ã€ŠTHE BLACK ROSE MURDERSã€‹


 Chapter 1

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    In the dim glow of a fire that whispered more of despair than warmth, Robert Bernard and his wife Ellen, sat ensconced in their parlor, a room that belied the grime and weariness of the London street just beyond their walls. The space was a shrine to their past diligence, meticulously maintained, an illusion of comfort and order amidst a creeping, insidious fog of uncertainty.

    The stranger who might chance upon this scene¡ªa figure of finer station¡ªwould gaze upon the couple and see a tableau of domestic tranquility. Robert, ensconced in the embrace of a deep leather armchair, bore the polished veneer of his history in service, his countenance still sharp and groomed, the very picture of a man who had stood in the shadows of his betters. Ellen, rigid in a chair that offered no concession to comfort, was clad in the somber uniform of her station¡ªneat, austere, the austere black dress and pristine collar and cuffs marking her as one who had once answered to the beck and call of others.

    Yet, the old adage whispered true through the heart of England''s middle-class¡ªappearances deceive. The Bernard''s sitting room, a testament to their former pride, now held the weight of their silent desperation. Each piece of their collection, from the enduring red damask curtains that held back the melancholic London weather to the sturdy Axminster carpet underfoot, spoke of a life that was slowly being auctioned away, piece by piece, to stave off their looming ruin.

    The armchair, Robert''s solitary island of repose, had become a symbol of their plight. Bought by Ellen''s hand for thirty-seven shillings¡ªonce a sanctuary for her husband''s weary bones¡ªhad been bartered for a pittance, and still they clung to it, a relic of better days they were loath to relinquish.

    For what is a man without comfort? What is a woman without the small luxuries that uphold the soul? The walls, adorned with the faded smiles of employers long gone and the echoes of country homes that had once been their domains, now stood as silent witnesses to the Bernard''s quiet agony. The proud furniture, once a bastion of their respectability, now loomed over them as monuments of their inexorable slide towards penury.

    Hunger was now a familiar guest in their home, its pangs a constant echo beneath the veneer of gentility. Cold had crept into their bones, an unwelcome companion in the long nights. Bernard, a man of simple pleasures, had forsaken tobacco, the final indulgence of the working man, a sacrifice that whispered of their dire straits.

    Ellen, ever the emblem of prudence and restraint, had seen the shadow that had fallen over her husband''s spirit. With a heart heavy with unspoken fears, she had slipped into the gray of the city and returned with a packet of Virginia tobacco¡ªa small rebellion against the crushing tide of their misfortune, a fleeting spark of warmth in the chill of their faltering existence.

    Under the flickering shadows that played across the walls of their dwindling sanctuary, Robert Bernard felt a stirring within¡ªa profound and unsettling tremor of emotion that he''d not felt in years. His wife''s simple act of compassion, the gift of tobacco leaves, had breached the bulwarks he''d built around his heart. Tears, unbidden and raw, clawed their way to his eyes, and in that silent communion, husband and wife found themselves adrift on a sea of unspoken sentiment, touched to their very core.

    But the cruel hand of hindsight had clawed at Ellen''s heart, the memory of those spent pennies haunting her like the specter of misfortune that now loomed over them. How could Robert, with his methodical, pedestrian mind, ever understand the depths of regret that gnawed at her for that small expenditure? They teetered now on the precipice of a world all too silent¡ªthe abyss that separates those perched upon the plateau of security from the faceless, floundering masses destined to vanish within the stark walls of the workhouse, the sterility of the hospital, or the cold stone of the prison.

    In a cruel twist of fate, the Bernard''s found themselves isolated, caught between the strata of society. Neither the poor, who knew the solidarity of shared struggle, nor the comfortable middle class they had spent their lives serving, stood ready to lend aid. Their only hope for salvation lay with the widow of Bernard''s first wife''s uncle¡ªa woman of some means, with whom their daughter Daisy now resided. Yet, Robert was all too aware of the bitter sting that likely awaited him should he dare to seek her help.

    Their acquaintances, those shadows of a life once connected, had faded into the mists of time, leaving them adrift. Save for one, Jerry Chandler¡ªa sprightly young man, whose lineage traced back to the household where Robert had served as footman. Unlike his ancestors, Jerry had never donned the livery of servitude; he was a man of the law, a detective whose tales of pursuit and justice had once enthralled them.

    Now, however, the dark narratives Jerry spun¡ªof criminals captured and justice meted out¡ªoffered no solace. Robert craved no such reminders of a world where fate could be so cruelly snatched by the law''s indifferent hand. Still, Jerry came, a steadfast beacon, never imposing, never expecting the courtesies of hospitality that the Bernard''s could no longer afford.

    Indeed, Jerry had proven himself a friend not only in word but in deed, extending a loan to his father''s old friend in a time of dire need. A mere thirty shillings¡ªpitifully small yet a lifeline in their sea of despair. Now, only the hollow jingle of a few coppers remained in Robert''s pocket, and Ellen clutched at the meager sum of two shillings and ninepence. All that was left, aside from the looming specter of rent due in five weeks.

    Ellen, with a pride that burned fiercer than her fear of starvation, held a vehement disdain for the pawnshop''s sordid embrace. She would not step foot within, would rather face the gnaw of hunger. Yet, she uttered no protest as cherished keepsakes began to vanish from their home¡ªthe old gold watch-chain, a testament to Robert''s loyal service; the twisted gold tie-pin; the large mourning ring, each a silent testament to a life of dedication now surrendered to the relentless march of their misfortune.

    In the suffocating silence of their grim abode, where the shadows seemed to loom larger with each passing day, Robert Bernard and his wife Ellen found themselves retreating further from the world, and from each other. Where once Robert''s voice had filled the room with stories and banter, now only the creak of the floorboards spoke. Ellen had always been a silent sentinel by his side, her quietude a balm to his bustling existence. It was this very stillness that had drawn him to her those years ago, when he first laid eyes on her, precise and careful in her duties, in the grand dining room that now seemed a world away.

    But silence can fester, grow heavy, can become a living thing that wraps its hands around your throat. The Bernard''s home had become a mausoleum of unspoken fears, a place where even the small comforts of life, like the daily paper, had become luxuries sacrificed at the altar of survival.

    It was as if the very fabric of their existence had become frayed, threadbare, when suddenly, on that dark November eve, the outside world broke through. The cacophony of newsboys'' cries, as jarring and unwelcome as the stench of the nearby Thames, tore through the thick damask, through the closed windows, and into Robert''s weary soul. He rose, a specter in his own home, drawn inexorably to the window, to the cries of "Murder!" that punched the air like a physical blow.

    The words, disjointed and raw, filtered through the glass, painting a macabre picture that sent a shiver down his spine. "Horrible Murder! Murder at St. Pancras!" The echoes of a past crime, a servant turned killer, resurfaced in his mind, a grim reminder of the world''s ever-present darkness.

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    The newsboys drew closer, their cries becoming clearer, more insistent. And then, piercing the din of their shouts, came the chilling refrain that had begun to haunt the streets of London: "The Rose Killer! The Rose Killer at his work again!"

    For a moment, Robert Bernard felt an undeniable pull, a morbid curiosity that beckoned him toward those cries, toward the horror that lay just beyond his door. He lingered there, in the twilight of his own despair, as the specter of The Rose Killer¡ªa phantom cloaked in night, leaving only the grim signature of a black rose¡ªloomed over the city, and whispered into the hearts of all who dared listen.

    For two weeks, a shroud of terror had descended upon London, punctuated by a series of brutal and bizarre murders. The Rose Killer had begun his grim waltz through the city, his steps measured and his handiwork chilling. The first murder had barely pricked the collective consciousness of the public; the second had been tucked away in a brief newspaper column. But then, the third victim was found, and with her, a macabre calling card that sent a ripple of horror through the city''s heart:

    "THE ROSE KILLER"

    Scrawled in blood-red ink on a triangular note pinned to her, it was a declaration¡ªa grim signature that bound the three atrocities together. The public, once indifferent, now found themselves fascinated by the darkness that walked among them. And as if the killer''s thirst for acknowledgment had been quenched, a fourth murder followed swiftly, each more savage than the last, the black rose left behind as a harbinger of some twisted vendetta.

    The whispers of The Rose Killer''s deeds had even seeped into the mundane exchanges of daily life, the milkman sharing the latest morbid gossip as he made his rounds. Bernard, drawn back to the dying embers of his hearth, regarded his wife with a flicker of excitement that danced in his eyes, seeking to ignite a similar spark within her. But Ellen sat, a statue of weariness, her eyes reflecting a soul drained of life, and Bernard''s spark of excitement was quickly doused by a wave of frustration.

    He recalled the dismissive tone she had taken that morning when he had relayed the milkman''s words. Ellen had never had a stomach for the macabre or the violent. Once, in better times, when the rustle of newspaper pages was a daily symphony, Bernard had relished the thrill of a good mystery, but Ellen''s cold disapproval had often quenched his enthusiasm. Now, he found himself indifferent to her sensibilities, his own misery a heavy cloak that dulled compassion.

    Bernard made his way to the door, his face adopting the mischievous plea of a child on the cusp of forbidden adventure. Ellen remained still, her silhouette rigid against the back of her chair, her gaze fixed on some unseen horizon. With a stealthy twist of the doorknob, Bernard stepped into the darkened hall, a space they had surrendered to shadow in their frugality.

    He emerged onto the damp pavement, the iron gate protesting as he pushed it open. But there, under the jaundiced glow of the street lamps, he hesitated. The meager chorus of coins in his pocket sang a dirge of poverty, and he was struck by the memory of Ellen''s uncanny ability to stretch mere pennies into a semblance of sustenance. With a sigh, the specter of The Rose Killer''s shadow seemed to loom over him, a grim reminder of the thin line between his own fragile existence and the abyss that awaited just beyond the reach of his dwindling coppers.

