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

Holmes was tedious. Unable to invent anything complex, I settled upon simply turning a corner when he wasn’t paying attention. I knew this non-strategy was utterly stupid, no need to even attempt it. What I truly needed to escape from was James and his child.
    Three hours before nightfall, when the woods formed a dark and inviting line at the horizon, Holmes informed me that we were now turning south towards Littlehampton.

    The orange sun hung heavy among the trees when I set out to hunt. Holmes didn’t seem to mind the odd distribution of tasks. While he collected wood, cleaned and oiled our revolvers, and explored the surroundings for emergency hideaways, I ventured out armed with my crossbow.
    I was glad to gain some distance from him and certain he enjoyed the time of solitude just as much as I did. He appeared highly alert for the slightest change in my mood. Whether it was my physical condition or my reticence that annoyed him the most, I didn’t know.
    Pheasants were easy prey this time of the year. Mating season had tired the cocks and they settled on their sleeping branches early after sunset. If I’d had very long arms, I could have picked them off the trees like overripe pears.  
    Soon I found a sleepy specimen halfway up a beech. I raised my crossbow, aimed and fired, and was back at the tent in less than an hour.
    I plucked and gutted the quarry. We waited for nightfall before lighting the small fire.
    Holmes poked at the embers and I sat down opposite him, throwing some of the bird’s yellow fat in the skillet to melt. The instant it touched the hot metal, it hissed and bubbled. Heart and liver followed, sizzling and shrinking, blood oozing from the meat and mixing with the melted fat, darkening to a deliciously crisp brown and throwing off a scent that made it hard to not reach out and grab a piece before it was done. While I busied myself with slicing meat from the bones, Holmes flipped our food in the pan.
    ‘Delicious,’ he hummed. Then, sharp eyes met mine. ‘You have been evasive long enough. It’s time for a longer conversation.’
    My chest contracted. I nodded automatically.
    ‘It’s now eight days since we left your cottage. I very much doubt that Moran is closing in on us already. But I’m certain he will try everything in his powers to do so. The more information you provide, the more reliable my calculations on his plans and whereabouts will be.’
    ‘Naturally,’ I answered.
    ‘Excellent. Now, what precisely happened to you and Mycroft after Watson and I departed from Dieppe?’
    That trustworthy brain machine of mine hauled in memories as demanded. ‘Nothing remarkable happened in the train to Leipzig or on the ride to my father’s home. I instructed the driver to drop us off in the woods, about half a mile from the house. The path led uphill, rather steep, and Mycroft fell behind. I had no patience to wait for him, so I ran ahead to find my father.’
    Holmes listened with eyes half-shut, lazily poking at the frying meat.
    ‘The garden looked as though he had not returned yet,’ I continued. ‘The house was empty, the curtains drawn. Once inside, I noticed the lack of dust. The room smelled clean and fresh. There were two possibilities. One, that he had asked someone to clean for him. But that would have been highly atypical for my father. The second and most likely possibility was that he had returned and left soon thereafter.’
    Holmes held out the skillet and a fork for me. ‘Thank you,’ I said and impaled a piece of liver. He selected his dinner and leaned against a tree, chewing and gazing into the void. I wondered whether he pictured himself inside the house, seeing the things I described.
    I took my time eating and collecting myself. ‘I did not notice the man until he spoke to me.’ At that, Holmes focused on my face, eyebrows at a sharp downward angle. ‘He said I could find my father in the church. He said he wouldn’t be buried in sacred soil, for he had