The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery (15 page)

Underneath is a bucket and a small chest of drawers. Garret opens the top drawer. He has to steady the thing while he tries to coax the drawer from its hiding place. The old wood moves with reluctance.

His fingers search through the many small items: a lone half of a pair of scissors, flax thread, wire, two screwdrivers, a pair of pliers — still intact — and several boxes and jars.

Then, Garret touches paper. He unfolds the notes and almost snatches his hand away in shock. A five pound bill, a twenty pound bill, and yet another twenty pound bill. How can she have so much money?

Behind Garret’s brow, wild thoughts chase one another. What kind of criminal is Anna? She has told him she’ll have to go to prison if she’s caught. But caught with what? Even he — an accomplished cracksman — rarely has that much money lying around in his room.
 

The fact the she has more money than he spreads a very rotten feeling in his heart. He cannot support her. He cannot support a family. Garret leans on the chest of drawers and feels very unmanly. He shouldn’t court her, no matter how much he likes her.
Likes
. That word doesn’t describe the turmoil within. But he’s not certain what love is, precisely, so he settles on
liking
. Perhaps he should not court her
because
he likes her.

He puts the notes back into the drawer, thinking that perhaps she saved money all her life. She supports neither children nor husband, and has no reasons for secret criminal activities. Ah, that husband! Garret longs to know more about her past and he wonders whether he can make her tell him her secrets, now that she has a fever.
 

He groans, knowing he’d never use her like that. Then his fingers touch a row of small jars. He picks one up. It’s filled with a yellow paste, appearing to be the one she’s asked for. He hesitates, then picks up another for safety. She is very ill; she’ll surely need a lot of it.

Then he locks the door to her room and hurries to the telegraph office, telling himself that one day, she’ll tell him her secrets. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but one day she will, he is certain.

When he opens the door to his room, he sees the sharp contours of her shoulder and hipbone poking through his thin blanket. Her hair sticks to her head and a soft rattling issues from her throat. Her face glows with fever.

Garret lays his fingertips against her brow, sighs, and leaves again to get cold water from the pump. Once back at her side, he rubs her hand. ‘Anna? Anna, wake up.’

Eyelids flutter. ‘Hmm?’

He swallows. ‘Please take off your skirts and your shirt, they are wet with sweat.’
 

Her fingers try to find the buttons, then give up only a moment later. He helps her, feeling more awkward than ever. The moist undergarments cannot quite conceal what lies beneath. He dunks the flannel into the bucket, careful to not gaze at the shy topography of her chest, or the dark oval where white linen hovers over her delicate navel.

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

‘G
ood 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 and 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.