The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery (8 page)

He puts this aside with a dip of his chin, then repeats his question. ‘Why did you cut your hair short, Anna?’
 

When she opens her mouth to answer, he interrupts. ‘I don’t want to hear it if it’s a lie.’

‘Because I wanted to.’ Her voice is soft.

‘Have you been in an asylum? Or gaol?’
 

The most natural conclusion. Women with short hair are either lice-ridden — which she obviously is not — or have spent time as inmates.
 

‘Of course not,’ she says indignantly.

He nods. ‘Are you married?’

She sees how hard this question is for him to ask. ‘No. I’m not married.’

‘Are you a widow?’

This is what she has told everyone. She presses her lips together and stares hard at him. ‘Garret, for you and everyone else, I am a widow. I will never state anything else, not even here in this remote place. It does not matter whether I was married to him’ —
them
, her mind corrects — ‘or not. So, please, it is easier if you accept that
I am a widow
. It protects me.’

His eyes widen, then he drops his gaze. ‘May I court you, Anna?’

Her innards contract with a jolt. ‘No,’ she breathes.

He sees her pale face and doesn’t know what to make of it. Does he repel her so? But why would she allow him to hold her hand? Was that some kind of lie, too? ‘I don’t know who you are,’ he whispers.

‘You know me better than anyone else, save for my father.’

He shakes his head, two slow fractions of a movement. ‘Why do you do this? Why all the secrets? No friends? No husband?’ He squints, feeling angry, helpless, and at the same time, sorry for her as well.

‘If people knew my secret, I’d have to leave England and spend a few years in gaol.’

Garret sits erect like a stick, eyes wide, mouth straining not to gape. ‘Did you murder someone?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I would be hanged, not deported.’

‘Yeah, true.’ He slumps back down in the grass.
 

‘I would like to be your friend, Garret. But you would have to accept me the way I am.’

His eyes light up for a moment at the thought that this woman likes him. Then, heaviness spreads when the realisation sinks in that he might never know her secrets.
 

He nods anyway.

Testing the newly won freedom, or closeness, or sort-of-honesty, or whatever this is, he dares to ask, ‘What was on that note you hid in your sleeve the other day?’

‘A rough and rather useless description of the man who injured the girl.’

‘You’re still looking for him?’ He rubs his face and gets all cross-eyed from his impatience with her.

‘I believe he’s dangerous. The girl said that he loves his knife — an expensive thing, with mother-of-pearl inlays. He ran the blade over her body, even across her vulva. He seems to revel in the terror he causes. But what I really want to know is what happened to
her
.’

He inhales slowly; his chest expands until a grumble pushes though his throat. ‘And after that you plan to do what? Save all whores?’

‘It’s as hopeless as attempting to eradicate all disease. But healing one ailing person at a time, is that not worth the effort?’ She sees his face relax. Only a small frown curls his mouth. ‘Would you help me, Garret?’

His eyebrows pull together. One might interpret his expression as inviting, so she continues. ‘The woman who gave me the note. I’d like to ask her a few questions, but obviously I cannot march into a brothel and interrogate a prostitute. She might lose her room. So I thought…perhaps you could go. As a customer. I’ll give you five shillings, if that’s what she asks for. I don’t even know how much…’ She trails off. Garret hides his face in his sleeve.

‘You ask me to visit a whore whom
you
pay? Did I just hear that? Did I?’ He shakes his head and looks at her.

She nods.

‘Goddammit, Anna.’ He jumps up, wondering whether he ought to regret this trip to the countryside, but he cannot bring himself to do so. ‘Tonight?’

‘If it’s possible.’

‘Do you want me to ask her your questions before or after I used her services?’ He wants to shake her by her shoulders, but all he comes up with are acidic words.

‘I wouldn’t recommend bedding her,’ she whispers, the small sores at the corners of the woman’s mouth brightly visible in her mind. ‘I believe she has syphilis.’

His jaws are working. Not knowing how to reply without shouting or ripping his own hair out, he turns and walks away.

She watches him for a moment, weighing the consequences of her actions. If he walks away from her for good, it might have been worth hurting him.

Garret

H
is back presses lightly against a wall. Perhaps a bad idea, considering the daily flow of piss down the plaster. Anna stands next to him with her arms crossed over her chest. ‘This is the woman,’ she says quietly without pointing. ‘Do you know her?’

‘Never seen her before.’ Garret pushes away from the house and crosses the street. The woman’s skirts are frayed, her shirt too loose around her bosom, a scarf conceals nothing and warms nothing. Her face is powdered, her lips painted blood red. A fake smile cracks open her mouth.

‘Ten minutes in heaven for only two shillings,’ she rasps.

Garret nods towards a dark corner — there, behind that flimsy billboard.
 

Her face falls. ‘I have a room, sir. I’m a respectable woman!’

‘No need to call me
sir
,’ he grumbles.

She nods, resignation stiffening her moves. His bulk and height frighten her. But then, she always has Butcher who would come at once should this man… On the other hand, Butcher hadn’t come when… She stops for a moment, then shakes off the fear.
So what
, her mind rattles,
I’ve dealt with worse.

Once in her room, she takes off her shawl to expose more of her shoulders and the flesh of her freckled bosom.
 

‘No need to undress,’ says Garrett, lays the fee on the table, and sits down on the only chair in the room. The bed looks too conspicuous to him.

Before he can utter another word, she hikes up her skirts and shows him her bush. ‘You are the practical kind. I
do
like that.’