    The chill of the London fog wrapped around Robert Bernard as he lingered outside his home, a shiver snaking down his spine. The boy with the papers was a tempter, a siren in the mist, and Bernard¡ªa man starved for a taste of the world beyond his crumbling walls¡ªsuccumbed.

    "Hand over a Sun," he demanded, his voice a rasping whisper, torn between desire and the guilt that gnawed at him. "Sun or Echo!"

    But the boy was a whirlwind of motion, his breath coming in quick bursts as he denied Bernard''s request. "Only got the penny ones left, mister," he panted. "Take your pick."

    Shame and need clashed within Bernard as he drew a coin from his pocket. It felt like a betrayal, the weight of the penny far heavier than its size. He snatched the Evening Standard from the boy''s outstretched hand and retreated, the gate clanging shut behind him, sealing the deal of his momentary escape.

    The walk back to the door was an agony of conflicting emotions. That penny represented more than just the paper clutched in his trembling hands; it was a respite from his suffocating reality, a doorway to a world where he could forget the relentless pressure of despair. Yet, the knowledge that Ellen, his steadfast companion in misery, would disapprove, gnawed at him with the sharp teeth of guilt. She would never have squandered their meager funds so frivolously, and in the biting cold, under the harsh glare of the street lamp, he felt the full weight of his selfish indulgence.

    As Bernard fumbled with the door, Ellen''s voice sliced through the fog, her words tinged with worry and irritation. "Bernard, what in God''s name are you doing out there? Get inside before you freeze to death! I can''t bear the thought of nursing you through illness on top of everything else." It was a veritable speech from her, whose words had become as scarce as their fortunes.

    He entered the house, a fortress of gloom, and declared his act of rebellion. "I got a paper," he stated, defiance and sullenness warring in his tone. He was the master of this house of shadows, wasn''t he? The money that sustained them had been thrust into his hands by the generous Jerry Chandler, not Ellen''s. He had pawned his dignity, piece by piece, while her wedding ring still circled her finger, a band of gold untouched by their descent into poverty.

    Bernard shoved past her, feeling her silent judgment as keenly as a knife. In a rare act of defiance against both her and his own self-loathing, he ignited the hall gas, flooding the space with light and with it, a semblance of control. "How are we to attract lodgers if they can''t see the sign?" he bellowed, his anger a brief, flickering flame in the darkness of their lives.

    The word "Apartments" emblazoned on the card became visible, a beacon of hope that now fought against the darkness. Bernard stormed into the sitting-room, Ellen trailing behind him like a ghost. He dropped heavily into his armchair and jabbed at the fire, stoking the coals of both the hearth and his own battered pride. The fire responded, crackling to life, and for a moment, Bernard felt the rush of a man reclaiming his domain, asserting his place in a world that seemed determined to erase him.

    In the dim light of their parlous sitting room, Ellen Bernard''s face flushed a shade of rose, a stark contrast to the pallor that had become her constant companion. Bernard''s defiance was an anomaly, his mild-mannered nature uprooted by desperation. Yet, in these small rebellious acts, he had become as unfamiliar to her as the notion of careless spending.

    Her movements around the room were a ballet of agitation, her fingers flitting across surfaces, dusting the invisible signs of their decline, straightening a world tilting into chaos. The tremor in her hands betrayed her¡ªa dance of excitement, self-pity, and anger. A penny might as well have been a pound, a shilling a fortune, for they had been whittled down to the bare bones of survival, where every penny was a prisoner of necessity. And yet, Bernard seemed blind to this grim arithmetic.

    Bernard''s eyes trailed her occasionally, a part of him wanting to demand stillness, calm, but he was a man who craved peace more than confrontation. So instead, he bit back his words, and she, sensing his irritation, ceased her restless ballet.

    Ellen didn¡¯t take her place by his side, as he might have preferred. The sight of him, engrossed in the black and white print, a comfortable king by his resuscitated fire, stoked the embers of frustration within her. She retreated into the adjoining bedroom, severing herself from the vexing image of Bernard with the paper, and sat in the cold gloom, hands pressed to her temples like a vice.

    Despair cast a long shadow over her spirit. All her life''s work, the upstanding diligence, the unwavering self-respect¡ªit had culminated in a cruel joke, leaving them teetering on the edge of abject poverty. Age had crept up on them, slipping past the age of appeal for a couple in service¡ªunless the wife was a cook. And Ellen was no cook. Her culinary skills were limited to the palates of potential lodgers, not the gourmands of grand estates.

    The folly of lodging¡ªit had been her idea, her machination. And now, the memories of their seaside venture, tarnished by disease, and the collapse of their subsequent endeavors, loomed over her like specters of what could have been. Even Bernard, with his comely presence and connections that once promised supplemental income, found himself severed from those lifelines.

    Their lives had become a jagged race against fate, and now, Bernard''s pawned dress clothes were the latest casualty in their war against destitution. She had said nothing, for the money he had extracted from the sale had partially fueled her last indulgence of tobacco for him.

    As Ellen sat entangled in these threads of bitter recollection, a knock¡ªloud, trembling, uncertain¡ªechoed at their front door. It was a sound that seemed to strike a discordant note in the evening''s symphony, a harbinger of change or merely another false note in the dirge of their existence.

 CHAPTER 2

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    As the uncertain knock reverberated through the house, Ellen Bernard¡¯s heart leapt into her throat. She rose, a specter in the darkness, her steps slow and deliberate. The thin line of light under the door mocked her with its warmth, a barrier between her and the dread that the sound inspired. This was not the confident tap of a potential lodger, but the hesitant clamor of despair¡ªa sound she had come to associate with the destitute and desperate, the human detritus that ebbed and flowed through the city¡¯s veins.

    Her previous encounters with these nocturnal souls had left her wary. The gaslight in the passage had been extinguished to ward off such creatures of the night. Yet here was the knock again, a harbinger of something, though she knew not what.

    Opening the door to the living room, she saw Bernard absorbed in his paper, a fortress of ignorance against the reality outside their walls. His only acknowledgment of the disturbance was a distracted murmur, ¡°Didn¡¯t you hear a knock?¡±

    Without a word, Ellen moved into the hall. Her fingers were slow and deliberate as they turned the knob, bracing for the unknown.

    There, silhouetted against the backdrop of night, stood a man. His figure was drawn long by the shadows, an Inverness cape draped over his shoulders, and an anachronistic top hat perched upon his head. He blinked against the sudden onslaught of light, his eyes adjusting to the starkness of the gaslight.

    Ellen¡¯s instincts, honed by years of service to the gentry, whispered of this man¡¯s pedigree. Despite his peculiar appearance, he bore the unmistakable air of a gentleman.

    ¡°Is it not a fact that you let lodgings?¡± His voice carried a strange timbre, a note of imbalance, of hesitation that clung to the air.

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Ellen replied, the weight of months without a suitable inquiry pressing heavily upon her words.

    He moved past her, his presence filling the hall. Ellen noticed the leather bag clutched in his hand¡ªa new, sturdy piece, incongruous with his faded attire.

    ¡°I am looking for some quiet rooms,¡± he stated, his voice trailing off as if he were speaking more to himself than to her. His eyes darted nervously about, taking in the furnishings that spoke of a life they were desperately clinging to.

    The hall, with its neat umbrella stand and the soft drugget underfoot, seemed to satisfy him. His gaze lifted from the red richness of the floor to the walls, and a shadow of ease crossed his sallow face.

    ¡°You¡¯d find my rooms quite quiet, sir,¡± Ellen assured him, her tone even and composed. ¡°Currently, the house is empty, save for my husband and me, sir.¡±

    Her voice was devoid of emotion, betraying none of the cautious hope that flickered within her. This stranger, with his courteous demeanor and echoes of a world she once knew, appeared almost too fortuitous. A potential lodger at their doorstep was a stroke of luck that seemed to defy the grim dance they had been leading¡ªa dance choreographed by poverty and shadowed by the Rose Killer¡¯s macabre waltz through London.

    The man in the Inverness cape spoke with a deliberation that seemed to hang in the air, thick with contemplation. ¡°That sounds very suitable,¡± he mused. ¡°Four rooms? Well, perhaps two would suffice, but I am keen to see all four before deciding.¡±

    Ellen¡¯s heart skipped at the thought of such fortune. If not for the bright beacon of the gaslight, this enigmatic gentleman might have vanished into the foggy night, another opportunity dissipated like mist.

    She led the way towards the stairs, her mind a whirlwind of hope and anxiety, so much so that she left the front door ajar¡ªa careless mistake in London¡¯s heart. It was the stranger, ¡°the lodger¡± as she had prematurely anointed him in her thoughts, who briskly secured the door behind them.

    ¡°Thank you, sir,¡± she stammered, chastened by his quick action. ¡°I¡¯m terribly sorry for the oversight.¡±

    Their eyes locked for a fleeting moment. ¡°Leaving a door open in London is an invitation to trouble,¡± he chided, a sharp edge cutting through his otherwise composed demeanor. ¡°I trust this isn¡¯t a common occurrence.¡±

    Ellen felt a flush of irritation at his implication. ¡°I assure you, sir, it isn¡¯t,¡± she responded, her voice a mixture of defensiveness and reassurance.

    Suddenly, the silence was punctuated by Bernard¡¯s cough¡ªa small, dry sound that sent the stranger into a state of alarm. ¡°What was that?¡± he demanded, gripping her arm with surprising strength.

    ¡°Just my husband, sir,¡± Ellen replied, her voice soothing. ¡°The chill from stepping out earlier must have caught him.¡±

    ¡°Your husband?¡± The stranger¡¯s gaze bore into her, a hint of suspicion weaving through his words. ¡°And what does your husband do?¡±

    Ellen bristled at the intrusion but masked her displeasure with a veneer of professionalism. ¡°He¡¯s a server, sir, previously in service to gentlemen. He could also assist as a valet, should you require it.¡±

    With that, she ushered him up the narrow staircase to the drawing-room floor¡ªa sitting room in the front and a bedroom lying in wait behind. Fumbling with the chandelier, she breathed life into the gas flames, illuminating the interior.

