The Devil's Grin: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller Book 1) by Annelie Wendeberg

it is a raid now,’ he noted.
    ‘Sounds more exciting than a mere visit.’ I pulled a corner of my mouth up.
    ‘Very well! We will meet at my quarters at eight, then. Mrs Hudson will provide us with supper.’

— nine —

    A t eight o’clock sharp, I knocked on the dark oak door. Mrs Hudson answered with a cautious look on her face. Violin music poured down the staircase and I was surprised by the aggressiveness of Holmes’s play. I pressed my finger to my lips and Mrs Hudson nodded. Then I walked up the seventeen steps, trying to recall and avoid the ones producing a shy squeal when stepped upon. I settled at the topmost stair and leaned my head against the door. With my eyes closed and my ears wide open, I listened to him playing La Tempesta di Mare . It was my favourite of Vivaldi’s works and Holmes put such force into his play that my heart fidgeted like a salmon on the riverbank.
    He finished the piece and I rose to my feet, about to knock, when he started the Presto . My hand hovering over the doorknob, I did not dare move a muscle. This was the reason for me to stay away from music halls — I would sit on my chair and cry my heart out.
    The violin fell quiet again and I heard Holmes groan, ‘When would you think it appropriate to enter?’
    Slowly my hand lowered itself on the knob, turned it automatically, and opened the door. Just before the fully open door would reveal my face, I rubbed the moisture off my cheeks.
    ‘Thank you, that was very enjoyable,’ I croaked, wondering how the deuce he had noticed my presence.
    ‘My pleasure; although at the end it got a bit laborious.’ Holmes’s flushed face wore a wild expression and his hair was rather ruffled.
    ‘The way you play — it must be! I loved it!’ Startled by my own words, I looked away and changed the topic. ‘The raid was a disaster?’
    ‘There’s nothing of interest in Broadmoor,’ he said, setting his violin on the desk, or, rather, on top of all the papers. Then he fetched a Persian slipper that turned out to be his tobacco pouch. In a different situation, I would have laughed. Now I could only frown. He stuffed and lit his pipe and settled down to smoke.
    ‘So what now?’ I enquired.
    ‘Nothing; I dropped the case,’ he replied, producing a cloud of blue smoke with each word.
    I watched him for a moment and could not believe his words. He was angry, not bored, nor disappointed. ‘Tell me, Mr Holmes, did you play Vivaldi because you did not know how to produce the lie so that I would believe it? Or because you had a problem lying to me? Forget the latter, it was a stupid assumption.’
    Slowly he tore his gaze off the ceiling and glued it onto my face. ‘That is a strong accusation!’
    ‘You tell me I am mistaken?’
    ‘Certainly!’
    ‘Be careful, Mr Holmes, I may end up throwing your possessions out of the window.’ I was joking, but it didn’t have the desired effect. All he did was to narrow his eyes and lean forward.
    ‘I think it is time to go home now, Miss Kronberg.’
    I noticed the omission of my title. ‘I think it is time to go to Broadmoor, Sherlock.’
    ‘Do what you see fit,’ he said casually, leaning back and looking at the ceiling again.
    ‘I usually do. See you in the Berkshire.’ I opened the door a crack. He leapt off his armchair, shot his long arm out, and slammed the door shut. I was trapped inside.
    ‘You are hindering my investigation and I must insist you leave Broadmoor to me.’ It was as though he had opened another door to let me see the danger lurking behind his calm facade. I had just poked a stick into the jaguar’s cage.
    ‘How do I hinder your investigation? So far, I have helped bring it forward.’
    ‘You didn’t. Any suggestion, clue, or deduction you made, I had made earlier. I let you believe you had something to add to the case.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘It amused me,’ he said coldly, and I could feel my fingertips tingle.
    ‘And now you are tired of the