‘Bloody Christ!’ slips out of Garret’s mouth. Shock holds his buttocks to the chair when the woman swings a leg over his knees and purrs, ‘Pull the stockings down, dear. They scratch a little.’

To cover her nakedness, he grabs her by her waist and plops her down on his lap. Perhaps a little too abrupt. And perhaps a bad idea, considering the sudden proximity. She squeals in fake delight.

‘Listen,’ Garret begins in an attempt at gentlemanly behaviour, then swallows when she grinds her privates against his crotch. ‘While I very much…’ She begins unbuttoning his trousers. ‘…appreciate the effort…’ She tries to extract his manhood from the confinement of his drawers. ‘I’d rather ask you a question or two. So if you please, let go of my cock?’

Her head jerks up. ‘Yer havin’ the clap?’

Butcher tips his knitted cap in farewell and Garret is out the door in an instant. He spots Anna’s silhouette at the other side of the street. Anger wells up his throat. Not only did she find it utterly natural to ask him to visit a whore — a woman who now believes he has a disgusting disease because all he wanted to do was talk — Anna even insisted on paying for the adventure, and, if the woman didn’t have syphilis, Anna wouldn’t have cared much whether he used her or not.
 

Garret feels very dirty all of a sudden. Knowing that her eyes are on him, he pretends to close the last button of his trousers, wiggles and arranges the waistband, then turns on his heels and walks home.

He kicks open his door, grabs a bucket, and walks down to the pump. Back in his room again, he indulges in a very thorough scrubbing until his skin begins to burn. Just before he dunks his head into the bowl, he hears a knock.

‘Garret?’ she asks softly.
 

Dammit, woman,
his mind bellows,
stop pretending timidity!

Ignoring the rapping, he vigorously rubs soap onto his scalp. The following handfuls of icy water can’t cool his mind a bit.

‘Garret, could you please tell me why you are angry at me?’

That one question tips him over the edge. He slaps the flannel into the bowl, crosses the room with two stomps and jerks the door open.

‘Because you make me feel naked,’ he barks, ‘and you don’t even care.’

He sees her gaze slip from his face and his wild and sopping wet hair, down along his body.
 

‘You
are
naked,’ she observes, just before the door slams in her face.

‘Balls!’ he mutters, ‘balls, balls, balls!’ and frantically searches for a pair of trousers. He hops into them and opens the door again.

Her arms are protectively crossed over her chest.
 

His jaws are clenched to forbid his mouth to utter a peep.

‘I apologise,’ she says hoarsely.

The door opens farther, allowing her to step in.

He observes her moving to the window at the other side of the room, observes her chewing on words, and then, opening her mouth reluctantly. ‘Washing doesn’t help. Did you not listen when I told you that she has syphilis?’ She speaks the last sentence quietly and pleading.

His shoulders sag. ‘You are an idiot.’ He fetches his towel and rubs his hair dry. ‘Don’t you want to hear what she said?’

She narrows her eyes, and he can’t make anything of her scrutinising expression. ‘Garret, are you aware that there is no cure for syphilis?’

His anger gets the better of him. ‘I don’t even know what you mean with syphi… what did you call it?’ he lies.

‘Syphilis. Same as the French gout.’

‘What? Why didn’t you say that earlier?’ He stretches his waistband and peeks into his trousers. ‘Oh no! It looks like a pink cauliflower!’ he cries, doubles over, and laughs and laughs until his chest hurts. He chokes, plops down on the chair, and buries his face in his hands. ‘Dammit, Anna. How can you think I fucked her?’

Soft footfalls approach. ‘You were buttoning your trousers.’

‘Because I was angry at you. You sent me to a whore believing I would use her.’

She comes to a halt only inches from him. ‘How would I know you weren’t interested?’

‘Yeah. How would you know?’ He speaks into his hands.

Upon her silence, he lifts his head and gazes at the row of small buttons that adorn the front of her dress. The contours of her hipbones shape the fabric. Her fragility and the rawness of his nerves let him wrap his arm around her waist and press his face to her chest. ‘How would you know.’

It takes him only a moment to realise that she stiffened the instant he touched her.

He lets go of her, scoots a few feet backwards, and speaks to his hands. ‘She said her name is Rose; she’s from Manchester. She seems afraid of large men, or perhaps only of me. She doesn’t know the name of the fella in question.’

He squints at Anna, who only slowly recovers from her shock. She rubs her arms as though she’s cold. Her face is pale.

‘I didn’t want to scare you,’ he says.

She blinks and shakes her head. ‘You…didn’t.’

‘Don’t lie to me, Anna.’

‘Memories scared me,’ she says, then looks as though she regrets that last statement.

‘Rose saw the man only once and doesn’t remember his face very well. She remembers his hands, though. They were fine and clean, his skin without blemishes, except for a red scar on the back of his right hand. A cut, she believes; about two inches long. He was well-spoken. No one believed he could be dangerous.’

Anna clears her throat. ‘Is he a regular?’

‘No. Not at Clark’s. But I heard from others that he has frequented boarding houses in and around Seven Dials for the past three months.’

‘What others?’

‘Men. In pubs. They heard it from the whores, and sometimes they saw the marks he left. Nothing serious. Scratches, mostly. Not much worse than flogging, they said. Only…done with a knife instead of a stick.’

‘Do you know where he went before he came here?’

He shrugs. ‘No. But I can ask.’