    The room was a testament to a bygone era of modest opulence, the moss-green carpet underfoot, the stately chiffonnier, the table ringed by four chairs¡ªall suffused with the quiet dignity of the past. The walls boasted a gallery of Victorian belles, their gazes eternally demure from within their frames. To Ellen, these engravings lent the space an air of grace, a whisper of the refinement they so desperately needed to project.

    But the room¡¯s splendor was marred by one glaring absence¡ªthe lack of white curtains at the windows, a deficiency that pricked at Ellen¡¯s pride. She resolved silently that should this gentleman decide to stay, the windows would not remain bare for long.

    The stranger, however, seemed unimpressed by the room¡¯s charms. ¡°This is rather too... ornate for my taste,¡± he remarked, his voice betraying a hint of discomfort. ¡°May I see the other rooms, Mrs.¡ª?¡±

    ¡°Bernard,¡± she supplied gently, her heart sinking a touch with his hesitance, yet still fluttering with the potential promise he represented. ¡°Mrs. Bernard, sir.¡±

    With each word she uttered, Ellen felt the oppressive weight of despair settle back onto her shoulders, a familiar burden that seemed always poised to crush her. She dared to hope, yet the gnawing fear that this gentleman might be too poor to afford more than a single room¡ªa meager eight or ten shillings a week¡ªclouded her mind. Such a pittance would barely serve as a bandage over the gaping wound of their financial plight.

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    ¡°Would you care to see the bedroom, sir?¡± she ventured, her voice tinged with a note of desperation.

    ¡°No,¡± he replied, his voice distant as his gaze roamed the room. ¡°I am more interested in the upper rooms, Mrs.¡ª¡± He seemed to struggle for a moment before he could produce her name, as if it were an incantation he could barely remember, ¡°Bernard.¡±

    The climb to the top floor revealed rooms that wore their poverty openly; they were spartan spaces, unadorned and functional, their main features a sink and an outdated gas stove¡ªa relic from the house¡¯s previous tenants. The furniture was clean and sturdy, as was everything touched by Ellen¡¯s diligent hands, but the room lacked warmth, a starkness that now filled her with regret.

    However, to her astonishment, the gentleman¡¯s face lit up with an eager glow. ¡°Capital! Capital!¡± he exclaimed, setting his bag down for the first time. His hands rubbed together with a nervous energy as he paced towards the gas stove.

    ¡°This is precisely what I¡¯ve been seeking,¡± he declared, his eyes alight with a strange fervor. ¡°You see, Mrs.¡ªah, Bernard, I am a man of science. My work, my experiments, they often necessitate¡ªah, the presence of great heat.¡±

    His shaky hand reached out, caressing the edge of the stone sink as though it were a precious artifact. The man seemed to wilt then, sinking into a chair with the exhaustion of one who had borne the world on his shoulders. ¡°I¡¯m weary,¡± he confessed in a hushed tone. ¡°London offers no rest for the tired, no benches for the weary soul. There is a kindness in the streets of the Continent that England lacks.¡±

    ¡°Indeed, sir,¡± Ellen responded, her civility masking her anxiety. She hesitated, then asked the question upon which her entire world now seemed to hinge, ¡°So, you¡¯ll be taking the rooms, sir?¡±

    ¡°This room, without a doubt,¡± he affirmed, his gaze sweeping the space. ¡°It is everything I¡¯ve searched for, everything I¡¯ve desired these past days,¡± he rushed to clarify, ¡°in terms of accommodation, I mean. Mrs. Bernard, you wouldn¡¯t believe how challenging it is to find a place like this. But at last, my search has ended, and that, I must tell you, is a profound relief to me¡ªa very, very great relief indeed.¡±

    The man, now identified as Mr. Basset, rose to his feet, his gaze sweeping the room in a distant, detached manner. There was a dreamlike quality to his movements until, suddenly, his tranquility shattered.

    ¡°Where¡¯s my bag?¡± he demanded, his voice spiked with a sharp, angry fear that cut through the stale air. His eyes, wild and accusing, fixed upon Ellen, and for an instant, a cold finger of dread trailed down her spine. Bernard¡¯s distant presence in the house, so far from this unsettling moment, felt like an absence of security.

    Yet, Ellen knew that the eccentric are often those touched by genius, and geniuses, like the scholar before her, are cut from a different cloth. ¡°Surely I had a bag when I came in?¡± Mr. Basset''s voice trembled, a portrait of troubled anxiety.

    ¡°Here it is, sir,¡± she said, her voice a calming balm as she lifted the surprisingly light bag and returned it to his clutch. As he took it, his relief was palpable, his muttered apologies intermingled with explanations of the bag¡¯s precious, perilous contents.

    The matter of payment brought a hush between them before he offered, with an odd, sidelong glance, to pay a month in advance, forsaking references for quick settlement. Ellen¡¯s heart surged with a mixture of joy and sheer relief, the prospect of sustenance suddenly within grasp.

    ¡°And your charge?¡± Mr. Basset''s voice was now colored with a hint of warmth, an almost friendly inquiry. Ellen¡¯s response, tentative at first, grew firmer as she outlined the terms¡ªtwenty-five shillings a week, with the promise of attentive service and careful cooking, Bernard¡¯s valeting skills notwithstanding.

    Mr. Basset cut her off sharply, dispelling any notion of personal service. His independence was clear, his aversion to shared lodgings even clearer. Ellen, sensing an opportunity, extended the offer of both floors for private use, emphasizing the suitability of the top floor for his scientific endeavors and the drawing room for his meals.

    The negotiation teetered on a fine edge until Mr. Basset proposed an increased sum¡ªtwo pounds, or two guineas¡ªto secure exclusivity. The assurance of such a sum and the simplicity of serving only him brought a quiet acquiescence from Ellen.

    But then came the matter of privacy, of security. ¡°I suppose you have a key to this room?¡± Mr. Basset''s inquiry held an urgency that brooked no delay. It wasn¡¯t merely a request; it was a stipulation, the importance of which was etched on his intense, earnest expression.

    ¡°Yes, sir, we have a key,¡± Ellen confirmed, sensing the weight of his demand.

    He repeated the question, pressing for confirmation, ¡°A key to this door, Mrs. Bernard?¡± The emphasis on the key was a clear sign; whatever secrets Mr. Basset intended to keep within these walls, they were to remain his and his alone.

    Ellen reassured the peculiar Mr. Basset with a firm nod. ¡°Oh, yes, sir, there¡¯s a key. A very clever little key.¡± She moved towards the door, revealing the modern disk lock that had replaced the old mechanism. ¡°The previous tenants had a particular taste for security.¡±

    Mr. Basset observed silently before breaking into his calculations. ¡°Forty-two shillings a week, then? Yes, that is most agreeable.¡± A rare smile, twisted and enigmatic, played across his lips as he reached into the depths of his cape. ¡°By my count, four weeks will be eight pounds, eight shillings.¡±

    He laid out the gold sovereigns in a neat row upon the weathered tabletop, counting out more than the required amount. ¡°Ten pounds should cover the initial expenses,¡± he said, dismissing his ¡®misfortune¡¯ of lost luggage with an odd nonchalance that seemed to hover between confession and careless remark.

    Ellen¡¯s heart hammered against her ribs, a tumultuous symphony of relief and elation. The gold in her hand was a lifeline, a promise of sustenance and survival.

    ¡°Your misfortune is grievous indeed, sir,¡± she replied, her voice a cocktail of sympathy and burgeoning affection for the man who had unwittingly become her savior.

    ¡°Yes, a grievous loss indeed,¡± he echoed, his voice trailing off into a murmur of regret. But then, catching himself, he spoke louder, his gratitude washing over her in a wave of sincerity. ¡°But you have welcomed me, Mrs. Bernard, and for that, I am ever grateful.¡±

    The warmth in Ellen¡¯s chest bloomed like a fire in a hearth. ¡°I believe I can recognize a gentleman,¡± she said, her voice uncharacteristically wavering.

    Mr. Basset''s eyes, imploring and earnest, hinted at his next need¡ªa change of clothes. Ellen offered the simple comforts of their home for supper, but his request was modest to a fault¡ªa mere cup of milk and bread-and-butter would suffice.

    Tentatively, she suggested the sausage she had procured for Bernard¡¯s meal, but Mr. Basset declined with a peculiar intensity. ¡°I¡¯ve long abstained from flesh,¡± he explained, and Ellen noted the vehemence with which he held to his convictions.

    At her inquiry about alcohol, a storm seemed to gather in his pale eyes, a tempestuous energy that sent a shiver across the room. ¡°I had hoped you too would be abstainers,¡± he said, his voice a thin veil over brewing anger.

    ¡°We are, sir, lifelong,¡± Ellen assured him, feeling a surge of pride for the pledge she had coaxed Bernard into long ago. In that moment, she was grateful for his sobriety, for it had been the anchor that kept them from being swept too far into despair during the roughest seas of their lives.

    Descending the staircase with the soft tread of a cat, Ellen led Mr. Basset to the bedroom adjacent to the drawing-room. It was a mirror of her own chamber below, yet everything here held the sheen of a slightly higher expense, a touch more refinement in its appointments.

    The weary traveler surveyed the room with an air of revelation, a profound sense of relief washing over his haggard features. ¡°A haven of rest,¡± he whispered to himself, the words trailing off into the quiet of the room. Then, turning to Ellen with a spark of something like joy, he recited, ¡°¡®He bringeth them to their desired haven.¡¯ Beautiful words, Mrs. Bernard.¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir,¡± Ellen replied, a thread of surprise weaving through her voice. It was an age since the scriptures had been spoken in these walls, and his reverence for the verse seemed to sanctify his presence within her home.

    To Ellen, the prospect of accommodating a single lodger, and a gentleman at that, was a stroke of fortune. She¡¯d weathered the storm of disreputable pairs before, their previous lodgings a revolving door for the most peculiar and unsavory of married couples¡ªthose who tread water on the brink of respectability, buoyed by deception and petty trickery.

