The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery

by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘I prefer the term consulting detective.’

  ‘Ah…’ I replied absent-mindedly while my attention was pulled back to the body. He was extremely emaciated; the skin with the typical blue tinge looked paper thin — most definitely cholera in the final stage. I was about to examine his clothes for signs of violence when Mr Holmes barked, ‘Stop!’

  Before I could protest, he pushed me aside, pulled a magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket, and hovered over the corpse. The fact that his nose almost touched the man’s coat was rather unsettling.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He has been dressed by someone else,’ he noted.

  ‘Show me!’

  Looking a little irritated, he handed me his magnifying glass and I took it after pulling my gloves off. The thick rubber hindered my work and made me feel like a butcher. I could disinfect my hands later.

  Mr Holmes started to talk rather fast then. ‘The man was obviously right-handed — that hand having more calluses on the palms. Yet you will observe greasy thumbprints pushing in from the left-hand side of his coat buttons.’

  I spotted the prints, put my nose as close as possible, and sniffed — corpse smell, Thames water, and possibly the faintest hint of petroleum.

  ‘I smell petroleum; perhaps from an oil lamp,’ I remarked quietly.

  Upon examining his hands, I found superficial scratches, swelling and bruises on the knuckles of the right hand. Probably from a fist fight only a day or two before his death — odd, given his weakness. His hands seemed to have been strong and rough once, but he had not been doing hard work with them for a while now, for the calluses had started to peel off. His fingernails had multiple discolourations, showing that he had been undernourished and sick for weeks before contracting cholera. He must have been very poor during his last few months, and I wondered where he had come from. His clothes looked worn and too big now, and a lot of debris from the river had collected in them. I examined his sleeves, turned his hands around, and found a pale red banding pattern around his wrists.

  ‘Restraint marks,’ said Mr Holmes. ‘The man used to be a farm worker but lost his occupation three to four months ago.’

  ‘Could be correct,’ I answered. He had obviously based his judgement on the man’s clothes, boots, and hands.

  ‘But the man could have had any other physically demanding occupation, Mr Holmes. He could as well have been a coal mine worker. The clothes are not necessarily his.’

  Mr Holmes sat erect, pulling one eyebrow up. ‘We can safely assume that he had owned these boots for about ten years,’ said he while extracting a bare foot and holding its shoe next to it. The sole, worn down to a thin layer of rubber, contained a major hole where the man’s heel used to be and showed a perfect imprint of the shape of the man’s foot and toes.

  ‘I figured that you must have taken a closer look at him before I arrived, for you spoke about the lack of signs of transport by a boat, a hook, or rope. Now it appears you’ve touched and even undressed the corpse?’

  ‘Unfortunately it was but a superficial examination, for I found it more pressing to investigate how he had entered the trench.’

  I nodded, not at all relieved. ‘Mr Holmes, you have put your hands to your face at least twice, even scratched your chin very close to your lips. That is rather reckless considering that you have touched a cholera victim.’

  Now the other eyebrow went up, too. I passed him a handkerchief soaked in creosote and he wiped himself off with care. Then, without touching the corpse, he bent down low over it and pointed. ‘What is this?’ The genuine interest in his voice was bare of indignation, as if he had not taken offence. I was surprised and wondered whether he did not mind being corrected by a woman or whether he was so focused on the examination that he had no time to spend on feeling resentful.

  I picked at the smudge he had indicated. It was a small green feather that was tucked into a small tear just underneath the coat’s topmost buttonhole. I smoothed it and rubbed off the muck.

  ‘An oriole female. How unusual! I haven’t heard their call for many years.’

  ‘A rare bird?’ asked Mr Holmes.

  ‘Yes, but I can’t tell where this feather would have come from. I have never heard the bird’s call in the London area. The man may have found the feather anywhere and could have been carrying it around for quite a while…’ I trailed off, gazing at the small quill and the light grey down.

  ‘The quill is still somewhat soft,’ I murmured, ‘and the down is not worn. This feather wasn’t plucked by a bird of prey or a fox or the like; it was moulted. He had it for a few weeks at the most, that means he must have found it just before he became ill, or someone gave it to him while he was sick.’

  Mr Holmes looked surprised, and I felt the need to explain myself. ‘In my childhood I spent rather too much time in treetops and learned a lot about birds. The quill tip shows that the feather has been pushed out by a newly emerging one; birds start moulting in spring. The farther north they live, the later they start. The bird shed this feather in late spring or midsummer this year. Wherever this man had spent his last days is close to a nesting place of an oriole pair. A female is never alone at this time of year.’

  ‘Where do these birds live?’ he enquired.

  ‘Large and old forests with dense foliage and water, such as a lake or a stream. An adjacent wetland would do, too.’

  ‘The Thames?’

  ‘Possibly,’ I mused.

  The brick in my stomach had become unbearable. ‘Mr Holmes, are you planning to give me away?’

