The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery (13 page)

The disappearance of the knife-man, though, seems entirely unexplainable. But what should she do once she meets him? Politely ask him questions on Poppy’s whereabouts? How laughable!

She groans and comes to a sudden halt, feeling strangely too hot. Her skin is itching, her thoughts seem sluggish.

Her gaze rests on a billboard. Her eyes don’t take in the letters or the illustration. She imagines herself emerging from behind the too-small hiding place, her privates burning from overuse, a customer throwing a coin at her feet, and she picking it up eagerly. Will she end up like this, once someone discovers what she does for a living?

Anna shakes her head and rakes her fingers through her hair. Her mind has a tendency to take her onto a too-wild ride, no matter how much it reflects on reality. She wonders what’s wrong with her today. These useless thoughts don’t get her anywhere but too close to fear and despair. Prickling runs down her body.
Might have caught the latest summer cold
, she thinks when she steps around a corner and a knife meets her throat.

‘Good evening.’ A whisper close to her ear. A hand curls around her elbow. She’s pushed through a doorway and into a corridor. The house smells of mould and of excrements from rats and humans.
 

It’s so dark she cannot see more than a silhouette. The man is of normal build, and a few inches taller than she. His voice is softer and higher than that of the drunkards frequenting the establishments in Clark’s Mews. She detects the odour of expensive soap and the scent of virgin silk and wool — not the yarn produced by tearing up tattered remnants of clothes, then spinning the shreds to weave them into “new” fabric. The man in front of her smells of money. Lots of it.

Apparently by accident, his hand brushes over her left forearm and finds the outlines of her small jackknife. ‘What is this?’ he asks, his fingers probing her sleeve and extracting the tickler.
 

With a snort of contempt, he drops it to the ground, then slips his hand over her other arm, her stomach and waist, but no more weapons are to be found. ‘I heard you are looking for me. This is most unusual, don’t you think?’

She doesn’t answer. Her knees and thighs are pressing together in reflex.

‘I have been informed that a woman is making enquiries about me. It’s usually I who chooses the women. Now it appears as though a woman picked me. I’m honoured,’ he continues. The tip of his knife is resting where her pulse drums against her skin.
 
Her lower abdomen contracts. ‘But don’t you think your behaviour inappropriate?’

‘What?’ she asks, for nothing else takes shape in her mind. She’s too busy analysing as much as she can. His high, white collar shows dimly in the dark — the top hat, the light coat, the silvery glint of his walking stick’s knob.

The back of his hand strikes her across her cheek. A warning that brings a sting, but is, in itself, harmless. The knife makes contact again. ‘Say,’ he begins and probes between her legs, ‘you wouldn’t be bleeding, would you?’

‘I rarely do,’ she answers and her silly mind begins calculating when her last menstruation was. About a year ago. She had been ill then.

‘Very unfortunate.’ He drops his hand and wipes it on the front of her dress. ‘What do you want from me, then? You don’t appear to be a prostitute. Not even a runaway girl looking for adventures with an experienced man.’

‘I want to know what happened to the girl. Poppy is her name. The one whose face you cut open.’

‘Of course.’ He chuckles. The knife loses contact. Only a moment later, he presses it against her cheek just underneath her left eye. ‘I will be patient with you and teach you a lesson. Let’s call it “Reality.” Are you listening?’ He reduces his voice to a soft whisper.

Anna breathes, ‘Yes,’ for nodding would drive the blade into her eye.

‘Excellent. Not a single soul wishes to know what happens to whores. When they disappear, most people are grateful. Not I, mind you. But people who ask too many questions, people like you, are threatening the foundation of our modern society. Do you know why?’

‘No.’

‘You see, men are unable to control their animalistic urges.
 
It is common knowledge. So what are we to do, once we are married? For the modest woman seldom desires sexual gratification. She submits to her husband for the desire of maternity and to please him. In the soul of a good woman, there is no space for sexual indulgence. She knows little of the darker, deeper desires of many a man. In order to calm man’s dark side, he
must
use whores. It is in the nature of man, and that is what whores are for — to satiate. It is like everything in life. There are the ones who deserve to be served, and the ones who serve. But I wonder… Perhaps,
you
wish to satiate my animalistic urges? My control of them might be slipping any moment now.’ Spite sharpens his voice, and the knife’s tip is pressing hard against her skin.

‘No,’ croaks up Anna’s throat.

‘Very well, then. I trust you learnt your lesson tonight. If not, one more meeting might be necessary. But it won’t be as pleasant as this one. Have a good night.’

The knife disappears, and with it, the man. She slumps forward and retches. Bile hits the pavement.

Newgate

T
hirty
, echoes in Garret’s skull.
Thirty
. The word still carries the magistrate’s satisfied lilt.
 

