The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery

by Annelie Wendeberg

  ‘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.’

  Her chest heaves as she rubs her brow. ‘Does she know where the girl is?’

  ‘No. But she said the girl calls herself Poppy. Last name might be Briggs, or Higgs. Her mother sold her to the madam a few days ago. Poppy never spoke about her home. She works on the streets now.’

  ‘The madam threw her out?’

  He nods. She turns to the window and presses her forehead against the glass.

  He sees the trembling of her shoulders. Unsure how to make her feel better, he stands and walks up to her.

  ‘I didn’t what to scare you so.’ His hand softly settles on her shoulder.

  ‘Thank you for helping me, Garret.’ Her voice is fighting for control. ‘Good night.’ she says when she leaves for the door.

  ‘Good night,’ Garret answers when she’s long gone.

  Anna

  She stumbles over the doorsteps; her heart is beating wildly and her chest is clenching painfully. She doesn’t understand her reaction to Garret. She doesn’t understand why old memories still have so much power. Why did they come with such force tonight, but had not bothered her at all this morning? Where was the logic in her being comfortable with his arm around her waist, and only hours later, a similar gesture makes her feel as though he had thrown himself upon her?

  She begins to run. Her boots slam through the dirt and stink and piss of St Giles. Her heart doesn’t stop aching. She runs until she reaches Bow Street. The door to the cobbler’s is shut, so she tries the back, runs up the stairs and down the corridor. She unlocks the small room at the very end, steps in and locks it, fumbles for the matches, then lights two oils lamps and yanks off her dress.

  She hates being scared and being fragile, being at the weaker end of humanity’s sexual reproduction scheme, of education, employment, and basic rights. If a scream could make things better, she’d scream until her throat turned numb.

  Instead, she sheds her dress, and undergarments, and opens the wardrobe where she keeps her disguise. Only ten minutes later, she’s her professional and controlled self: Dr Anton Kronberg of Guy’s Hospital.

  Calmness settles on her shoulders. She picks at a lock of hair that sticks out from behind her left ear, then adds a bit more Macassar oil until she’s satisfied. She places a top hat onto her sleek hair and picks up the ebony walking stick, its silver knob reflecting the dim light.

  When she closes the door to her secret dressing chamber and sets out for a late work night in her laboratory, she’s glad to leave her female self behind.

  Sally

  Barry squats at his usual spot, more or less at the usual time. It doesn’t take long for Anna to emerge from her house.

  ‘Hello, Barry,’ she says.

  ‘Hello, Anna,’ he squeaks and tugs at her skirt. Her tired expression makes space for a smile. ‘Can you see my mom?’

  ‘Something serious?’

  ‘Umm…don’t know. She might be hurting a bit.’

  She takes his hand and they make their way down Endell Street, turn into Castle Street and up into Barry’s house. There’s no door to keep unwanted guests out. But then, only a few would want to enter a place as decrepit as this.

  The stairs yield even under the boy’s weight. Murmur crawls down along the moist walls when they reach the second floor. Then, they turn right to climb through a gap that once used to be a functional door.

  Anna lights her lamp and the boy sends a greeting into the dark room. ‘Mom?’

  ‘I told you, it’s nothing,’ rasps the hunched figure in front of a barricaded window. A child is coughing nearby.

  ‘Hello, Sally,’ says Anna and squats down next to the woman. ‘Your boy is a bit worried. Are you alright?’

  The answer is a throaty laugh. ‘Alright,’ she mutters. ‘What does that mean? What does that boy know, anyways?’

  She continues a tirade about useless men who impregnated her with that useless boy, and about White Velvet being her only friend. Why anyone would call the cheapest gin White Velvet, Anna couldn’t fathom.

  Barry stands there, examining the tips of his tattered boots.

  ‘Sally, if you simply tell me what ails you, I can stop bothering you.’

  The woman clears her throat and spits on the floor. ‘The chemist sold me the wrong bottle.’ She waves towards a small bucket that has a narrow hose attached to it.

  Anna picks up the bottle from inside the bucket and reads the list of ingredients in the dim lamp light. ‘How much of this did you use?’

  ‘Used it only once. Almost ate my quim, blasted stuff that.’

  ‘You used it straight from the bottle? You didn’t dilute it?’

  ‘Didn’t say anything about that, did he now? Gave me the bottle. Charged a shilling. A shilling!’

  Anna turns to Barry and hands him a coin. ‘Barry, go fetch vinegar, salt, and fresh water. Water from the pump, not the river. Take this bucket.’ She points to another, larger one. ‘But rinse it before you fill it.’

  She slips the bottle — filled with a mix of chlorine solution and other caustic ingredients — into her doctor’s bag and sighs. ‘Can you sit at all?’

