The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery (18 page)

Nate shakes his head. ‘No, not often. Only few of the rich have that
taste
…’ He comes to a halt, his cart ceasing the noise. He clears his throat and scratches his chin, hoping he looks and sounds reluctant to share information.

‘I hear things,’ he begins. ‘From the girls. Some is codswallop, some the truth. They say Poppy worked the street for a few nights, and slept in the attic of the house at Drury Lane where the two cows are kept in the basement. The ones that one can milk for a fee. Nice white-and-brown ones. You know those?’ He sees Anna’s perplexed stare and wonders if she believes his charade of muddle-headedness. ‘Oh, yes. Poppy. One night, she meets that man. I don’t know who saw it and how many mouths have added to the story. But this much is true: the two entered the house she lives in, and that was the last time anyone saw the girl.’

‘Did you summon the police?’

He snorts. ‘What for?’
 

The cart is set in motion again and Nate shuffles along. At times, such as today, he feels three-legged, with his stick supporting much of his weight. He senses her analytic stare, giving him a prickling in his neck.
 

He stops once more and turns to her. ‘Listen to me, Anna. When a rich man injures a St Giles prostitute, what do you believe will happen?’

‘Nothing?’

‘The police will do nothing because, in their eyes, we are all criminals. No one will investigate…’ He cuts himself off.

‘Investigate?’

He hears suspicion in every breath she takes. ‘She was injured and she disappeared. No one will investigate this, and certainly not
here
. You seek justice where none is to be found.’

‘Don’t you have your own sense of justice?’

‘Of course I do. Why else would I protect my girls from men like him? He isn’t the first, and certainly won’t be the last. But I’m not egoistic enough to chase after him.’

‘Why would that be egoistic? You would prevent—’

‘Goddammit, you are naive!’ Nate searches for words. Impatiently, he sets the pull-handle of his cart onto the dirt road. ‘If I left Mum’s boarding house to run around and find all monsters who fancy sticking knifes into girls, I’d certainly be somewhat of a hero, even if I got myself killed in the process. Meanwhile, Mum and the girls are unprotected, no one cooks for them, no one lends them an ear when they need one. And they certainly do need that often! It is a small role I’m playing, but it’s my role, and I’m proud of it. You, on the other hand…’ He pokes his gnarled finger against her forehead. ‘If you go out to find that fella and get yourself gutted, then you are responsible for all your neighbours dying of injuries and disease because you are not here to care for them. Quite idiotic, if you ask me.’

He sees her wide-eyed stare and knows she analyses every word he says and every bit of information she suspects him to withhold.
 

‘Nate?’ she says with an audible clump in her airways. ‘Why is Mum called Mum?’
 

‘Because she opened the boarding house together with our daughter.’ He clears his throat. ‘I learned about the child only a few years later.’

‘Your…’ He sees her searching her memories for all the faces of women she’d treated, but she doesn’t seem to find one who looks remotely like Nate or Mum.

‘Who is she?’

‘Our daughter? Long gone. Long gone.’ A tired mutter, one that opens all senses wide if one only knows how to listen.

‘Why do you keep this boarding house?’ she says hoarsely.

‘It’s all she has.’

She wants to ask more questions, but all of them will hurt, so she keeps her mouth shut.

‘I told your friend to keep an eye on you.’

‘What friend?’ she asks, but already knows the answer.

Butcher

H
e stares down at his fingers. The nails need a trim. But at least they are clean. Eight years ago, if he remembers correctly, a perpetual brown rim stained his fingernails and the cracks surrounding to them. Brown were the fine furrows snaking around one another, forming weird pattern on the pads of his fingers. Brown was the base of each and every hair growing on the backs of his hands and his lower arms. He had been elbow-deep in blood and guts of swine and cattle, a whole of ten hours each day. He’d turned deaf for the screaming of animals, the buzzing of flies, the sounds of knifes and saws and hammers, but the blood on his skin, the colour of it, and the odour, all of which accompanied him wherever he went, had bothered him deeply.

Now, it’s the grunts of satisfied men, or the grunts of unsatisfied ones, and the fake outcries of pleasure from the girls’ mouths he’s learned to ignore. When Mr Steward stuck his knife into the new girl’s face, he’d ignored her cry, too. Hadn’t expected anything else from a girl that young and inexperienced. They all needed breaking in, and he is glad he hadn’t done it on this one.
 

Some pimps fancy doing it, but for Butcher’s taste, the sounds the girls make are often too close to the squealing of a butchered pig. Yet, not close enough to push the noise into the deaf corner of his mind. So he tries to stay away from the breaking-in business. Other than that, he doesn’t mind the girls’ favours in exchange for delaying the rental payments for a day or two.

Butcher hears a heavy knock on the brothel’s front door, and he’s a bit puzzled. The afternoon is still so young; the whores have barely prepared their rooms. He opens the door and takes a step back. ‘Your prick must be itching badly,’ he grunts at Garret. ‘Rose isn’t ready. None of the—’

‘We need to talk,’ interrupts Garret and pushes into the corridor. ‘Is anyone in the kitchen?’

‘What do you want?’ Suspicion makes Butcher’s voice harsher than usual. He isn’t accustomed to anyone reaching eye level with him. He could deal with a tall stick of a man, but having to look up at a man of his own build and half an inch more height is more than irritating.
 

‘Poppy is dead. I want to talk with you about the man who cut her face. Now, get into the kitchen. I don’t want the whole neighbourhood to hear what I have to say.’