    ¡°I shall fetch you some hot water and fresh towels momentarily, sir,¡± she declared, already reaching for the door.

    But the lodger pivoted sharply, his voice quivering with a hint of urgency. ¡°Mrs. Bernard,¡± he stammered, ¡°I¡ªI must ask you not to overextend your notion of attendance. I¡¯ve grown quite accustomed to fending for myself.¡±

    The rebuff, though softly spoken, landed heavily upon Ellen, leaving her feeling unexpectedly cast aside, her hospitality rebuked. ¡°Very well, sir,¡± she responded, masking the sting of rejection with professionalism. ¡°I¡¯ll simply inform you when supper is served.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± he murmured, a shadow crossing his face as he turned back to the room. ¡°You are most kind.¡±

 CHAPTER 3

    <hr>

    The slight sting of Mr. Basset''s dismissal was but a wisp of smoke in the bright blaze of their good fortune. Ellen Bernard, usually so composed in her demeanor, felt a rare burst of youthful energy propel her down the steep stairs. But in the hall, she caught herself, remembering her disdain for overt displays of emotion¡ªwhat she dismissively referred to as "making a fuss."

    She paused at the doorway of their sitting room, taking a moment to observe Bernard. His back was to her, his posture weighed down by the recent weeks'' invisible burdens. As he turned and saw her, the hopeful query in his eyes cut through her like a knife.

    With a flick of her wrist, Ellen released the ten sovereigns onto the table. They landed with a tantalizing clink, announcing a change in their fortunes. "Look there," she whispered, her voice trembling with the vibration of suppressed sobs and elation. "Look there, Bernard!"

    Bernard''s gaze was heavy with concern, his mind leaping to the grim conclusion that they had begun to sell off their possessions. But before he could voice his fears, Ellen''s triumphant cry cut through the air, "We¡¯ve a new lodger!"

    The disbelief in Bernard''s voice was palpable. "No, never!"

    Yet there they stood, united in a shared moment of wonder at the small mountain of gold before them. "But there¡¯s ten sovereigns here," Bernard remarked, his mind trying to piece together this sudden turn of events.

    Ellen wiped away the beginning of tears, her emotional dam breaking as she explained their new lodger''s terms and demeanor¡ªa gentleman of eccentricities that needed to be indulged and humored.

    As she regained her composure, the jarring ring of the drawing-room bell echoed through the house. Bernard, eager to meet the source of their newfound hope, volunteered to attend to their lodger''s needs.

    Returning with an enigmatic smile, he relayed the lodger''s peculiar request: "He''s asked me for the loan of a Bible!"

    Ellen, taken aback but resolute, saw nothing amiss with the request, especially if the gentleman was feeling out of sorts. "I''ll take it up to him," she said, her resolve firm. The simple act of providing a Bible, a beacon of faith and comfort, seemed an easy enough service for a man who had just lifted the pall of despair from their lives.

    In the dim light of their modest home, Ellen reached for the large Bible on the small table between the windows. It was a treasured wedding gift, the pages edged with memories and a sense of permanence in their transient world.

    Bernard''s voice cut through her reflection. "He said the Bible could wait till supper," he remarked, a perplexed furrow creasing his brow. "Ellen, he''s an odd one¡ªdoesn''t fit the mold of the gents I''ve served."

    With a protective fire in her eyes, Ellen snapped, "He is a gentleman, Bernard."

    Her husband hesitated, his doubt hanging in the air. "He had no clothes to unpack," he said, a tinge of disbelief in his voice.

    "He lost his luggage," Ellen interjected swiftly, her words a shield against any further scrutiny. They both knew the city was full of those who would prey upon a man so vulnerable.

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    Bernard nodded, accepting the explanation as Ellen scribbled a shopping list, her stomach reminding her of the hunger they had endured for far too long. Handing him the list with a sovereign, she urged, "Be quick."

    As he read the name Basset, Bernard''s puzzlement returned. "How d''you spell that? B-a-s-s-o-t?"

    Ellen corrected him sharply, "B-a-s-s-e-t," and recalled the lodger''s mnemonic: ''Think of a hound.''

    At the doorway, Bernard turned back, his face brightening with the thought of repaying their debts. Ellen nodded, her throat tight with emotion.

    Once Bernard left, Ellen prepared the lodger''s tray with the meticulous care of a seasoned landlady. As she ascended the stairs with the tray and the heavy Bible tucked under her arm, she felt the satisfaction of service well-rendered.

    Entering the drawing-room, Ellen was met with a tableau that halted her in her tracks. The Bible tumbled from her grasp as she stared at the turned portraits. The Victorian belles, once the room''s pride, now faced the wall, their eyes hidden from the lodger''s peculiar discomfort.

    "I''ve... rearranged to my liking," Mr. Basset stammered, an awkwardness enveloping him as he confessed to flipping the images. "Their eyes seemed to follow me. It was unsettling."

    Ellen, absorbed in setting the small tablecloth, found herself speechless, unprepared for such an intrusion into her carefully curated space.

    After a tense silence, Mr. Basset explained his preference for the austerity of bare walls, revealing a past cloaked in solitude.

    "I understand, sir," Ellen finally responded, her voice a steady, calming presence. "Bernard will remove the pictures when he returns. We have ample room for them elsewhere."

    "Thank you," Mr. Basset breathed, a visible weight lifting from his shoulders. "Thank you very much."

    Ellen, though unsettled by the incident, couldn''t help but feel a twist of empathy for this strange, solitary man who found solace in the blankness of walls and the words of scripture.

    Ellen Bernard''s hands were steady as she presented the Bible to Mr. Basset, its leather cover warmed by her grip. "I believe you requested the good Book, sir?" she inquired, her voice echoing faintly in the heavy silence of the drawing-room.

    Mr. Basset seemed to awaken from a trance, his eyes sharpening as they met hers. "Ah, yes," he murmured, a fervor igniting his tone. "There is no reading quite like the Book. It speaks to every condition, every weary soul..."

    "Indeed, sir," Ellen agreed, placing the Bible down beside the modest meal she had prepared. With a brisk turn, she closed the door behind her, leaving Mr. Basset to his solitude and scripture.

    In the quiet of her own sitting room, Ellen awaited Bernard''s return, her thoughts drifting back through the mists of time. She remembered a young artist, Mr. Algernon, whose playful irreverence had once led him to turn a set of Landseer prints to the wall. His aunt had been none too pleased, and yet his whimsy had charmed Ellen in those distant days of her youth.

    The memory offered a comforting parallel to Mr. Basset''s peculiarities. Though she chose not to share the tale with Bernard, it steadied her resolve; she could manage the removal of the pictures herself.

    Ascending the stairs later to tidy up, Ellen paused as she neared the drawing-room. Was that a voice she heard? A chill prickled her skin as she listened to the lodger''s reading¡ªhis voice carrying a haunting cadence that spoke of treacherous women and paths to the underworld.

    Hesitantly, she knocked and entered, her voice a soft intrusion. "Shall I clear away, sir?"

    Mr. Basset, closing the Bible with a sense of finality, expressed a wish to retire. "I''ve had a long and weary day," he confessed, his voice barely more than a whisper.

    Once he had withdrawn, Ellen dutifully unhinged the offending portraits from the wall, their absence leaving ghostly squares on the papered surface. With silent steps to avoid alerting Bernard, she stowed the pictures behind her own bed, her mind replaying the ominous words that had spilled from Mr. Basset''s lips. Despite the comfort of the gold sovereigns, a new unease settled within her¡ªa creeping suspicion that their lodger''s eccentricities might veil darker truths than she cared to admit.

 CHAPTER 4

    <hr>

    With the dawn''s light filtering through the curtains, Mrs. Bernard awoke to a sense of well-being that had long been absent. For a fleeting second, she grasped at the threads of her dreams, trying to recall the source of this newfound lightness. Then, with the clarity of daybreak, it all came back to her¡ªthe lodger, Mr. Basset, and the golden sovereigns that had cascaded onto their table.

    A lodger who paid two guineas a week was a godsend, and Mrs. Bernard was determined to make him a permanent fixture in their lives. Queerness, after all, was a small price for stability. Yet, as the morning stretched on without a sound from above, a worm of worry began to gnaw at her. It wasn''t until noon that the silence was finally broken by the ring of the bell.

    Ascending the stairs, Mrs. Bernard''s heart pounded with the eagerness to prove their worth to Mr. Basset. The bell''s toll had come just in time to rescue them from the precipice of ruin.

    The sight that greeted her was Mr. Basset, looking every bit the weary scholar, poring over the Bible. His request for a Concordance, a term foreign to her, was met with a regretful shake of her head.

    As he listed off the items he needed¡ªbasic essentials she had wrongly assumed he already possessed¡ªMrs. Bernard felt a surge of purpose. With money in hand and a clear mission, she set out to procure the items, a spring in her step.

    Her errand brought her to a barber''s shop, a tiny den that reeked of foreign oils and hair tonics. She hastened her purchases, eager to escape the barber''s grisly recount of the Rose Killer''s latest horrors¡ªtales that threatened to cast a shadow over her spirit.

    Returning to Mr. Basset with the goods, she found him grateful but reluctant to allow her into his bedroom for tidying. His insistence on solitude, on the freedom to wander the lamp-lit streets and ponder the profound enigmas of existence, was met with Mrs. Bernard''s accommodating nod. Her patience with the peculiarities of men was boundless.

    Descending to the sitting room, she stumbled upon a scene that warmed her heart. Bernard and Jerry Chandler, the young detective, were in the midst of a transaction that was more about friendship and relief than the mere return of borrowed money. Jerry''s face was alight not with the glee of repayment but with the joy of their shared fortune¡ªthe arrival of Mr. Basset, a lodger who promised to turn the tide in their favor.

