The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery

by Annelie Wendeberg

  The touch of cold on her arm wakes her from her stupor. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m washing you,’ he simply states. ‘Where do you want me to put the ointment?’

  The gradual increase of consciousness seals her lips and make her eyes dart to his face and back to the bucket, the window, the kitchen cupboard. Clear thoughts are nowhere to be found.

  He notices her nervousness, pulls the blanket over her shoulders, rinses the flannel, squeezes it, and offers it to her. She takes it and slips it under the covers, rubbing the stink and the sweat of disease off, while Garret rinses out the cloth, his back turned to her, his ears pricked for her huffs and moans of weakness.

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll need more clean water.’

  He nods and gets what she requested, again dunking the cloth into the cold water and offering it to her.

  ‘The ointment,’ she says.

  He gives this to her, too, again turning away to give her a little privacy. Her hand on his back startles him.

  ‘The ointment is for you. Help me put it on.’

  He’s inching away from the mattress. ‘Why did you not send me to get medication for yourself?’

  ‘There’s no medication for this. Not at this stage of the disease. But your cold rags help.’

  He sees the little strength bleed from her quickly, so he obeys, pulls his shirt off, and lies down next to her. Despite the warm weather, the chilly floor bites the side of his body that doesn’t fit on the mattress.

  The contrast of her hot fingers and the cold flannel on his lacerated back make him want to squeal like a guinea pig. She dabs at the wounds until his skin appears clean, then she spreads ointment onto each cut, crisscrossing trails of hot and cold on his back. By now, he hurts more than the previous day.

  ‘It is a bit inflamed,’ she whispers, lying down and curling her arms against her chest. ‘Don’t put the shirt back on. The wounds need air.’ With that, she closes her eyes and exhales a long sigh.

  Not good, thinks Garret, retrieves the eel pies and a jug with water, and begins to prepare tea. He’s torn between hurrying up so she’ll eat and drink before she falls back asleep and letting her rest a little before offering her pies and tea. His decision is made for him. Anna’s face relaxes, her fists uncurl, and her breath flows quietly.

  Frankenstein

  ‘Good morning,’ he says softly. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  She wheezes into a corner of the blanket. ‘Did you sleep at all?’

  He indicates the coat spread out on the ground and a shirt rolled into a pillow. ‘Course I slept.’ I can sleep like this every night, he adds silently.

  She observes the nervous blinking of his forget-me-not eyes, the slight blushing of his cheeks. ‘I think I’m well enough now. Would you help me get back home?’

  He nods, trying to not look disappointed. ‘I asked Mrs Cunningham to launder your clothes.’ His hand waves towards a neat pile.

  She smiles. ‘Thank you.’ The warmth of her voice accelerates his heartbeat.

  ‘Do you need help to wash and…umm…probably not. I’ll bring you fresh water.’ He jumps up and is out the door in an instant, afraid to say something ridiculous. He always feels stupid when she’s around, and he doesn’t know why. She never says or does anything that should make him feel this way. And yet…

  Once the bucket is filled, he stomps up the stairs, a little louder than necessary so she has ample warning. Then he knocks.

  ‘Garret, this is your room. Come in!’

  He steps through the door, smiling a smile that makes him feel sillier yet. He places the bucket next to the mattress, fetches a towel, a flannel, and the thin and brittle sliver of soap for her, then leaves again to buy breakfast.

  He takes his time strolling down the streets, hunting for luxuries like fresh bread, butter, cheese, ham, and a bottle of milk. Anna has told him that Germans eat this stuff if they can afford it. The previous night, the two had compared their childhood breakfasts. While she’d had porridge and tea, he’d eaten potatoes with buttermilk and sheep cheese. His grandmother’s stories of the Great Famine, about neighbours starving to death, and other neighbours eating rats and then dying of disease, had been repeated so often that he still knows them by heart. During the years of extreme poverty, she’d lost the ability to feel satiated. Whatever Garret’s mother put on the table, it was perpetually commented on as ‘Good! Good!’ and devoured until the plate was so clean and shiny, one could have placed it back onto the shelve atop the scoured dishes and not have noticed a difference. As a child, Garret believed grandmother’s stomach was a large barrel magically hidden in that bony body of hers, a barrel that could take in anything without ever being full.

