttoned the shirt, took it off, and draped it over a hanger, then pulled off my shoes, trousers, and stockings, too. I extracted one end of the bandages I had tucked in at my bosom and unwrapped my chest. While rolling the broad cotton strip into a ball, I watched the red stripes on my breasts turn pale. I pulled off the white cotton underpants and smiled at the absurd appendage that stuck out between my legs. I wore a harness with a penis made of finest calf leather. It looked authentic enough as long as no one examined too closely. It had a narrow rubber tube inserted with its other end attached to a leather pouch filled with water. I made sure that every so often one of my male colleagues saw me take a “pee” at the urinal, drowning every doubt about my sex before it could even surface.
Carefully I took my fake penis off, wrapped it in a towel, and stuck it into my doctor’s bag.
I gazed at my naked self and let the fact sink in that I was yet again a woman. Every morning I shed my female part and made myself believe I was a man. To me, it was the only way not to be afraid. I had no time for fear when I was at work. Rather – I had no time for fear at all. It was naivety rather than courage. If my identity were revealed, I would simply start a new life elsewhere. That’s what I made myself believe. There was, though, the one part of my consciousness that kept telling me how hard it would be to let go of all I had accomplished. But I rarely listened.
The left hand side of my wardrobe contained all things female. I pulled on a bodice, stockings, a petticoat, and a simple linen dress. A scarf around my head concealed the fact that my hair was rather short. All in all, I wasn’t worth looking at and yet, once I entered the streets again, it felt as if I had thrown myself onto the market for sexual reproduction. Half the men noticed me; several of the ones I walk ed past swayed or reached out almost unintentionally just to brush my shoulder or waist. As a woman, I had many more obstacles in my way than as a man.
From Bow Street I turned north and walked the few blocks to my small flat in Endell Street, right in the worst rookery of the British Empire - St Giles.
To me, London was a monster with many heads, or faces, to be more precise. You could stroll down a clean and busy street, but making a wrong turn, you would disappear into a maze of dark and filthy alleys, harbouring millions of rats the size of raccoons. Rodents thrived in the slums more than anything else, as they were the only inhabitants who always had enough to eat. Be it fermenting cabbage, faeces, or cadavers of both animal and human origin. The uninitiated would probably not return, at least not without getting mugged, probably beaten up, and sometimes murdered. Clean water was a rare commodity, as was food, shelter, a warm place in winter, clothes, and basically anything that would make life acceptable. On the other end of the scale were the absolutely quiet and clean upper class areas. Beautifully dressed and well behaved ladies could take strolls with gentlemen in the park without being bothered by the poor and dirty. Here, even the trees and bushes were well groomed. People had enough to eat, and they had servants, who often didn’t have enough to eat.
Every day, my way
I bolted the door and started my daily ritual. I lighted the two oil lamps standing on either side of a locked wardrobe, slipped the key in and turned. It clicked open and the glass on inside of the door revealed a view of Dr Anton Kronberg, respectable member of the medical establishment, dressed in a sand-coloured cotton shirt, cotton trousers of a darker shade, and patent leather shoes. His hair was combed back into his neck and sleek with makassar oil.
I unbuttoned the shirt, took it off, and draped it over a hanger, then pulled off my shoes, trousers, and stockings, too. I extracted one end of the bandages I had tucked in at my bosom and unwrapped my chest. While rolling the broad cotton strip into a ball, I watched the red stripes on my breasts turn pale. I pulled off the white cotton underpants and smiled at the absurd appendage that stuck out between my legs. I wore a harness with a penis made of finest calf leather. It looked authentic enough as long as no one examined too closely. It had a narrow rubber tube inserted with its other end attached to a leather pouch filled with water. I made sure that every so often one of my male colleagues saw me take a “pee” at the urinal, drowning every doubt about my sex before it could even surface.
Carefully I took my fake penis off, wrapped it in a towel, and stuck it into my doctor’s bag.
I gazed at my naked self and let the fact sink in that I was yet again a woman. Every morning I shed my female part and made myself believe I was a man. To me, it was the only way not to be afraid. I had no time for fear when I was at work. Rather – I had no time for fear at all. It was naivety rather than courage. If my identity were revealed, I would simply start a new life elsewhere. That’s what I made myself believe. There was, though, the one part of my consciousness that kept telling me how hard it would be to let go of all I had accomplished. But I rarely listened.
The left hand side of my wardrobe contained all things female. I pulled on a bodice, stockings, a petticoat, and a simple linen dress. A scarf around my head concealed the fact that my hair was rather short. All in all, I wasn’t worth looking at and yet, once I entered the streets again, it felt as if I had thrown myself onto the market for sexual reproduction. Half the men noticed me; several of the ones I walk ed past swayed or reached out almost unintentionally just to brush my shoulder or waist. As a woman, I had many more obstacles in my way than as a man.
From Bow Street I turned north and walked the few blocks to my small flat in Endell Street, right in the worst rookery of the British Empire - St Giles.
To me, London was a monster with many heads, or faces, to be more precise. You could stroll down a clean and busy street, but making a wrong turn, you would disappear into a maze of dark and filthy alleys, harbouring millions of rats the size of raccoons. Rodents thrived in the slums more than anything else, as they were the only inhabitants who always had enough to eat. Be it fermenting cabbage, faeces, or cadavers of both animal and human origin. The uninitiated would probably not return, at least not without getting mugged, probably beaten up, and sometimes murdered. Clean water was a rare commodity, as was food, shelter, a warm place in winter, clothes, and basically anything that would make life acceptable. On the other end of the scale were the absolutely quiet and clean upper class areas. Beautifully dressed and well behaved ladies could take strolls with gentlemen in the park without being bothered by the poor and dirty. Here, even the trees and bushes were well groomed. People had enough to eat, and they had servants, who often didn’t have enough to eat.
Every day, my way
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