    The morning light crept through the cracks of the curtains, ushering in a new day, and with it, a sense of optimism that had long been a stranger to Mrs. Bernard. She stirred, the weight of dread that often anchored her to the bed was notably absent. A moment''s pause to gather her thoughts, and then it struck her¡ªthe lodger, Mr. Basset, and the precious reprieve his presence had granted them.

    She felt an unfamiliar lightness as she descended the stairs. "Mr. Basset has asked for his room to be tended to only in the evening," she announced, her tone a mix of pride and curiosity. She let herself sink into the chair, allowing the momentary peace to wash over her.

    It was a rare luxury to linger in the quiet, knowing that Mr. Basset was content with his breakfast, no demands hanging in the air. Soon, she would prepare their noon meal, and impulsively she invited Jerry Chandler to join. Today, even the presence of a young detective felt like a welcome addition to their modest table.

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    As the trio sat, the conversation, steered by Bernard''s morbid fascination, veered towards the chilling subject of the Rose Killer. Mrs. Bernard, usually disinterested in such grisly matters, found herself drawn in by the gruesome details spilling forth.

    Bernard''s newspaper, now a daily ritual renewed, was rife with speculation and terror, three columns deep with the latest on the Rose Killer''s macabre exploits. It was all of London''s whispered fears made ink and paper.

    "They reckon the police are sitting on a clue, right Jerry?" Bernard asked, leaning in, his voice a mix of hushed reverence and eager anticipation.

    Jerry''s response was slow, deliberate. "Those who say so are mistaken," he said, his usually calm demeanor shadowed by frustration. "If the Yard had a clue, it''d change everything for me."

    Mrs. Bernard interjected with a gentle smile, "And why''s that, Jerry?" She was genuinely curious, drawn to the young man''s passion for his work.

    Jerry''s explanation revealed his new role in the chilling saga. "I''m on the case now," he confessed. "The Yard''s up in arms, and we''re all out to prove ourselves."

    The revelation that a policeman had been just yards away from the last murder scene brought a stunned silence. It was a detail Bernard''s paper had omitted, one that cast a pall over the room.

    Bernard then prodded about the infamous calling cards of the killer¡ªthe scraps of grey paper pinned to each victim, a taunting signature in blood-red ink. To Bernard, there was a macabre humor to it, but Mrs. Bernard was quick to chide him. "It''s no laughing matter," she said sternly.

    Jerry agreed, a shudder visible as he spoke of the grisly tokens. "They give me the horrors," he admitted, his eyes dark with the memory.

    As he made to leave, declining Mrs. Bernard''s offer of dinner with the excuse of his ever-demanding job, Jerry paused at the door. With a casual air that failed to mask his true interest, he asked after Daisy, Bernard''s daughter.

    Bernard''s face softened at the mention of his child, a rare joy in a life too often shaded by sorrow. "No, Jerry," he said, the warmth of his affection for Daisy clear in his voice, "Old Aunt won''t let her out of her sight. She didn''t much like her staying with us last time."

    As Jerry departed, Mrs. Bernard''s gaze lingered on her husband. The brief exchange had reminded them both of the simple joys they had sacrificed to the relentless march of survival¡ªtheir daughter''s laughter, now just an echo in their quiet home.

    The door clicked shut behind Jerry, and Bernard, with that hopeful gleam in his eye, turned to his wife. "Jerry''s taken a shine to our Daisy, wouldn''t you say, Ellen?"

    Mrs. Bernard''s response was sharp, a dismissive shake of her head betraying her disdain for the notion. She had her reservations about the carefree upbringing Daisy received from her Aunt, a stark contrast to the disciplined structure of the Foundling Home that had raised Mrs. Bernard herself.

    "Jerry''s got more sense than to be mooning over girls just now," she retorted, her voice carrying the bite of conviction.

    Bernard conceded with a nod, a wistful sigh escaping him. "True enough," he mused. "Just a thought I had, is all."

    The evening draped the street in shadows as Mr. Basset ventured out, his departure marked by the glow of the lamps. It wasn''t long after that two parcels arrived for Mrs. Bernard, carrying within them the faint mustiness of second-hand garments¡ªa peculiar choice indeed for a gentleman of Mr. Basset''s standing.

    The mystery of Mr. Basset''s missing bag gnawed at Mrs. Bernard. It had vanished as completely as if swallowed by the house itself. Despite her thorough search, it remained elusive, leaving her to wonder if perhaps it had been a figment of her imagination.

    But no, that couldn''t be. Her memories were too vivid, too exact. The image of Mr. Basset, an odd silhouette against her doorstep clutching the bag, was etched into her mind. She could still recall the panic in his voice when he momentarily thought it lost, only to find it by his feet.

    As days passed, Mrs. Bernard''s mind often circled back to the bag. She was certain it lay hidden behind the locked door of the drawing-room chiffonnier, the key a constant companion to Mr. Basset, never to be seen by her eyes. Both the bag and the key had slipped into the realm of the unseen, secrets kept by the enigmatic lodger who had brought an unsettling undercurrent to their once mundane existence.

 Chapter 5

    <hr>

    The days unfurled with an ease and monotony that Mrs. Bernard had almost forgotten could exist. Tending to Mr. Basset''s needs felt like a dance she had quickly mastered, each step familiar and unburdening. The man''s desire for a singular caretaker¡ªher, and only her¡ªwas flattering in its own peculiar way.

    Indeed, Mr. Basset was not your garden-variety lodger. His quirks cast a spell over the mundane, providing Mrs. Bernard a diversion from the humdrum of everyday life. He was an oddity, yes, but one devoid of the usual vexations that plague those who rent their rooms to strangers. For one, he was not an early riser, a trait that aligned perfectly with the Bernard household''s newfound luxury of leisurely mornings.

    Mr. Basset''s eccentricity was undeniable. The second night of his stay, he arrived with a tome under his arm¡ªthe bizarrely titled Cruden''s Concordance¡ªwhich, along with the Bible, seemed to consume all his attention. Hours would he spend, lost in the ancient texts, after breakfast-cum-lunch, weaving through the labyrinthine passages of the Old Testament and its accompanying index.

    As for the matter of payment, Mr. Basset was as generous as he was trusting. A veritable fortune in sovereigns lay scattered carelessly upon his dressing table, wrapped in grimy swathes of newspaper. Mrs. Bernard, ever the conscientious host, had warned him of the folly, only to be met with a jarring laugh and his assurance of his instinctual trust in people, particularly in her.

    It wasn''t long before Mrs. Bernard noted Mr. Basset''s distinct aversion to women. As she cleaned, his voice would drift down, reciting biblical verses that were far from flattering to her sex. Yet, she never took offense. In fact, when it came to lodgers, such an aversion could be seen as a virtue.

    Why fret over the man''s peculiarities? Mr. Basset was clearly touched by a certain madness. If not, he would be living a life befitting his status, surrounded by kin and equals, not isolated in a rented room in their home.

    But there was a shadow that skirted the edges of Mrs. Bernard''s consciousness¡ªsomething odd about Mr. Basset''s nightly habits. She recalled, though she couldn''t pinpoint the exact moment, the realization that he would slip out into the dead of night, when the world was draped in slumber, returning just before the first light of dawn.

    On one such morning, Mrs. Bernard discovered that one of Mr. Basset''s suits had vanished, as completely as if swallowed by the night. It was a detail that would later haunt her, a missing piece in an increasingly sinister puzzle.

    How curious, she thought, that the mind can recall with crystal clarity certain extraordinary events, down to the finest detail, yet the exact moment of their occurrence becomes lost to us. Even Mrs. Bernard, with all her pondering, could not decide if it was on the fifth or sixth night of Mr. Basset''s residence that she first detected his nocturnal escapades.

    The blackest hour of the night clung to the world, a shroud of silence so complete it was as if the earth itself held its breath. It was in this deep stillness that Mrs. Bernard''s consciousness clawed its way out of slumber, her nerves tingling with alertness. The familiar yet unsettling sounds of Mr. Basset''s descent down the stairs crept through the cracks of the night, his steps so light she was convinced they barely brushed the carpet.

    Rest eluded her after that, her body rigid with tension, her ears straining in the darkness. It was only upon Mr. Basset''s furtive return, the soft click of the front door signaling his re-entry into the house, that she finally succumbed to a fitful sleep.

    The next morning, draped in a fog of exhaustion, Mrs. Bernard was thankful for Bernard''s offer to fetch their provisions. Mr. Basset''s peculiar dietary preferences had proven a challenge, his aversion to meat necessitating careful meal planning. Today, a fish was to grace his plate, with the remnants destined for his evening sustenance.

    As Bernard set out, Mrs. Bernard embraced the slow start to her day. Each task was performed with deliberate calmness, the quietude of the house wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. She was grateful for the reprieve, certain Mr. Basset wouldn''t summon her before noon.

    However, the sharp ring of the doorbell shattered the peace, its clang echoing through the corridors with an urgency that furrowed her brow. Expecting a peddler or some other unwelcome visitor, she approached the door with reluctance.

    Her mood lifted upon seeing Jerry Chandler, his cheeks flushed from the brisk walk and the biting air. "Jerry? What brings you here?" she exclaimed, a mixture of surprise and pleasure lighting her features.

    He stepped inside, his breath visible in the cold interior. "Well, you know why, Mrs. Bernard¡ª" he began, but she cut him off with a dawning realization. Of course, Jerry was entangled in the hunt for The Rose Killer, his recent absence a testament to the gravity of the case.

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    As they settled into the sitting room, the warmth of the fire Bernard had kindled was a welcome contrast to the dismal chill outside. Jerry slumped into Bernard''s chair, the weight of his fatigue evident in the lines of his face.

    Mrs. Bernard observed him, his usually robust complexion now drained of color. "You look like you could do with a cup of tea," she said, her tone motherly.

    "I''d be grateful," Jerry admitted, his gaze wandering the room before settling back on her. "Mrs. Bernard¡ª" he began again, a hint of hesitancy in his voice that piqued her curiosity. There was something pressing, something urgent behind his eyes, and she braced herself for what he might divulge next.