  Just as he’s about to return home, he realises he has forgotten to buy milk. Garret stops and grins when an idea hits him. He’ll bring Anna the freshest milk anyone can possibly get.

  ‘Oy, Alf,’ he calls through the open door of the well-known house at Drury Lane.

  Harumpf, issues from the basement and a Mooo! follows. Clearly an invitation to approach. He climbs down the narrow staircase and a tall man slightly older than Garret sticks his head around the corner.

  ‘Hello, Garret. The boys are about to get the manure. You want to wait?’

  ‘No, need fresh milk for my tea now. Don’t bother, Alf. I’ll milk one of the ladies, you see to the boys. When are they coming?’

  ‘Should be here any moment now. Help yourself,’ Alf says and waves into the dark. ‘Oh, you’ll need this.’

  Garret takes the offered jug and walks down to the cellar, pushes open the door that is partially blocked by manure, and steps into the dark room. Two cows are standing knee-deep in a mix of hay and shit. A square beam of light pokes through a small window just above the street; people walking through it make it flicker every so often.

  Garret fetches a fork and digs a path into the manure, then bends down and touches the first cow’s udder, then the other’s. He decides on the animal on his right, for she appears to have more milk. He picks up the one-legged stool from a hook on the wall and ties its belt around his hip. He scoots close the cow, clamps the jug between his knees, and leans his cheek against her warm belly. Behind him, two boys begin moving manure into large baskets and hoist it up the stairs and onto the street, where a donkey cart is waiting to be filled.

  Garret strokes milk from the cow’s nipples, thinking of his childhood long ago. He had milked the ewes when their lambs were grown, and he’d always had the very first sip of the warm and sweet substance.

  The jug is almost half-full when a high-pitched scream makes the animals jump. Garret turns his head and everything seems to slow down to a painful crawl. At first, his brain refuses to absorb what presents itself: a fork’s handle is held by a trembling boy, its points impaling a wrist, a dark-purple arm peeking out from the manure.

  Dream-like, Garret places the jug on a nearby shelf, extracts the fork from the boy’s hand, and pulls it out of the dead flesh. He leans the fork against a wall and tries to get his bearings together. His ears sing and the world begins to wobble.

  Alf and the second boy clatter through the door. ‘Why are you making such a ruckus, Tom?’

  Tom’s mouth is sealed.

  ‘I need a shovel.’ Garret’s voice is a harsh, grating noise.

  ‘Holy…’ The remainder of the sentence is stuck in Alf’s throat.

  ‘Shovel!’ barks Garret, and the demanded item is slapped against his outstretched palm. Carefully, he moves the cow shit aside, feeling how the metal edge of the tool scrapes over something soft. A dirty and swollen face, throat, and chest are revealed.

  ‘Alf?’

  ‘Yes?’ A quivering reply.

  ‘Alf, I need to leave. I have never been here. Tom, fetch the coppers.’ Garret looks into everyone’s face and receives solemn nods in reply. He hands Alf the shovel, wipes his palms on his trousers, and takes the milk jug from the shelf. ‘Tell Baylis,’ he says a
nd leaves the basement.

  His legs stagger out onto the street, his eyes are blind to the passers-by. The milk suddenly seems most disgusting. Life seems most disgusting. With knees too soft, Garret’s hindquarters find the next best support.

  ‘Is that for us?’ a female voice asks. Only then does he realise he’s sitting in someone’s home — the doorsteps of Short’s Gardens’ workhouse.

  He nods and pushes the jug into Scotty’s eager hands. The soft gulping noise wakens Betty and she demands her share. ‘And the boy,’ she says. ‘The boy needs milk.’

  The milk is gone in a heartbeat. Neither of the two old women bother to stifle their burps.

  ‘You look ill,’ observes Scotty. She pulls her waterproof closer around her bony frame and scoots forward. ‘Hmm…warm milk. Never had it from over there.’ She points to Drury Lane. ‘Can’t remember when I drank milk the last time. Didn’t think it was so sweet.’