  Muttering to herself, the woman shakes her head. ‘Can’t work like this. Can’t even take them in my bum. Burns like I’d been fucked by a bottlebrush.’

  Anna rummages through her bag. She rubs her brow when she realises she’s out of ointment. ‘I’ll take a look at the child with the cough while we wait for your son to r
eturn.’

  A low grunt indicates agreement of some sort.

  The coughing sounds low and wet, and Anna’s mind registers symptoms and analyses potential risks and treatments as she approaches. The child is wrapped in rags, but sits upright and tries to get the mucous out of her airways.

  ‘Hello,’ Anna says when she sits down on the pallet. ‘You know, I lost my mouse. It’s a really nice one, with white fur and long whiskers. It likes to hide in armpits and behind ears. Would you help me find it?’

  Big-eyed attention flares up. Snots glistens in the lamp light. The child nods and wipes her nose on her sleeve.

  Anna sends soft hands across the girl’s forehead, she presses on sinuses, pulls eyelids down, and probes lymph nodes. ‘She doesn’t seem to be here. Are you sure you didn’t swallow her?’

  Frantic nodding, followed by a coughing attack.

  ‘Could you look into mine? To make sure?’ Anna opens her own mouth wide.

  The girl looks with one eye, then the other. ‘I don’t see it. What about mine?’ she says and opens up her mouth. Anna lifts her lamp. A rugged landscape of swollen and disfigured tonsils gleams at her. Yellow pus oozes from fissures.

  ‘No mouse there, either. Perhaps she ran back home. Hmm… How old are you?’ she asks and gets a shrug in return. ‘Where is your mother?’

  Another shrug.

  Anna guesses the girl to be four — too young to know the difference between gargling and swallowing, and she’d certainly not swallow anything bitter. So camomile tea it will be instead of iodine solution or sage infusion. And ribwort in honey to get rid of the mucous. But she’d have to make a deal.

  ‘Can you wait for a moment while I see to the lady over there?’

  Anna’s eyes meet Barry’s, who seems oddly shaken. She nods at him. ‘Thank you,’ she whispers in his ear and takes the bucket from his hand. ‘I propose a gentlemen’s agreement.’

  ‘Another one?’ he asks.

  ‘Indeed. Full of honour and glory. But no spitting!’ The boy, who had just expelled a load of saliva onto his palm, now wipes it on his trousers and reaches out. ‘You don’t want to hear what I have to propose?’

  ‘Oh.’ He pulls his hand away.

  ‘I’ll make ointment for your mother, and you see that this girl gets her medicine five times a day.’

  They shake hands, Barry pressing as hard as he can. ‘Ouch,’ says Anna and he grins. They have been at this game for weeks now.

  ‘Sally, I’ll mix you a new douche so you can wash the chlorine…the stuff that burns out of you. But the tube has to go all the way in. I’m sorry.’

  Sally glares at the small bucket with its attached hose while Anna mixes water and salt to a solution somewhat resembling 0.75 percent sodium chloride. Then she adds a good dash of vinegar to make it slightly acidic. ‘I hold it, you insert it,’ she suggests.

  Sally fetches her chamber pot, squats down, and hikes up her skirts. With a lot of hissing and grunting, she inserts the tube, then washes the caustic solution from her vagina.

  ‘It will take a while to heal,’ Anna says, knowing that this is of no consequence. Sally must make money, and if one orifice hurts more than the others, she’ll have to improvise. ‘I’ll send Barry with ointment. You can take it as needed.’

  Sally stands up, drops the hems of her skirts, wipes herself dry, and gifts Anna a decisive nod. She wraps a scarf around her neck and head, then leaves the room without a word.

  Anna realises that the woman’s other problem is her reputation. A conspicuous itch on the pricks of her customers would result in her being branded a wasp — a prostitute infected with venereal disease. There is little that can be worse for business.

  ‘Would you help me make the ointment?’ she asks Barry, knowing the boy is only too eager to leave.

  Ointments

  She holds out the bucket to Barry, who grabs it and dashes out of her room. When he returns, she has already stoked the fire and arranged a variety of items: a small pot, jars and bottles, and a polished oak stick are waiting on the kitchen counter.

  The boy pours the water into the washbowl, rolls up his sleeves as far as they’ll go, and offers Anna the soap. She scrubs her hands and forearms, then it’s Barry’s turn. He’s so dirty that the water turns a dark grey, as does the towel he uses to dry himself off.

  Silently, he watches and waits for her instructions.

  Anna pours almond oil into the pot, sprinkles two tablespoons of dried calendula petals into it, and places it onto the stove. She turns the handle to Barry. ‘It needs to be warm, but mustn’t get hot.’

  ‘How warm?’ the boy asks.

  ‘Warmer than your hand, but you should be able to touch it without burning yourself.’