    The abyss of night had wrapped its inky tendrils tightly around the house when Mrs. Bernard, deep in the well of her dreamless sleep, was jolted awake. The stillness was fractured by a sequence of sounds¡ªdeliberate, hushed¡ªthe unmistakable echo of Mr. Basset''s descent. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that he was tiptoeing past her chamber, a ghostly visitor in his own residence, and then the soft click of the door whispered his departure into the night.

    Her heart raced as the silence reclaimed its dominion, leaving her wide-eyed and restless. She lay in the dark, straining for the slightest hint of his return, and only when the front door signaled his re-entry did she allow sleep to reclaim her.

    Come morning, the world was bleary and unwelcoming, her body heavy with the remnants of interrupted rest. Bernard, with his usual good cheer, ventured out into the foggy streets, leaving her to face the day''s solitude.

    Her movements were lethargic, the house an echo chamber to her thoughts until the clamor of the doorbell sliced through the gloom. The visitor was unexpected, but Jerry Chandler''s presence on her doorstep was a sudden jolt of reality.

    "Why, Jerry?" she queried, her voice laden with a mix of concern and surprise. "You''ve been absent these past days."

    His face was ashen, words catching in his throat. "Mrs. Bernard," he started, the timbre of his voice a harbinger of dark tidings, "there''s been another one."

    The words hit her like a physical blow, the implication clear¡ªanother life claimed by The Rose Killer. But her immediate relief that Bernard was safe twisted into a perverse thrill, the intrigue of the macabre crimes gripping her, much as Bernard had been captivated by the sordid details.

    As she prepared tea, Jerry''s pallor was stark against the warmth of the room. The mention of relaying the gruesome details caused him to pale further, a man haunted by the horrors he had witnessed.

    "I was one of the first on the scene," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "I found it¡ªthe Rose Killer''s signature."

    At this revelation, Mrs. Bernard felt a twisted surge of curiosity. "Bernard always believed it was genuine," she said, her voice a mix of eagerness and horror.

    Jerry nodded, his demeanor grim. "This time, I found the note while she was still warm." The words seemed to pain him, a burden he was loath to carry.

    He recounted his morning¡ªhis meeting with a superior in the dim light of dawn, the lack of hospitality he''d been shown. Mrs. Bernard, caught in the swirl of his narrative, barely registered his discomfort.

    "Would you like something to eat?" she offered, her tone shifting to one of practical concern.

    But Jerry''s appetite had vanished, the grisly images seared into his memory eclipsing all other senses. To appease her, he took a bite of the bread she offered, admitting the day ahead would be long and arduous.

    "And what did they say of him¡ªof the Rose Killer?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.

    Jerry''s account was hazy, pieced together from fog-shrouded witnesses who spoke of a tall, thin shadow carrying a bag¡ªa bag that seemed eerily familiar to Mrs. Bernard. A shiver ran through her, an instinctual tremor that spoke of connections yet to be made.

    "A bag?" she echoed faintly, her mind racing. "How very strange and peculiar."

    The chill of foreboding settled in the pit of her stomach, an ominous sensation that clawed at the edges of her consciousness, whispering that the line between their mundane existence and the shadowy world of The Rose Killer might be terrifyingly thin.

    The air between them was thick with the unsaid, the words hanging like a specter in the room. Mrs. Bernard''s voice was distant, her thoughts adrift. "Odd? No, not at all. The Rose Killer needs a vessel for his instruments of death, doesn''t he? They usually discard their weapons, so I''ve heard," Jerry explained with a weary resignation.

    "Indeed?" Mrs. Bernard''s response was distracted. Her mind spun, weaving through possibilities about Mr. Basset''s missing bag. Could a gentleman so scatterbrained have simply misplaced it during his strolls in Regent''s Park? It seemed plausible, yet a gnawing doubt lingered.

    Jerry continued, his voice holding a faint glimmer of optimism. "They''ll be sending out his description soon. Everyone''s eager to catch him. I should be on my way, though."

    Mrs. Bernard hesitated, a silent plea in her eyes. "Won''t you stay for Bernard?"

    But duty called, and Jerry declined, promising to return with updates. "Your tea revived me," he said, standing to leave. "What I''ve seen... it could shake any man."

    Bernard arrived shortly after Jerry''s departure, his entrance stirring a rare discord between the couple. He was frustrated, almost angry, that Mrs. Bernard hadn''t extracted more gruesome details from their visitor.

    Ellen held her ground, her voice sharp as she defended Jerry''s shaken state. "He was barely able to speak, Bernard. The details he could share were more than enough."

    Bernard''s retort was cut short by the cacophony outside¡ªnewsboys heralding the latest horror wrought by The Rose Killer. He rushed out to purchase a paper, leaving Mrs. Bernard to carry the provisions down to the kitchen.

    The commotion had roused Mr. Bassot, his bell summoning her before she had even warmed the stove. With a sigh, Mrs. Bernard prepared herself to face whatever new eccentricities the day might bring from their peculiar lodger.

 Chapter 6

    <hr>

    The persistent chime of Mr. Basset''s bell cut through the air, a siren call that Mrs. Bernard, for the first time since his arrival, found herself reluctant to heed. But as the second ring, more insistent than the first, echoed through the old house, she steeled herself to respond.

    Emerging from the kitchen, she ascended with the weight of the breakfast tray seeming to drag at her very soul. Bernard, nestled in the comfort of their parlor, heard the heavy tread of her steps.

    "Wait a minute!" he called, emerging to relieve her of the burden. "I''ll help you, Ellen."

    She offered no word of thanks, her silence a shadow that hung between them. Upon reaching the landing, Mrs. Bernard halted him with a hushed urgency. "Hand it over," she whispered, a sharp edge to her words. "He won''t take kindly to seeing you." Bernard, taken aback by her tone, complied and reached for the door handle at her pointed command.

    The door swung open to reveal Mr. Basset, a specter in the morning light, his eyes rising from the sacred text. Mrs. Bernard¡¯s heart, which had been thrumming a frantic rhythm, slowed as the familiar scene unfolded before her. Mr. Basset was unchanged, his smile more congenial than usual as he greeted her.

    "I''m glad of that, sir," she replied, her voice barely above a murmur, echoing a sentiment from her past about the healing virtues of rest.

    As she arranged the breakfast, Mr. Basset broke the morning stillness, his voice threading through the air with an inquisitive note. "Someone was with you outside the door just now?"

    "Yes, sir. Bernard assisted with the tray," she confirmed, feeling the weight of his gaze upon her.

    "I fear I am a burden," he ventured, a hint of remorse in his tone.

    Swiftly, she countered his concern. "Oh, no, sir! You''re the easiest lodger we''ve ever had, sir," she assured him, though she couldn¡¯t deny the peculiarities that marked his existence within their walls.

    His eyes fixed on her, expectant, perhaps for a lie to smooth the edges of truth, but Mrs. Bernard''s honesty was as solid as the ground beneath her feet. And so, she remained silent, unwilling to deny the strangeness of his nocturnal habits.

    She was about to exit when a thought struck her. "Should I attend to your room when you step out, sir?"

    His reaction was sharp, a flint strike in the quiet room. "No, no!" he exclaimed. "I immerse myself in scripture during the day. Today, however, I shall be upstairs conducting an experiment. Should I venture out," he paused, his stare piercing, "it will be under the cover of night."

    Regaining his composure, he suggested a time for her to tidy up his quarters. "Five o¡¯clock, if it suits you?"

    "That will do nicely, sir," Mrs. Bernard replied, a chill settling over her as she left the room, the door closing on the enigma that was Mr. Basset¡ªand the growing suspicion that the lodger¡¯s peculiarities were more than mere eccentricities.

    Mrs. Bernard descended the staircase, her mind a maelstrom of unease and self-reproach. She couldn''t shake the feeling that something was terribly amiss, though she refused to acknowledge the deeper fears that clawed at her. "I''ve just got myself worked up," she muttered under her breath, her voice a feeble attempt to dispel the growing dread within her. "A trip to the chemist is in order¡ªthat''s what I need."

    Her own voice barely faded when a harsh knock rattled through the quiet of the house. The post was an infrequent visitor in their home, and the sharp sound made her jump. "It''s just nerves," she scolded herself, as she collected the envelope from the floor and recognized the handwriting as Daisy''s.

    "Bernard!" she called, her tone sharper than she intended. She pushed open the sitting room door to find him, oblivious to her turmoil, lounging with the paper. A wave of irritation surged through her; he was indulging in the gory details of the Rose Killer, no doubt.

    Memories rushed in unbidden¡ªher first glimpse of Bernard, so respectable and diligent, a stark contrast to the man who now wasted his days in idle fascination. She sighed, the sound heavy with unvoiced fears and frustrations.

    Placing the letter on the table, Mrs. Bernard retreated to the kitchen, her thoughts now a tumultuous sea centered around Bernard. Their fortunes had been salvaged by Mr. Basset''s arrival, yet Bernard''s idleness gnawed at her. She must act, perhaps seek out a new employment opportunity for him. Idleness was a treacherous path.

    Upon returning upstairs, her heart softened at the sight of Bernard''s efforts. He had prepared the table for their meal, an act that dulled the edge of her earlier vexation.

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    "Ellen!" he exclaimed, a buoyant note in his voice. "Daisy''s coming tomorrow! She''ll be here for her birthday¡ªeighteen years!"

    The news landed like a lead weight in Mrs. Bernard''s stomach. "I can''t have her here now," she retorted, exhaustion lacing her words. "I''m stretched thin as it is. The lodger takes more of my time than you realize."

    Bernard''s retort was swift, his mood defiant. "Nonsense! Daisy will stay, and she''ll help us both. It''s time we had some life in this house again."

    As he watched her, any trace of elation faded; Ellen''s features were etched with fatigue, her spirit seemingly sapped away. His irritation was replaced by concern, though he masked it with practicality. "Daisy can help with the chores. She''ll bring some cheer."