  He looked surprised, then waved his hand at me. ‘Pshaw!’ he exclaimed, almost amused now. ‘Although I gather it is quite a complicated issue. You don’t fancy going to India, I presume.’ The latter wasn’t so much a question as a statement.

  ‘Obviously I don’t.’

  He probably did not know that obtaining a medical degree in Germany was still forbidden for women. If my true identity were revealed, I would lose my occupation and my British residency, be deported, and end up in a German jail. My alternative, although I did not consider it one, would be to go to India. The few British women who had recently managed to get a medical degree had eventually given in to the mounting social pressure and left for India, out of the way of the exclusively male medical establishment. To the best of my knowledge, I was the only exception.

  ‘I had hoped it would not be as evident,’ I said quietly.

  ‘It is evident only to me. I fancy myself as rather observant.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed. Yet you are still here, despite the fact that this case appears to bore you. I wonder why that is.’

  ‘I haven’t formed an opinion yet. But it does indeed seem to be a rather dull case. I wonder…’ Thoughtfully, he gazed at me and I realised that he had stayed to analyse me — I represented a curiosity.

  ‘What made you change your identity?’ he enquired as his face lit up with interest.

  ‘That’s none of your business, Mr Holmes.’

  Suddenly, his expression changed as his modus operandi switched to analysis, and, after a minute, he seemed to have reached a conclusion. ‘I dare say that guilt was the culprit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘As women weren’t allowed a higher education a few years ago, you had to cut your hair and disguise yourself as a man to be able to study medicine. But the intriguing question remains: Why did you accept such drastic measures for a degree? Your accent is evident; you are a German who has learned English in the Boston area. Harvard Medical School?’

  I nodded; my odd mix of American and British English and the German linguistic baggage were rather obvious.

  ‘At first I thought you lived in the East End, but I was wrong. You live in or very near St Giles.’ He pointed a long finger to the splashes on my shoes and trousers. I wiped them every day before entering Guy’s, but some bits always remained.

  ‘The brown stains on your right index finger and thumb appear to be from harvesting part
s of a medical plant. The milk thistle, I presume?’

  I cleared my throat; this was getting too far for my taste. ‘Correct,’ I said, preparing for battle.

  ‘You treat the poor free of charge, considering the herb, which certainly is not used in hospitals. And there is the location in which you choose to live — London’s worst rookery! You seem to have a tendency towards exaggerated philanthropy!’ He tipped an eyebrow, his mouth lightly compressed. I could see a mix of amusement and dismissal in his face.

  ‘You don’t care much about the appearance of your clothes,’ he went on, ignoring my cold stare. ‘They are a bit tattered on the sleeves and the collar, but surely not for lack of money. You have too little time! You probably have no tailor blind enough to not discover the details of your anatomy.’

  Here I shot a nervous glance over his shoulder, assessing the distance to Gibson or any of his men. Mr Holmes waved at me impatiently, as though my anxiety to be discovered by yet another man meant nothing to him.

  He continued without pause. ‘You have no one you could trust at your home, no housekeeper or maid who could keep your secret. That forces you to do everything for yourself. In addition will be your nightly excursions into the slums to treat your neighbours. You probably don’t fancy sleep very much?’ His voice was taunting now.

  ‘I sleep four hours on average.’ I wondered whether he had noticed that I analysed him, too.

  He continued in a dry, machine-like rat-tat-tat. ‘You are very compassionate, even with the dead.’ He pointed to the corpse between us. ‘One of the few, typical female attitudes you exhibit; although in your case it’s not merely learned — there is weight behind it. I must conclude that you have felt guilty because someone you loved died. And now you want to help prevent that from happening to others. But you must fail, because death and disease are natural. Considering your peculiar circumstances and your unconventional behaviour, I propose that you come from a poor home. Your father raised you after your mother died? Perhaps soon after your birth? Obviously, there hasn't been much female influence in your upbringing.’

  Utterly taken aback by the triumph in his demeanour, I snarled, ‘You are oversimplifying, Mr Holmes.’ Rarely had anyone made me that angry, and only with effort could I keep my voice under control. ‘It’s not guilt that drives me. I would not have got so far if not for the passion I feel for medicine. My mother did die and I resent you for the pride you feel in deducing private details of my life. Details I do not wish to discuss with you!’

  The man’s gaze flickered a little. ‘I met people like you at Harvard, Mr Holmes. Brilliant men who need the constant stimulation of the brain and who see little else than their work. Your brain is running in circles when not put to hard work, and boredom is your greatest torture.’

  Mr Holmes was rooted to the spot, his eyes unfocused, and behind them, his mind was racing.

  ‘I have seen these men using cocaine when nothing is at hand to tickle their intellectual powers. What about you, Mr Holmes?’ His gaze sharp now, his eyes met mine. I nodded and smiled. ‘It doesn’t help much, does it? Is it the cello that can put some order into that occasionally too-chaotic brain of yours?’