  The boy nods, wraps a towel around the pot handle, and gently swirls the oil, holding it a bit higher above the flames.

  Anna breaks small bits off the compressed honeycomb she keeps in a jar on her kitchen cupboard, then adds them to the oil. ‘Once the wax dissolves, you can take the pot off the fire.’

  They watch the petals release their yellow pigments into the potion while the honeycombs begin to shrink. Barry is all focus and removes the pot when he believes it’s time. He sticks his cleanest finger into the liquid, frowns, and walks to the washbowl to lower the pot into the tepid water. A soft hiss and the cast iron loses its heat.

  After a minute of swirling and sticking-in fingers, he’s satisfied and places the pot on the counter.

  Anna observes the boy, his silence, his avoiding of her gaze. She knows his mind craves the distraction, while his heart is ashamed. It isn’t logical to feel ashamed for a mother; one cannot choose one’s family. But as usual, the heart doesn’t care much for logic. Besides, the boy knows enough about tradition and inheritance to be afraid of ending up like all the other wretches.

  Anna wipes off the spoon and sticks it into another jar containing a thick golden paste.

  ‘Lanolin,’ the boy murmurs, as though to tick off the list of required ingredients. He likes the smell of it. It makes him think of the countryside, that exotic place far away from London, far from the grime and poverty of the slums, so far that he had never seen it and probably never will.

  She hands him the spoon and he stirs the paste into the oil, scrapes the remains off with the oak stick, and keeps mixing and stirring until all the lanolin is dissolved.

  Meanwhile, Anna places several empty jars into a row, picks up a small sieve, places it next to Barry, and asks, ‘How does the calendula look?’

  ‘Looks ready. All limp and mushy,’ he answers and, upon her approving nod, begins pouring the warm liquid into the jars, straining calendula petals and three pale bee larvae that had perished in the honeycomb. Within the hour, the mixture will harden to a smooth paste.

  Anna tightens the lids. ‘Tell your mother that if she wants to put the paste on the inside, she should use only little of it. But she should use it several times a day until the burning is gone. And this…’ She fills a small paper bag with camomile blossoms and selects a jar with ribwort leaves in honey. ‘…is for the girl with the cough. Make camomile tea with this honey and take care she drinks it and no one takes it from her.’

  The boy nods, then makes to leave, but his hand hesitates over the doorknob. Anna knows that gesture. She points to the key on the dresser and says, ‘Don’t let the hag know.’ The hag being their secret word for the landlord’s wife.

  Barry pockets the key and slips out the door.

  Later that night, she’s woken up by his back pressing against her warm feet. And as so often, she thinks of sending him away to his own mattress, of telling him to stop behaving like a beaten-up dog. But then she lets it go.

  Before she falls back asleep, another thought brushes her mind — she has to ask Barry’s mother about Poppy.

  Scotty

  Two old women inhabit the stone steps of Short’s Gardens’ workhouse. A broken jug, a teapot, and a layer of rags protecting their hides are their
only possessions. One of them wears a hideous grey waterproof, fastened tightly around her tall frame. The other huddles underneath a checkered shawl of feeble texture, a wheezing infant in her arms, his head pressing against the warm patch of skin underneath her chin. The young boy is the child of a former fellow Crawler. Being the only one of the female trio who’d had the luck to obtain an occupation, she entrusts the boy to the old woman each day from ten o’clock in the morning to four in the afternoon so she can scour pots and pans at the coffee shop on Drury Lane. In return, the two old women receive boiling hot water to soak their second- or third-hand tea leaves.

  No one knows whether Scotty wears anything underneath her waterproof, and no one quite wishes to obtain precise information on that particular topic. Yet — depending on the observer’s own state of poverty — the muddy, nondescript substance hanging loosely around her calves might eventually be categorised as under-clothing.

  She looks down at her bare ankles and feet peeking freely from underneath her waterproof’s skirt, and she can’t remember when she’d lost her shoes. Otherwise, her mind is as clear as it can be, for she never drinks a single drop of beer or gin. At the moment, she wishes she could get the taste of mould off her tongue and the odd metallic scraping out of her throat. She sighs when she thinks of the meals she’d cooked for herself and her husband — good meals, with cabbage and, at times, even pork chops. Her mouth waters and she swallows. Mould and metal are still not washed away.

  Her gaze slides down to her hands — swollen, red, and smarting from constant exposure to sun and rain, heat and cold, and she wishes they were cut, blistered, and sore from hardest labour instead.

  At least it’s summer, she tells herself. Even the small boy in her friend’s arms appears to be able to live a little longer.

  When the church bells strike four in the afternoon, a small wave of energy washes through the pair of beggars, lets them sit more erect while their eyes flicker expectantly towards Drury Lane.