The man is holding the cat, an all-but-inviting thing. Its handle is about two feet long and shiny from regular use. The nine tails, all fourteen or fifteen inches, are twitching. He strikes at the whipping frame as though the beast needed testing. Garret knows this is done to initiate the terror. Pain comes eagerly when fear is there to welcome it.
The hangman nods at Garret and asks him to take his shirt off before he ties his hands to the wooden frame.
How considerate, thinks Garret. At least, more tears are unlikely to be added to the many his once-best shirt has already received in this godforsaken place. A week ago, he sold his jacket in exchange for food. His boots would have been next, but luckily it hadn’t come to that.
The first swish bites through the air and catches on Garret’s back. One drawn-out lightning of pain.
Two.
Three.
Four. His skin is growing raw, as though it’s about to peel off his back. Now, the cat’s tails feel more like flames than leather. She licks him again and again.
Fifteen.
Sixteen. Ah! Even his toes hurt with every lash. Garret clenches his teeth. Make no sound! he commands his throat.
Twenty-one. His lips vibrate with the grunt he cannot hold in. Every limb begins to quiver.
‘Lay it on fair, will ya?’ he squeezes through his teeth.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-nine.
One more. Ah!
The hangman releases Garret’s wrists. Steadying himself on the frame, fighting to remain upright, he squares his shoulders, nods at the man with the whip, and is escorted out of Newgate.
It takes him over an hour to reach his quarters. All the while, he swears to himself to be more careful next time. For her, at least.
Thoughts of the fragile woman, her softness when he holds her hand, her determination that could scare the devil, made his days in Newgate more bearable and harder at the same time. He was worried about her. She couldn’t know where he was and she’d surely try to find Poppy and run into danger.
Two weeks in this sick place, without money to bribe the warden — all he received as food was mouldy crusts of bread. His stature protected him from violence, but every day he stood at the gates, with his hands stretched through the bars to beg for food. He often went hungry, for he didn’t appear as wretched as all others. One week into prison life, he felt so weak he was not sure he could fend off the other inmates any longer.
Luck came in the shape of a pickpocket who possessed a few coins and was in need of a bodyguard. His life for Garret’s, protection in exchange for food and drink. The man had already found a replacement when Garret met the cat.
The latch key scrapes through the keyhole, his hand trembles. He has nothing to drink here, not even a slice of dry bread. He drops onto the mattress with a low thud, thinking that he’ll rest a little before he hunts down something to eat, and perhaps even an ale.
He sees her crossing the street, jumping over mule manure, the hems of her skirts dancing around her ankles. Her head tilts as she spots him. Is it mistrust that narrows her eyes? he wonders.
‘Oy, Anna!’ he calls. She stops her stride when he walks up to her.
‘Hello.’ She sounds as though she is disappointed to see him.
His mouth sags. ‘I took a vacation.’ Her left eyebrow pulls up. ‘In Newgate,’ he adds.
‘Why?’ A heavy voice, almost bored.
That she’s obviously not happy to see him hurts more than his back. Her face is unusually still; no emotions flit across it.
‘I’m a thief. You forgot that?’
‘How come you let yourself be caught?’
‘Let myself…be caught?’ Garret puffs up his cheeks and looks up at the sky, searching for words in the white-and-blue. He exhales, tells his heart to shut up, turns away, and lets her stand on the pavement. He is in no mood for a sharp retort. All he wants is to go home and digest his early dinner with a good long nap.
He’s barely closed the door to his room when he hears a knock. A timid one, almost apologetic. One from delicate knuckles on worn wood. He opens and sees her face. Curiously, that face looks more tired than he feels.
She tries a smile. ‘I’m sorry, Garret. I wasn’t very forthcoming.’
‘Want a tea?’
‘No. Er…yes, that would be nice, thank you.’
She snaps the door shut and leans against it. Her gaze travels through the room, now crowded with two people in it. She takes in the small straw mattress in the corner, the cupboard — stained from heavy use through generations — the one hook on the wall with a coat hanging down from it. Last time she had seen the tattered thing, it boldly told her that the thief had gone missing. Her eyes meet Garret’s, who stares down at his hands.
‘What is it?’ she asks.
He takes up a small earthen cup and turns it for her to look inside. She steps closer. A few lonely crumbs, dried and black, dust the bottom.
‘No tea.’ He doesn’t look up and feels ridiculously poor today.