Reluctantly, Butcher moves his feet towards the back of the house. He toes the kitchen door open, shoos two women out of the room as though they are a pair of sparrows, then positions himself behind the table, arms crossed, face stern. ‘How do you know the girl’s dead?’

‘Found her in a pile of cow shit. When have you last seen the man?’

‘Might have been a week ago.’

‘Was it a week ago or was it not a week ago?’

Butcher watches Garret’s hands ball to fists and press onto the tabletop. Knuckles whiten, blood vessels bulge underneath yellow fuzz. ‘Pretty sure a week.’

‘Will he come back?’

‘Don’t know why he wouldn’t.’

‘Who’s serving him?’ Garret’s question come as quick and as sharp as gun fire.

‘Whoever has her monthly thing.’

‘Menstruation. It’s called menstruation. You work in a brothel and can’t even say menstruation. Can you say quim?’

Now Butcher’s fists press onto the tabletop, too. The pair appears like two bulls getting ready for a furniture-shattering brawl.

‘Quim,’ says Butcher.

Garret can’t hold in a snicker, although he knows it might tip the other man over the edge.

Butcher slams his knuckles onto the wood and barks a laugh. ‘The man’s name is Steward. Not his real name, mind you. But unusual enough for a customer. The others are all Smiths, Williams, Millers, and Whites.’ He waves at Garret, then grows solemn. ‘So you believe he killed that girl?’

‘Yes.’

Butcher pulls back a chair and sits down. Garret does the same.
 

‘What is your plan?’

Garret takes a deep breath and says calmly, ‘My business. All I want from you is to send a boy to my room when
Mr Steward
comes to visit.’
 

Butcher chews a piece of callus off the side of his finger, spits it onto the floor, and nods. ‘He’s a cunning fella. Have you ever seen his face?’

Garret shakes his head.

‘Did any of the others?’

Garret’s stiff expression tells Butcher there are indeed other men involved.

‘What’s up with his face?’ asks Garret.

‘Nothing in particular. Just saying that he’ll know something’s up when he sees a familiar face on a man following him. Nate’s for example. Or mine.’

‘No worries,’ says Garret and pushes away from the table. He has the feeling he has said too much already.

The Longest Knife

S
he lets a handful of green coffee beans fall slowly into the pan.
Clink clink clink
they sing when they hit the heavy cast iron. The fire is hot and soon the beans begin to crackle and pop, releasing a sharp, yet mouth-watering aroma.

She tosses the beans and swirls them in the pan until their colour reaches a brown so dark it’s dangerously close to black. She blows at the loose skins and they fly in all directions. With the coffee oil coating their outsides and the skins gone, the beans are shiny and clean and beckon to be touched and smelled. She bends down and inhales their rich scent, then pours them into the mill and sits down on her chair.

The mill clamped between her knees, her legs wobble with each turn of the crank. The aroma intensifies and reaches a new high when she pulls out the small drawer at the bottom and holds the powder up to her nose.

She pours the ground coffee into a pot, adds water, and sets it on the stove. Her eyes are transfixed by the murky liquid. It boils up once, is then taken off the stove for the foam to settle, and placed over the fire yet again. She does this three times, while her mind is empty save for the few thoughts on the procedure at hand.

She lets the coffee settle in the pot, then she pours herself a cup, sits down at her table, takes a first sip, and lets her mind pick apart all that she’d learned.

Nate gave her information today, but also withheld information. His intention was clear — to keep her away from the knife-man, surely to protect her.

The few people who know she tried to find Poppy are Butcher, Rose, Sally, Barry, and Garret. The last time she mentioned the girl’s name is at least two weeks ago. What caused Nate to approach her today? Why didn’t he say a word when she performed the abortions at Mum’s?
 

His reaction to this whole affair was most unusual. Rarely does he talk that much. He stated that
someone
told him she’d met the knife-man. But why would anyone find it noteworthy enough to tell
him?
Except, of course, if one of his girls had seen it. But how would he know she was looking for that man? A simple guess, perhaps?

The only person who knew she was looking not only for Poppy, but also for the knife-man, was Garret. Would Garret tell Nate? And if so, why?
 

Garret had seen Rose and asked her questions on Poppy’s whereabouts. Ah! Garret had asked about the knife-man, too. But the women of Fat Annie’s didn’t talk much with the ones working at Mum’s, as far as Anna knew. Why would Rose tell anyone that Garret had inquired about the knife-man? Besides, back then, no one could have guessed a connection between Anna and Garret. Later, yes. Now, the two are seen walking together rather often.

Anna frowns. Too many strands of possibilities are tangling her mind. She needs to take another step back.
 

She stands, brushes back her hair with her fingers, inhales deeply, and walks up to the window.
 

A simple guess, a suspicion, made Nate come out of his oyster shell, out of his I-speak-only-three-word-sentences routine. Is this likely?

She shakes her head. Much likelier is that Nate knows what Garret knows. Wouldn’t it make sense then that Garret knows what Nate knows, too — that Poppy lived and disappeared at Drury Lane? Yet, Garret never mentioned it. Why?

Anna takes a good long sip from her coffee and looks down onto the dark street. Shadows of people are moving about.
The silence,
she thinks.
The silence speaks the loudest.

She sets the cup down. Nate told her about his past, he even talked about his lost daughter. Not once did she hear him give anyone the smallest bit of personal information. Every word he’d told her said only one thing —
do not get near the knife-man!
This allowed only one conclusion — Nate is terrified.