  Garret doesn’t reply. The wheezing of the infant in Betty’s arms makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t want to think of yet another death, so he stands up, but instantly retreats into the shadows of the door. Two bobbies approach the house he has just evacuated.

  ‘You found that girl,’ says Scotty.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That girl. You found that girl,’ she says loudly and slowly, perhaps thinking Garret’s hearing abilities have suddenly disappeared.

  He gives her a sharp look, then squeezes farther into the shadows of doorway. ‘What have you seen?’

  Hastily, he makes his way towards home, thinking that he must tell Anna so she’ll stop searching for the knife-man, but then, all of a sudden, he stumbles to a halt.

  Garret gazes down at his hands, remembering the fresh bread, the ham, cheese, and butter he has left at Alf’s. He can’t go back there now with the coppers invading the place. With the milk in the stomachs of the two Crawler women, his hands couldn’t be emptier. The other thing Garret realises is Anna’s serious lack of survival instinct. He is certain she won’t stop searching for the knife-man if she knows what he’s done. She’ll try harder.

  Garret looks up at the house he lives in and — as best as he can — wipes away the images of a decomposing girl buried in cow shit.

  He washes his hands and face at the nearby pump, then sets off to spend his very last coin on yet another breakfast purchase.

  Walking back up to his room, his arms full and his money gone, he knows that by tomorrow, he has to solve his financial problems. Selling the jewellery from his last burglary is out of the question. His back is still hurting and the last thing he’ll do is to risk being caught with expensive items a rich lady is sorely missing.

  He knocks and Anna opens the door for him, her body slightly bent, her face pale with blueish shadows underneath her eyes. He helps her back to the bed, then fetches a knife and begins cutting the bread and the cheese, trying not to think of the gash in Poppy’s face and that across her throat.

  ‘Are you alright, Garret?’ Anna asks.

  ‘Tired,’ he provides. ‘I’m tired.’

  She nods, then pours milk into the two cups and empties hers greedily.

  ‘You must have spent a lot of money. I’d like to—’ His expression cuts her off.

  ‘I know you have more than forty pounds in your kitchen drawer. It’s your money, and I don’t want it.’ His voice is gruff. It reminds Anna of his place and of hers. Society has determined long ago that men have the money, and women…well, whatever they have, they are supposed to share it sparingly.

  ‘If this…’ She points at the large amount of food before them. ‘…results in you starving or you having to go on a too-risky burglary only because you spent all your money for me, then I will not eat this.’ She sets down the slice of bread and ham he’s just made for her. ‘I don’t care who of us has fifty pounds, or a thousand, or only one shilling stashed away. But I do care whether you are happy or suffering.’

  She blushes and drops her gaze.

  ‘You buy breakfast next time,’ he mumbles, stunned at her confession.

  ‘Thank you.’ She picks up her food and takes a demonstratively large bite. The cheese smells delicious, too, so she cuts off a chunk and sticks it into her mouth. ‘I saw you finished Frankenstein.’

  His head flicks towards the dog-eared book that lies half-hidden underneath his shirt-pillow. ‘Hmm,’ he affirms. ‘You said he is the only beautiful person in this whole sad story. I don’t understand this.’

  ‘He never lied,’ she provides through bits of cheese, ham, and bread.

  ‘He murdered people who had never done him harm.’ Garret bites his tongue so as not to talk about Poppy.

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘This Elisabeth was a very nice woman. He murdered her. I see no beauty in this.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Anna says, sensing Garret’s tension. ‘I never thought about her much. She wasn’t really there. She appeared in letters and in Frankenstein’s memories, but I never saw her. Do you know what I mean?’

  Garret nods. ‘What about the best friend? He was murdered, too. Did he not matter, either?’

  She looks up at him, startled. ‘I never said that murder doesn’t matter.’

  Garret slams his buttered bread onto the cutting board and exhales a grumble. ‘What was that fella’s name again? That of the friend?’

  ‘I forgot,’ she answers. ‘It’s years ago I read the book. But there isn’t much of him either. Letters, memories. The book is full with Dr Frankenstein, who talks only about himself. I believe the word used most often is “I.”’

