The Lion's Courtship: An Anna Kronberg Mystery by Annelie Wendeberg Page A
Authors: Annelie Wendeberg
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appear to be a prostitute. Not even a runaway girl looking for adventures with an experienced man.’
‘I want to know what happened to the girl. Poppy is her name. The one whose face you cut open.’
‘Of course.’ He chuckles. The knife loses contact. Only a moment later, he presses it against her cheek just underneath her left eye. ‘I will be patient with you and teach you a lesson. Let’s call it “Reality.” Are you listening?’ He reduces his voice to a soft whisper.
Anna breathes, ‘Yes,’ for nodding would drive the blade into her eye.
‘Excellent. Not a single soul wishes to know what happens to whores. When they disappear, most people are grateful. Not I, mind you. But people who ask too many questions, people like you, are threatening the foundation of our modern society. Do you know why?’
‘No.’
‘You see, men are unable to control their animalistic urges. It is common knowledge. So what are we to do, once we are married? For the modest woman seldom desires sexual gratification. She submits to her husband for the desire of maternity and to please him. In the soul of a good woman, there is no space for sexual indulgence. She knows little of the darker, deeper desires of many a man. In order to calm man’s dark side, he must use whores. It is in the nature of man, and that is what whores are for — to satiate. It is like everything in life. There are the ones who deserve to be served, and the ones who serve. But I wonder… Perhaps, you wish to satiate my animalistic urges? My control of them might be slipping any moment now.’ Spite sharpens his voice, and the knife’s tip is pressing hard against her skin.
‘No,’ croaks up Anna’s throat.
‘Very well, then. I trust you learnt your lesson tonight. If not, one more meeting might be necessary. But it won’t be as pleasant as this one. Have a good night.’
The knife disappears, and with it, the man. She slumps forward and retches. Bile hits the pavement.
Newgate
T hirty , echoes in Garret’s skull. Thirty . The word still carries the magistrate’s satisfied lilt.
He had felt very small in Old Bailey’s Central Criminal Court. The charges against him were laughable. The police soon noticed that they had caught the wrong man, for he didn’t look like the pickpocket they had been chasing — a skinny boy with hair as black as a raven’s feathers. Yet, the police needed to catch someone, and this was Garret’s misfortune.
He would have been released at once if not for the bundle of burglar equipment and the two pieces of liver stuffed with opium.
Garret had insisted that he found both at the corner of High Holborn and Broad Street. He told the magistrate how lucky he felt that the police caught him. He would have eaten the liver and would have surely died of opium poisoning. He had even folded his large hands to appear humble. But it hadn’t helped much. He looked like the brute he was.
Lacking solid evidence, they couldn’t detain him for very long. Owing to his build, however, his roots in St Giles, and the incriminating accessories, the magistrate decided that some punishment would only do Garret good.
‘O’Hare!’ calls the warden, rattling a large ring full of keys, most of which have lost their lock long ago. Their only purpose is to impress. Here in Newgate Prison, the man with the keys is king.
Garret is led through a dingy corridor out towards the gallows. The thief holds his head high, taking in all details one last time: the moisture dripping down the vaulted ceiling, the green slime growing on cold stones, the echo of his footfall, the murmurs, shouts, and cackles of his fellow prisoners. The light at the end of the corridor is blinding, a hooded figure cuts through its centre, black on white — the executioner.
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
‘I want to know what happened to the girl. Poppy is her name. The one whose face you cut open.’
‘Of course.’ He chuckles. The knife loses contact. Only a moment later, he presses it against her cheek just underneath her left eye. ‘I will be patient with you and teach you a lesson. Let’s call it “Reality.” Are you listening?’ He reduces his voice to a soft whisper.
Anna breathes, ‘Yes,’ for nodding would drive the blade into her eye.
‘Excellent. Not a single soul wishes to know what happens to whores. When they disappear, most people are grateful. Not I, mind you. But people who ask too many questions, people like you, are threatening the foundation of our modern society. Do you know why?’
‘No.’
‘You see, men are unable to control their animalistic urges. It is common knowledge. So what are we to do, once we are married? For the modest woman seldom desires sexual gratification. She submits to her husband for the desire of maternity and to please him. In the soul of a good woman, there is no space for sexual indulgence. She knows little of the darker, deeper desires of many a man. In order to calm man’s dark side, he must use whores. It is in the nature of man, and that is what whores are for — to satiate. It is like everything in life. There are the ones who deserve to be served, and the ones who serve. But I wonder… Perhaps, you wish to satiate my animalistic urges? My control of them might be slipping any moment now.’ Spite sharpens his voice, and the knife’s tip is pressing hard against her skin.
‘No,’ croaks up Anna’s throat.
‘Very well, then. I trust you learnt your lesson tonight. If not, one more meeting might be necessary. But it won’t be as pleasant as this one. Have a good night.’
The knife disappears, and with it, the man. She slumps forward and retches. Bile hits the pavement.
Newgate
T hirty , echoes in Garret’s skull. Thirty . The word still carries the magistrate’s satisfied lilt.
He had felt very small in Old Bailey’s Central Criminal Court. The charges against him were laughable. The police soon noticed that they had caught the wrong man, for he didn’t look like the pickpocket they had been chasing — a skinny boy with hair as black as a raven’s feathers. Yet, the police needed to catch someone, and this was Garret’s misfortune.
He would have been released at once if not for the bundle of burglar equipment and the two pieces of liver stuffed with opium.
Garret had insisted that he found both at the corner of High Holborn and Broad Street. He told the magistrate how lucky he felt that the police caught him. He would have eaten the liver and would have surely died of opium poisoning. He had even folded his large hands to appear humble. But it hadn’t helped much. He looked like the brute he was.
Lacking solid evidence, they couldn’t detain him for very long. Owing to his build, however, his roots in St Giles, and the incriminating accessories, the magistrate decided that some punishment would only do Garret good.
‘O’Hare!’ calls the warden, rattling a large ring full of keys, most of which have lost their lock long ago. Their only purpose is to impress. Here in Newgate Prison, the man with the keys is king.
Garret is led through a dingy corridor out towards the gallows. The thief holds his head high, taking in all details one last time: the moisture dripping down the vaulted ceiling, the green slime growing on cold stones, the echo of his footfall, the murmurs, shouts, and cackles of his fellow prisoners. The light at the end of the corridor is blinding, a hooded figure cuts through its centre, black on white — the executioner.
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
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