The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery (16 page)

‘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.’

The pressure of her fingers around his slackens and she falls into her first restful and deep sleep for days.

Baylis

B
aylis’ apron is, as usual, marked by a long day’s work. The man seems to be everywhere at once. In the kitchen, stirring two enormous vats of soup made of whatever ingredients he can find, or at the counter talking to Ramo Sammy who, now one-toothed, spends most of his days here, sitting and slurping what Baylis pours into his bowl. When Baylis isn’t to be found at any of the aforementioned locations, he’ll most likely be standing at the entrance door to his shop, with one hand leaning against the frame and his sharp gaze sweeping over each and every street arab lined up to
obtain
enormous
helps of pudding for
a half
penny. He’s always a little surprised by the trust they give him, despite him having worked as a plainclothes detective for more than seven years.

Now, all street arabs are gone and Ramo is dozing in a far corner of the shop, next to the kitchen door where he’s not in anyone’s way.
 

When Garret sneaks in through the back, Baylis locks up and closes all shutters.

A group of men are already sitting at the largest table, their faces solemn. ‘We will discuss this in a quiet manner,’ Baylis begins. ‘Every man shall speak his mind. There’ll be no shouting, and no interrupting each other. I believe it is Garret who met the girl in question before she was murdered?’

Murmur spreads at the word
murdered
. Baylis bangs his flat hand upon the tabletop. Silence settles at once.
 

Garret clears his throat. ‘No, never met her. But Anna…the nurse. You know the nurse, don’t you?’ He looks at everyone and all heads are bobbing in reply. ‘She treated the girl’s injuries.’

‘Do you know what injuries precisely?’ Baylis asks.

‘Anna told me the girl’s mouth had been…cut open. Her cheek.’ Garret traces his fingers across his face, then taps them onto the polished wood. ‘I heard from others that he likes to run his knife over women’s skin.’

The men are nodding. ‘I heard that, too!’ issues from every mouth.

‘Anything else?’

‘I talked to Rose at Fat Annie’s, but she doesn’t know much. Poppy was sold by her mother. Her last name was…umm. I forgot.’

‘You asked Rose about Poppy?’ one of the Worthing twins interrupts.

Garret groans. ‘Anna asked me to talk to her. She wanted to know why Poppy disappeared, and who that man is.’

More muttering fills the room, showing discontent.

‘Quiet, now,’ warns Baylis. ‘What the woman does is her business.’

‘I saw the girl’s face, too,’ the older Worthing twin supplies.
 

‘Me, too,’ his brother says, and continues, ‘Our sister talked to us. She suggested the girl could live in Alf’s attic, and…’ His face falls into his hands. His brother claps him on his shoulder. Baylis waits while the others shuffle their feet. ‘She thinks it’s her fault the knife-man killed her.’

‘Bollocks!’ Nate barks and drives the tip of his penknife into the table.

‘I need that table, Nate.’ Baylis gives the old man a warning stare. ‘I heard Poppy was dismissed from Fat Annie’s because of the wound the man inflicted. Is that true?’