He had felt very small in Old Bailey’s Central Criminal Court. The charges against him were laughable. The police soon noticed that they had caught the wrong man, for he didn’t look like the pickpocket they had been chasing — a skinny boy with hair as black as a raven’s feathers. Yet, the police needed to catch someone, and this was Garret’s misfortune.

He would have been released at once if not for the bundle of burglar equipment and the two pieces of liver stuffed with opium.

Garret had insisted that he found both at the corner of High Holborn and Broad Street. He told the magistrate how lucky he felt that the police caught him. He would have eaten the liver and would have surely died of opium poisoning. He had even folded his large hands to appear humble. But it hadn’t helped much. He looked like the brute he was.

Lacking solid evidence, they couldn’t detain him for very long. Owing to his build, however, his roots in St Giles, and the incriminating accessories, the magistrate decided that
some
punishment would only do Garret good.

‘O’Hare!’ calls the warden, rattling a large ring full of keys, most of which have lost their lock long ago. Their only purpose is to impress. Here in Newgate Prison, the man with the keys is king.

Garret is led through a dingy corridor out towards the gallows. The thief holds his head high, taking in all details one last time: the moisture dripping down the vaulted ceiling, the green slime growing on cold stones, the echo of his footfall, the murmurs, shouts, and cackles of his fellow prisoners. The light at the end of the corridor is blinding, a hooded figure cuts through its centre, black on white — the executioner.

The man is holding the cat, an all-but-inviting thing. Its handle is about two feet long and shiny from regular use. The nine tails, all fourteen or fifteen inches, are twitching. He strikes at the whipping frame as though the beast needed testing. Garret knows this is done to initiate the terror. Pain comes eagerly when fear is there to welcome it.

The hangman nods at Garret and asks him to take his shirt off before he ties his hands to the wooden frame.
 

How considerate
, thinks Garret. At least, more tears are unlikely to be added to the many his once-best shirt has already received in this godforsaken place. A week ago, he sold his jacket in exchange for food. His boots would have been next, but luckily it hadn’t come to that.

The first swish bites through the air and catches on Garret’s back. One drawn-out lightning of pain.
 

Two.
 

Three.
 

Four. His skin is growing raw, as though it’s about to peel off his back. Now, the cat’s tails feel more like flames than leather. She licks him again and again.
 

Fifteen.
 

Sixteen.
Ah!
Even his toes hurt with every lash. Garret clenches his teeth.
Make no sound!
he commands his throat.
 

Twenty-one. His lips vibrate with the grunt he cannot hold in. Every limb begins to quiver.

‘Lay it on fair, will ya?’ he squeezes through his teeth.
 

Twenty-eight.
 

Twenty-nine.
 

One more.
Ah!
 

The hangman releases Garret’s wrists. Steadying himself on the frame, fighting to remain upright, he squares his shoulders, nods at the man with the whip, and is escorted out of Newgate.

It takes him over an hour to reach his quarters. All the while, he swears to himself to be more careful next time. For her, at least.
 

Thoughts of the fragile woman, her softness when he holds her hand, her determination that could scare the devil, made his days in Newgate more bearable and harder at the same time. He was worried about her. She couldn’t know where he was and she’d surely try to find Poppy and run into danger.

Two weeks in this sick place, without money to bribe the warden — all he received as food was mouldy crusts of bread. His stature protected him from violence, but every day he stood at the gates, with his hands stretched through the bars to beg for food. He often went hungry, for he didn’t appear as wretched as all others. One week into prison life, he felt so weak he was not sure he could fend off the other inmates any longer.
 

Luck came in the shape of a pickpocket who possessed a few coins and was in need of a bodyguard. His life for Garret’s, protection in exchange for food and drink. The man had already found a replacement when Garret met the cat.

The latch key scrapes through the keyhole, his hand trembles. He has nothing to drink here, not even a slice of dry bread. He drops onto the mattress with a low thud, thinking that he’ll rest a little before he hunts down something to eat, and perhaps even an ale.

He sees her crossing the street, jumping over mule manure, the hems of her skirts dancing around her ankles. Her head tilts as she spots him.
Is it mistrust that narrows her eyes?
he wonders.
 

‘Oy, Anna!’ he calls. She stops her stride when he walks up to her.

‘Hello.’ She sounds as though she is disappointed to see him.
 

His mouth sags. ‘I took a vacation.’ Her left eyebrow pulls up. ‘In Newgate,’ he adds.

‘Why?’ A heavy voice, almost bored.

That she’s obviously not happy to see him hurts more than his back. Her face is unusually still; no emotions flit across it.
 

‘I’m a thief. You forgot that?’

‘How come you let yourself be caught?’

‘Let myself…be caught?’ Garret puffs up his cheeks and looks up at the sky, searching for words in the white-and-blue. He exhales, tells his heart to shut up, turns away, and lets her stand on the pavement. He is in no mood for a sharp retort. All he wants is to go home and digest his early dinner with a good long nap.