  Garret’s fists lose their tension. ‘Yes, he’s quite the wimp. Always suffers from all kinds of…what’s it called? Nervous inflictions?’

  ‘Afflictions, yes.’ She smiles at him. ‘You didn’t like him?’

  ‘Of course I didn’t! He is…don’t know.’

  ‘Full of self-pity?’

  ‘Yes. And he keeps saying he would die to save his friend’s life or his wife’s. But I can’t believe it.’

  Feeling proud of Garret in an odd way, Anna says, ‘I guess he believed himself heroic when he said things like “I would die to bring her back,” or whatever it was he said. The more I read, the more I disliked him. He talks about love and loss, but doesn’t seem to know what it means to love and to lose someone.’

  ‘But only because that man is an idiot, doesn’t make the other beautiful!’

  She sets her cup down and rests her head on the pillow. ‘I’m sorry. I’m making you angry.’

  Garret’s posture slumps a little. ‘You don’t make me angry.’

  She pats the side of the mattress. ‘Sit, and I’ll try to explain myself.’

  He does as she told him, and she takes his hand into hers. ‘Frankenstein made a feeling, thinking human being. One he discarded as soon as it twitched to life. He made a body and murdered a soul. He did not think of loving and losing when he made the creature, he only wished to know whether was possible. He thinks only of himself and the greatness he could accomplish. But he doesn’t know where true greatness lies, because he was never humble enough to see it. I believe that the creature’s appearance resembled his creator’s soul. A large and artificial puzzle of things that seemed useful when examined out of context, but monstrous and ugly when put together. But the creature was, in fact, beautiful. The blind man saw him for what he was. He communicated as clearly as he could; he was gentle, he sought love, and he asked for knowledge.’

  Garret feels compelled to remind her. ‘He is a murderer.’

  ‘Ah, yes. And this is where it gets complicated. Does he belong to our species? He has been created by a man who used pieces of men, so the creature can be categorised as human. But then, he’s not recognised as a member of our species; his creator rejects him, calls him a monster, and every human being he meets — every human who sees his outer shell, his appearance, I should say — runs away screaming. So if he’s not human, can he be a murderer? You said he is a murderer, but then you are, too.
Think of all the pork pies you have eaten. But if he is human, then we could indeed call him a murderer, but are we allowed to do this without blaming his creator and ourselves for all this violence? Frankenstein made him, and then he took everything away from him. He didn’t show him what compassion is, he didn’t show him how precious life is. None of us humans did. What follows is violence, a natural reaction to mental and emotional torture.’

  Garret nods slowly, then shakes his head. ‘You cannot believe the monster was justified in murdering these people!’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said that he was the most beautiful person in this whole sad story. But I should be more specific. There were two main characters, Frankenstein and his monster. And I definitely prefer the company of the monster. Even after he had killed.’ She brushes breadcrumbs from the blanket.

  ‘I cannot believe you find a murderer beautiful.’ Now Garret has no doubt that telling Anna about Poppy’s body would be a very bad idea indeed.

  ‘I know,’ she says and closes her eyes. ‘But a murderer is also always a human being. He always has a soul.’ She sighs. ‘I’m tired. Let me rest for a little before I leave.’

  ‘You don’t have to leave,’ he whispers.

  ‘I do. You know…’ She yawns.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Most of the time, I don’t like humans. They could all be apes; it wouldn’t make too much of a difference to me.’

  Garret’s breath stalls. His mind refuses to provide a meaningful analysis of Anna’s statements. ‘I don’t believe you. You help people every day. You wouldn’t do it if you didn’t like them at all.’

  Several moments pass without a reply. Her breathing has grown deeper and slower, and he believes she has fallen asleep.

  But then she stirs a little. ‘Because when people are sick and weak, when they fear death, they reveal who they are. They wear no masks and I can see their souls.’

  ‘Do you like them, then?’

  She sighs again, and searches for his hand that had withdrawn a moment earlier. ‘Souls are always beautiful. But you…’ She presses the back of his hand against her forehead. ‘…have an exceptionally beautiful soul.’