She takes the cup, her fingers brushing his, and blows out the remains. Garret notices the dark shadows under her eyes. They make her look frail.
‘The way you walked…’ Anna begins. ‘…as though you are hurting. Did they flog you?’
He nods.
‘How many strokes?’ Her voice is a low caress.
‘Thirty.’
Her bosom heaves once, then she’s all matter-of-fact again. ‘Let me take a look. It might get infected if the skin is cut.’
As he begins to unbutton his shirt, her gaze drops to her boots. Awkward silence pushes its way in. ‘Anna,’ he whispers. ‘What happened to you? You look ill.’
She shrugs his concern off, whisks at a curl that tickles the corner of her eye.
‘I missed you,’ Garret mumbles, with his shirt unbuttoned, and immediately wants to slap himself.
She takes the chance to busy her hands. The gentle brush of her palm on his shoulder, lifting the cotton off his back. She handles him as though he were a butterfly. Her breath — a sharp intake, then nothing for a while before she exhales the tension.
‘Do you have fresh water? And soap?’ Her voice sounds constricted. Garret hasn’t seen his own back and now, hearing her pain, he feels no urge to lay his eyes on it.
She picks up the jug he points to. ‘It’d be better if you were to lie down,’ she says, rummaging in the cupboard with her one free hand.
Garret lowers himself onto his mattress, pressing his shoulder against the wall to give her more space.
The clucking of water; the sound of soap swimming between her palms. She washes his back while he thinks of the smallness of her hands and the contrast between her body and his. Would she let me kiss her? he wonders. The stupid brute of a thief and the quick-witted and gentle nurse. He wishes he could shrink himself and simultaneously obtain a thorough education, all in a heartbeat.
He turns his head to look at her. A change of water, then the soap is washed off the torn skin. She dabs at it with a towel, a threadbare cotton rag, but clean enough, it appears.
‘Lie down for a moment, so I can see you better,’ he says softly and, he hopes, not threateningly. Then he realises how inappropriate that may have sounded. ‘I didn’t mean to…’
She doesn’t react, only presses her palms against her eyes and mutters, ‘I need to rest for a moment,’ before leaning her forehead on his mattress and rolling to her side, arms wrapped around her chest.
Her face being so close to his, Garret tries to not make round eyes in wonder.
A few moments later, her mouth and brow relax with a sigh. Finally, he realises that something is wrong. He moves his arm, careful not to bump into her, and places his palm on her forehead.
The heat flicks away his own weariness. He sits up, feels her hands and her neck — all much too hot. He pulls his blanket over her, grabs the bucket, and is out on the street in a flash. Only two minutes later, he returns with fresh water and tea borrowed from a neighbo
ur.
Standing in front of her, he feels a little helpless and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, seeking an alternative. Finding none, he pushes the blanket and her skirt up to her knees, takes off her boots, dunks two rags in the cold water and wraps them around her calves, wetting her stockings.
She moans, mutters, and falls silent again.
This he repeats every few minutes until finally, around midnight, her fever drops.
Exhausted, he lies down next to her. As his fingertips brush a curl from her cheek, thoughts of being a father and a husband put a smile on his face. He frowns and places a hand on her forehead, praying he’ll wake up as soon as her fever returns.
Her tongue is stuck to her palate. Swallowing hurts her throat. Her eyes open and her body freezes in shock. She is sprawled across Garret’s bed, his hand close to her face, his body half on the floor, half on the mattress. How did this happen? She searches her memories, but her brain doesn’t reveal a thing. Moving a hand carefully underneath the covers, she examines her body for signs of intrusion. Her clothing clings to her skin, the stockings are moist and half pulled down, the skirts are pushed up.
Her heart hollers the song of panic; her mind can barely follow. She probes her drawers, slips a hand between her thighs. Nothing feels sore to the touch. If he had violated her, he had done it carefully. But why has she no recollections of the previous night?
Garret begins to stir and Anna decides to play dead — drops her head on the mattress and squeezes her eyes shut. She needs time to think. Her heart is knocking hard against her ribcage and she finds it hard to calm her breathing.
A whispered ‘Oh!’ then a gentle hand on her forehead. ‘Hmm…’ he says. His heavy body moves and she’s about to flinch. Garret rises and walks away from her. She dares to open her eyes a fraction and sees him working at his makeshift petroleum burner.