    Mrs. Bernard said nothing, her energy sapped as she slumped into her chair. "Show me the letter," she demanded wearily.

    <hr>

    The quietude of the day was a balm to Mrs. Bernard''s frayed nerves, but it was a temporary salve. As dusk crept in with its shadows, she heard the lodger ascend to the top floor, signaling her to attend to his room. The orderliness of Mr. Basset''s space was a stark contrast to the chaos of her own thoughts. She methodically straightened his belongings, the stillness punctuated by the ticking of the clock and the creak of the floorboards under her weight.

    She longed to disturb the order of the drawing-room, to plunge into the dusty corners and pry open the chiffonnier that held its secrets tightly. It stood, an enigmatic sentinel, its closed doors an invitation to the mysteries it contained. But it remained stubbornly silent under her touch, its contents locked away from her prying eyes.

    Later, as the clock struck eight, Jerry Chandler returned, his earlier distress replaced by a palpable buzz of anticipation. Mrs. Bernard listened, a silent observer, as he and Bernard exchanged theories and speculations.

    "I''m back to form now," Jerry declared, a spark in his eye. "The Yard''s on high alert tonight. He''s done them in pairs, you see."

    Bernard''s voice trembled with a mix of fear and fascination. "You reckon he''ll strike again tonight?"

    Jerry''s nod was solemn. "Yes, and tonight might be our best chance at catching him."

    The conversation veered into the sheer number of officers on duty, a staggering revelation that left both Bernard''s incredulous. "Five thousand," Jerry confirmed, a hint of pride in his voice. "The Boss is determined."

    The gravity of the situation was evident as Jerry unfolded the newspaper, reading aloud the public''s growing discontent with the police''s inability to catch The Rose Killer. Bernard expressed his bewilderment at the force''s apparent impotence, to which Jerry responded with a hint of frustration, citing the limitations they faced compared to their French counterparts.

    It was then that Mrs. Bernard, who had been a specter of silence, spoke up, her voice a thread of hope. "So, they think it might be more than one person responsible?"

    "Some think it''s a gang," Jerry admitted. "That no single man could orchestrate such horrors."

    Mrs. Bernard pondered this, a faint glimmer of relief washing over her. "And what''s your take, Jerry?"

    He hesitated, his certainty waning. "I''m at a loss, Mrs. Bernard. The whole thing''s got me chasing shadows."

    In the dim light of the parlor, with the specter of The Rose Killer looming over them, a chilling thought struck Mrs. Bernard. Could the evil that stalked the streets of London be more widespread than a lone madman? Could it be an unseen network, a collective darkness that fed on the fear of the city? The notion was as terrifying as it was unfathomable, yet it lingered in her mind, a dark seed planted amidst her growing dread.

    He rose from his seat with a casual air that belied the tension of the evening. "No need for goodbyes at the door. I can see myself out. Catch you tomorrow, maybe?" Jerry''s hand was on the doorknob when he paused, his casual tone masking a keen interest. "Any word on Miss Daisy?"

    Bernard nodded, the fatherly concern evident in his voice. "She''ll be here tomorrow. Scarlet fever at her aunt''s. Best she stays clear."

    That night, the house settled into an uneasy silence, and Mrs. Bernard lay in the dark, her mind alive with the ticking of the old church clock, marking time like a heartbeat in the quiet.

    As the clock struck one, the expected yet dreaded sound came¡ªMr. Basset''s footfalls, a soft echo in the stillness, as he slid like a shadow down the stairs and out into the night. Mrs. Bernard strained to keep her eyes open, to catch the moment of his return, but exhaustion pulled her under into a deep abyss of sleep.

    She awoke with a start, her body rigid with a sense of urgency, an unfamiliar alertness that propelled her from the bed to the door. The newspaper lay there, an oracle in print, and she snatched it up, igniting the gas to chase away the darkness that clung to the corridor.

    Trembling, she unfolded the paper, her eyes ravenous for news, for a sign that the night had passed without incident. The headline screamed at her:

    ¡°THE ROSE KILLER MURDERS¡±

    A surge of relief washed over her as she read on, learning that no fresh horror had been unleashed upon the city since the previous grisly discovery. The killer, or killers, remained shrouded in mystery, the terror unabated but halted, for now.

    "Last night!" The words jolted her before realization dawned; it referred to the night before last. The scene of the crime was now just a spectacle for the morbidly curious, the dread turned into a sideshow.

    Carefully, as if handling a sacred text, she refolded the newspaper, laying it back on the mat as though it had never been disturbed. She extinguished the gas and returned to the bed, slipping into the sheets beside her husband, who stirred with a sleepy concern.

    "Anything wrong?" Bernard''s voice was thick with sleep, a murmur in the quiet room.

    "No, nothing, Bernard¡ªnothing at all," she whispered back, the relief in her voice a delicate thread of joy. "Go back to sleep, my dear."

    The morning broke with a fresh sense of hope. Bernard''s spirits were buoyed by the anticipation of Daisy''s arrival, and even Mrs. Bernard found herself warming to the idea of the girl''s company and assistance.

    Around ten, Bernard set out, returning with treats for Daisy''s welcome¡ªa symbol of normalcy in their home shadowed by the presence of Mr. Basset and the specter of The Rose Killer. The mince pies and apples were a touch of sweetness against the backdrop of fear, a respite from the darkness that loomed just outside their door.

 Chapter 7

    <hr>

    At the toll of noon, a four-wheeler rattled up to the gate, its arrival cutting through the somber mood of the day like a knife. Daisy, vibrant as a spring morning, tumbled out of the cab with the kind of infectious cheer that only the truly innocent can muster.

    "Old Aunt insisted I take a cab if the weather turned foul," she announced, her voice bubbling with the thrill of her adventure in the city.

    The cab fare became a point of contention, the driver, a shadowy figure with an air of opportunism, demanded an inflated sum, insinuating that he had gone out of his way to bring Daisy safely to her destination. Bernard, caught in a tussle of words and principles, barely noticed Daisy slip away towards the house.

    Mrs. Bernard, standing at the door, met Daisy with a reserved embrace, a stark contrast to the joviality emanating from the girl. As their lips touched in a perfunctory kiss, the air was suddenly rent by a harrowing cry. The sound was otherworldly, a mournful howl that seemed to carry with it the weight of the city''s darkness.

    "What in God''s name is that?" Bernard exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and curiosity.

    The cabman, leaning in close as if sharing a forbidden secret, hissed, ¡°They''re announcing another horror at King''s Cross. Not one, but two this time. I didn¡¯t want to worry the young miss, but people have been flocking there all morning, ghoulish as it is."

    Bernard''s blood ran cold. "Another murder last night?"

    ¡°Two,¡± the cabman corrected with a grim nod. ¡°Both in some forgotten passage. Cold as the grave when they found them. He¡¯s targeting the drunks, they say.¡±

    "Have they caught the devil?" Bernard asked, though the question felt hollow.

    The cabman scoffed. "They''ll never catch him. Mark my words."

    The cries grew louder, the news vendors drawing closer, their voices a macabre chorus. "The Rose Killer strikes again near King''s Cross!"

    With a sense of urgency, Bernard thrust a penny into the newsboy''s hand, grabbing the paper. He felt a personal connection to these tragedies now, a vicarious involvement through his talks with Jerry.

    As he stepped back into the hall, Daisy''s voice washed over him, a torrent of tales about the fever and misunderstandings of rashes¡ªa stark juxtaposition to the grim news he held in his hands. Bernard hoped Jerry would soon be there to provide the grim details, to make sense of the senseless, and to somehow bridge the gap between the normalcy of Daisy''s arrival and the darkness that had enveloped London.

    As Bernard nudged the sitting-room door open, the light-hearted chatter was sliced through by Daisy¡¯s alarmed voice. ¡°Ellen, what on earth has happened to you? You¡¯re white as a ghost!¡±

    Mrs. Bernard¡¯s voice was thin, strained. ¡°Open the window¡ªquickly.¡±

    The raucous cries of the newsboys outside clashed with the strained atmosphere within, weaving a tapestry of panic and hysteria. ¡°A clue at last in the King¡¯s Cross horror!¡± they bellowed with a macabre glee that seemed to mock the safe confines of the Bernard household.

    And then, as if a dam had broken inside her, Mrs. Bernard succumbed to a torrent of hysterical laughter. It was a laughter that held no joy, only the release of tension too long held, the sound of it chilling in its mania.

    ¡°Father, what¡¯s happening to her?¡± Daisy¡¯s eyes were wide with fright, her youthful face marred by the intrusion of adult fears.

    Bernard was gruff, embarrassed by the unseemly display. ¡°She¡¯s got the hysterics, that¡¯s all. Stay here¡ªI¡¯m fetching the water.¡±

    It was then that the lodger¡¯s bell chimed, a stark reminder of the normalcy they were all pretending to maintain. The sound seemed to ground Mrs. Bernard; she rose, still trembling, but with a semblance of control.

    ¡°I¡¯ll see to the lodger,¡± she croaked, her voice still hoarse from her outburst. ¡°And you, Daisy¡ªget to the kitchen and watch over that pork. Start on those apples.¡±

    Ascending the stairs felt like wading through a bog; her legs were unstable, her grip on the banister desperate. Pausing on the landing to collect what little composure she could muster, she finally tapped on the drawing-room door.

    Mr. Basset''s response was tinged with illness. ¡°I¡¯ve taken ill,¡± he called, his voice querulous. ¡°A chill, I believe. Please, leave some tea outside my door.¡±

    ¡°Right away, sir,¡± she managed to say, her voice a hollow echo.

    Back in the safety of her sitting-room, she prepared the tea on the gas-ring, avoiding the kitchen where Daisy hummed a tune, oblivious to the shadows that clung to the corners of the house.

    Over dinner, Bernard and Mrs. Bernard discussed sleeping arrangements with a newfound urgency. It was decided¡ªDaisy would sleep with her stepmother, and Bernard would take the room upstairs. They knew little of Mr. Basset, after all, and caution crept into Bernard¡¯s mind, a subtle acknowledgment of the unease that had taken root in their home.