  I pointed to his left hand.

  ‘No,’ I decided aloud, ‘for the cello wants to be embraced. You prefer the violin — she can be held at a distance.’

  He gazed at the faint calluses on the fingertips of his left hand, marks produced by pressing down strings.

  ‘You are a passionate man and you can hide that well. But do you really believe that outsmarting everyone around you is an accomplishment?’

  His expression was controlled and neutral, but his pupils were dilated to the maximum, betraying his shock.

  I rose to my feet, took a step forward, and put my face close to his. ‘It feels as though a stranger ripped off all your clothes, doesn’t it?’ I said softly. ‘Don’t you dare dig into my brain or private life again.’ I tipped my hat, turned away, and left him in the grass.

  Buy The Devil’s Grin here

  Extras (making-of, historical background, and more)

  Acknowledgements

  The murders in Whitechapel inspired some parts of this story, most of all Mr Steward, whose real name we’ll, of course, never know. Many thanks to Stephen P. Ryder from The Casebook, as well as all contributors to the largest Jack the Ripper online resource.

  I owe several characters to John Thomson and Adolphe Smith, who photographed and interviewed the people populating London’s streets in the 1870s.

  Scotty the Crawler and her friend (whom I named Betty in this book) lived and perished in St Giles under extreme poverty.

  Baylis, a former policeman, did indeed own the cook-shop at Drury Lane, which was open to convicts and street arabs alike, and everyone else too poor to afford a meal, such as Ramo Sammy, who also appears in this book.

  The hardships these people had to endure, and the compassion they practised, inspired me to try to bring them back to life.

  Excerpts from Street Life in London, by John Thomson and Adolphe Smith (1876 to 1877, public domain):

  ‘…among the poor he met with that charity which the poor more than any other class extend one towards the other.’

  The Crawlers

  Huddled together on the workhouse steps in Short's Gardens those wrecks of humanity, the Crawlers of St. Giles's, may be seen both day and night seeking mutual warmth and mutual consolation in their extreme misery. As a rule, they are old women reduced by vice and poverty to that degree of wretchedness which destroys even the energy to beg. They have not the strength to struggle for bread, and prefer starvation to the activity which an ordinary mendicant must display natural consequence, they cannot obtain money for a lodging or for what little charity they receive is more frequently derived from the lowest orders. They beg from beggars, and the energetic, prosperous mendicant is in his turn called upon to give to those who are his inferiors in the "profession." Stale bread, half-used tea-leaves, and on gala days, the fly-blown bone of a joint, are their principal items of diet. A broken jug, or a tea-pot without spout or handle, constitutes the domestic crockery. In this the stale tea-leaves, or, perhaps, if one of the company has succeeded in begging a penny, a halfpenny-worth of new tea is carefully placed; then one of the women rises and crawls slowly towards Drury Lane, where there is a coffee-shop keeper and also a publican who take compassion on these women, and supply them gratuitously with boiling water.

  A Convicts’ Home

  For fourteen years he (Baylis) has taken delight in serving the wretched people around him; but, remembering his own past experience, his generosity is unbounded towards the pale-faced street arabs who with hungry eyes frequently throng about his door. His thoughts are constantly occupied with the fate of these children, and he anxiously inquired whether I had any hope that legislature would or could adopt some effective means of protecting the children who had no parents and are left to learn every vice in the streets of London. In the meanwhile, they can, in any case, obtain enormous helps of pudding for a penny, and even for a halfpenny. Nothing is wasted in this establishment. All scraps are used, and those who cannot afford to pay for a fair cut from the joint can obtain, for a penny or twopence, a collection of vegetables and scraps mixed with soup or gravy, that contain a good proportion of the nutritive properties of meat.

  What began as a short story — initiated by Rita Singer’s I want more of that Irish hottie comment on Facebook — developed into a novel over the past two years.

  While I’m not quite certain how precisely this story came about (I wasn’t really present, all I did was to scribble a bit), a supportive and trustworthy group of people helped me write it and push it towards publication: Magnus Wendeberg, who always has to read the awful first drafts; Rita Singer, who provides the most hilarious comments; Sabrina Flynn, who is my invaluable manuscript-over-the-head-slapper (and yes girl, I do have those imaginary conversations with you, too!); Nancy DeMarco, who patiently points out strengt
hs and weaknesses of my texts since I first tried my hand on writing; Bryan Kroeger, whose warm and enthusiastic feedback is balm on a writer’s soul; and Heike Schmidt, who always asks for more (from Kronberg books to strawberry ice cream) Thank you all for your help and your patience with my unfinished stories! I hope you like the final outcome.

  I’d also like to thank the National Library of Scotland for their wonderfully detailed maps of the 1890s London.

  And the last bow goes to my proofreader, Susan Uttendorfsky, for helping me to not sound too non-native-y (Yes, I know this isn’t even a word).