She closes her eyes, listening to Garret’s shuffling and the sound of water being poured into a pan. One part of her knows for certain that he wouldn’t force himself on her. The other part keeps nagging, pushing old memories out for her to see. She flicks all fears aside to make space for facts. He could have violated her long ago, if he had wanted. It was unlikely he did so now. Why is she here? She digs in her mind, recalling that she had entered his room, that she had taken his shirt off. Images of his tortured and bleeding back hit her straight in her chest. Her eyes snap open and she shuts them again, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
‘Anna?’ A soft voice, filled with concern.
‘Garret?’ She tries to cut the sound of mistrust to a minimum.
‘Are you better?’
‘Better? Relative to what?’ She sees his confusion. ‘What happened, Garret?’
‘You had a very high fever. Can you not remember?’ He walks up to her and drops to his knees. His hand touches her forehead again. ‘It was almost gone some time past midnight. Seems it returned. You are too hot.’ He walks back to his burner, the water producing little popping noises in the tin pan. Then, he clears his throat. ‘I must confess something.’
She feels the heat rise in her chest, the small hairs on her arms are prickling.
‘To lower your fever, I wrapped your legs in cold wet cloths. I had to… I pushed up your skirts.’ He talks to the simmering water. ‘And I touched your legs…rather often.’
She sees his red face, his hands holding the pot handle as though the boiling process could somehow be sped up by the pressure of his palms. It touches her heart. Her anxiety peels off and she feels ashamed for thinking the worst of him. ‘Thank you.’
His face lights up. ‘Want tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
Her eyes linger on his busy hands and she feels herself growing calm. He sprinkles tea leaves into the boiling water, stirs them with a knife, and — as though he had a whole lot to do and no time to wait for the plant clippings to relinquish colour and aroma to the liquid — he taps the blade against the tin pan. Tok tok tok.
‘I missed you, too,’ she whispers.
Disease
‘Do you need anything? Breakfast, or…something?’ Garret asks, his knuckles white against the brownish cup.
‘I have to leave.’ She pushes up and all colour drains from her face. Her elbows quiver. With a sigh, she lays her head back onto the pillow.
‘Stay,’ he says softly, trying not to sound as though he’s begging. His palm on her forehead feels like a cold stone too close to the fire.
‘I need to send a wire,’ she murmurs. ‘To Guy’s.’
‘I can send Barry with a message.’
‘No!’ she cries, afraid the boy will talk about a “Miss Kronberg,” which would be the end of her career. ‘I’ll write it. You bring it to the telegraph office. They cannot know that I live here.’ A weak excuse, but good enough, it appears. Garret’s raised eyebrows settle back to where they belong.
He stands up and rummages in his cupboard, swears, then returns to her side and pushes his hands under the mattress, probing left, then right. ‘There it is.’ He extracts a small notepad and a stump of a pencil. ‘What do I write?’
‘“Contracted the flu. Will send note when recovering. A. Kronberg.”’
‘The flu?’ His hand drifts toward her forehead again, for the lack of a better idea.
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are shut, her breath shallow.
A cold shiver grips him, and he’s afraid she’ll die.
‘Are you writing it down?’ she asks and looks up at him.
Graphite whispers across paper, then he holds the note out for her to read. She nods, hoping the hospital staff will attribute the missing title to Dr Anton Kronberg being much too ill to notice.
‘I have money in my room. Kitchen. Top drawer. The keys…’ She fumbles in the folds of her skirts and extracts two latch keys. ‘There’s ointment, too. A small jar. Yellow. And buy me a few eel pies,’ she says, knowing Garret must be hungry and she won’t eat anything anytime soon.
‘I have money,’ he mutters, insulted, but she’s already asleep.
He unlocks the door and steps inside. The smell of her room — that of soap and oiled floorboards — lets his eyes dart towards the chair he once sat upon, then to the bed he had stumbled into. Somehow, the space appears smaller now than it had been many days ago.
The mattress on the floor is a new addition. Does she share her room with someone? he wonders and feels the sting of jealousy.
His jaw sets in impatience. This is not why I came, he reminds himself, and walks to the kitchen.
A small iron stove stands there. Next to it is a wooden board atop three stacks of bricks, cluttered with a petroleum burner, a large knife and a smaller one, a mortar, cutlery stuck into in a small zinc jug, two bowls, two cups. Above these are a pan and three pots of various sizes hanging from hooks that are bound to strings and the strings bound to a sturdy stick that, in return, is fastened to the ceiling. Bundles of herbs hang from it, too.
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 Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery Page 9