    Daisy, always eager to please, offered to take on the washing up, her cheerfulness a stark contrast to the tension between her father and stepmother.

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    Bernard paced, a tiger in a cage, while Mrs. Bernard watched him with a careful eye. ¡°Did you get a paper?¡± she inquired, breaking the silence.

    ¡°Yes, but I¡¯ve put it aside,¡± he said, his voice uneasy. ¡°Thought you wouldn¡¯t want to see it, not with your nerves.¡±

    A furtive exchange of glances passed between them, a silent dance of understanding and concern.

    ¡°I heard the shouting...¡± Mrs. Bernard¡¯s voice trailed off, a question lingering in the air.

    Bernard, caught off guard, hesitated. He had assumed her episode was triggered by the newsboys¡¯ cries, yet her reaction seemed disconnected, deeper. ¡°Don¡¯t you know what they were calling about?¡± he asked, a tremor of unease creeping into his question.

    Mrs. Bernard''s gaze met her husband''s, a silent conflict playing across her features. She was a woman who held truth like a blade, and in that moment, the desire to shield herself from the grim reality outside their door warred with her innate honesty.

    ¡°Yes,¡± she said, her voice hollow, the syllables heavy with dread. ¡°I heard... snippets. Another murder has occurred, hasn¡¯t it?¡±

    Bernard''s reply was grave, each word a stone weight. ¡°Two more murders.¡±

    The color drained from her face, leaving it a ghastly shade. Bernard, alarmed by the sudden pallor, issued a cautionary plea. ¡°Ellen, you mustn''t let this consume you. We can... we don''t have to dwell on it so¡ª¡±

    But her voice broke through, shrill and desperate. ¡°I need to talk about it, Bernard!¡±

    They were like duelists at a standoff, each on opposite sides of the table. Bernard, with his sturdy back to the comforting warmth of the hearth, and Mrs. Bernard, her form a shadow against the door, her hands white-knuckled as they clung to the table''s edge.

    She seemed diminished, her normally composed self unraveling before him. Bernard''s thoughts churned with worry. ¡°What if she falls ill now?¡± he fretted internally. ¡°Not now, when things are so precarious.¡±

    ¡°Tell me,¡± she insisted in a whisper that was both a command and a plea. ¡°I can¡¯t bear the waiting. Tell me, Bernard!¡±

    He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. ¡°There''s not much the paper offers. The cabman, he mentioned...¡± His voice trailed off, dreading the impact of his words.

    ¡°Yes?¡± she urged, a note of terror in her voice.

    ¡°It wasn¡¯t the usual spot. It was closer... near King''s Cross. They were found in an old, unused passage,¡± he explained, his eyes darting about, seeking to avoid the fear in hers. But seeing her gaze fog over, he quickly tried to steer the conversation away from its morbid course. ¡°Jerry will fill us in, no doubt. He¡¯s bound to stop by later.¡±

    Her next words were slow, deliberate. ¡°So all those constables... they were of no use?¡±

    ¡°No use,¡± Bernard confirmed tersely, his frustration apparent. ¡°But¡ªwait.¡± He reached for the newspaper again, his eyes scanning for some hopeful news. ¡°It says here there''s a clue.¡±

    ¡°A clue, Bernard?¡± Her voice was faint now, a mere wisp of sound, and she hunched over, gripping the table for dear life.

    Bernard, absorbed in the print, was oblivious to his wife''s distress¡ªuntil it was too late. With a soft, pained gasp, Mrs. Bernard crumpled to the floor, pulling the tablecloth and an array of domestic normalcy down with her.

    Bernard, his heart hammering in panic, rounded the table to find his wife prone, still as death itself. ¡°Daisy! Daisy!¡± he shouted, his voice shrill with terror. ¡°Ellen¡¯s taken ill again!¡±

    And as Daisy''s footsteps thundered in response, Bernard felt the precarious balance of their world tilting, the dark undercurrent of The Rose Killer''s menace seeping into the very fabric of their home, a toxin from which there seemed no escape.

    The urgency of the moment brought forth an unexpected clarity in Daisy, and her father couldn''t help but marvel at the efficiency with which she took command. "Fetch a wet sponge, Dad¡ªmove!" she ordered, her voice sharp with authority. "And brandy, if we have it. Leave her to me."

    After Bernard had scurried to fulfill the request, Daisy pondered aloud, her puzzlement evident. "Ellen was fine just before¡ªall ears to my story. Then¡ªwell, you saw. It''s not like her, is it?"

    Bernard''s reply was a whisper, laced with concern. "We''ve been through the mill, Daisy. More than you know. It''s hitting her now."

    As Mrs. Bernard''s eyes fluttered open, she instinctively reached up to check her hair, a vestige of composure in her disheveled state. Her consciousness hadn''t fully left her¡ªit would have been a mercy if it had. Instead, she was trapped in her own collapsing body, overwhelmed by a sensation of imminent doom.

    Bernard''s words, though, struck a chord deep within her. She hadn''t realized he saw her struggle, the weeks of hunger and silent endurance. Tears pooled in her eyes, a rare show of vulnerability.

    Brushing aside any display of sentiment as foolishness, she regained her voice. "Don''t fuss. I just felt a bit odd. I never lost consciousness, Daisy."

    She rebuffed the brandy with a sharp gesture. "I wouldn''t touch that poison. Not even at death''s door," she spat, her voice tinged with distaste.

    With assistance from the table, she heaved herself upright, still unsteady. "Daisy, back to the kitchen with you," she said, her voice cracking despite her attempt at firmness.

    Bernard, observing her closely, had an epiphany. "Ellen, you''ve not been eating right. You''ve been neglecting yourself, trying to live on nothing." His voice was tinged with both realization and rebuke.

    Daisy, caught between them, fretted. "If I had known how tough things had gotten... I could''ve helped."

    Her stepmother interjected, eager to skirt around the edges of their recent despair. "No need for Old Aunt''s charity," she snapped, her pride wounded. "The hardship is past, thanks to Mr. Basset."

    Bernard echoed her, but a shadow flickered across Mrs. Bernard''s features. "Yes, thanks to Mr. Basset," she repeated, her tone hollow, distant.

    She moved to a chair and collapsed into it. "Just a bit shaky," she murmured.

    Daisy''s concerned whisper reached Mrs. Bernard''s ears. "Shouldn''t Ellen see a doctor, father?"

    A surge of defiance rose within Mrs. Bernard. "No doctors," she declared vehemently. "They''re useless. Didn''t save my last mistress, did they? Just hastened her end."

    Bernard bristled at the memory of her stubborn loyalty to her former employer, a sore point between them. But Mrs. Bernard was softening, a rare tenderness in her voice. "Let''s not quarrel over past choices," she said, dismissing the topic.

    Once Daisy had left the room, Bernard mused about his daughter''s charm and beauty, to which Mrs. Bernard replied with a reminder of the superficiality of such traits. Yet she agreed, Daisy was a good girl, willing and helpful.

    The conversation then turned to the practical matters at hand. Bernard, sensing his wife''s lingering weakness, suggested he tend to the lodger''s needs.

    "I''m perfectly capable of serving Mr. Basset''s luncheon," Mrs. Bernard said sharply. There was a subtle irritation in her voice at the mention of the lodger''s ''dinner''. To her, it was luncheon, and no matter his eccentricities, she never forgot his status as a gentleman.

    "He prefers my service," she added, a hint of pride in her tone. "I''ll be fine. Don''t you worry about me." There was a long pause before she could muster the strength to say it, but when she did, it was with a firmness that left no room for argument.

 Chapter 8

    <hr>

    The tardiness of his luncheon seemed to have done nothing to dampen Mr. Basset''s appetite. He partook of his steamed sole with a vigor that was absent from Mrs. Bernard''s distracted nibbling at her roast pork below.

    Upon serving him, Mrs. Bernard had mustered a semblance of concern. "I hope you''re feeling somewhat better, sir," she ventured.

    Mr. Basset''s reply was laced with weariness. "No, Mrs. Bernard, I can''t say I am. I''m exhausted. And the cacophony of cries and shouts from the street has been rather unsettling. I trust our neighborhood isn¡¯t descending into disarray?"

    "We''re quite secluded here, sir," she assured him, her voice a thread attempting to sew normalcy into the fabric of this strange day.

    As she lingered, Mrs. Bernard found herself unable to broach the true cause of those noises. Instead, she offered unsolicited advice. "Perhaps you should remain indoors today, sir. The streets are teeming with unsavory sorts," she said, her tone unintentionally tinged with a desperate plea.

    Mr. Basset''s eyes, those pools of uncharted grey, flickered with a skittish light. "I shall consider your counsel. I find solace in scripture, Mrs. Bernard. It will be my companion for the day."

    "Then your eyes are not troubling you?" Mrs. Bernard inquired, her curiosity piqued. In his presence, the pervasive dread that clung to her seemed to dissipate, replaced by a peculiar sense of calm. How could this gentle, bookish man be anything but benign?

    He was indeed an oddity, but Mrs. Bernard had come to find comfort in his peculiar gentleness. She spoke with a revived cheer in her voice. "I''ll return later to clear up, sir. And please, do consider staying in today. It''s a foul day out, and either Bernard or I can fetch anything you might need."

    Around four, as the Bernard''s and Daisy sat discussing the minutiae of domestic life, the doorbell rang, an unexpected chime in the afternoon''s stillness.

    Bernard, puzzled, wondered aloud at the visitor''s identity. Mrs. Bernard, propelled by a sudden urgency, declared, "I''ll see to it. We can''t have strangers intruding now."

    As she approached the door, her thoughts raced. "A clue? What clue?" But upon opening it, her tension evaporated, replaced with a surge of relief. "Jerry! We didn''t expect you this early, but you''re a sight for sore eyes. Come in."

    Chandler entered, his youthful face flushed with a mix of eagerness and restraint. "I thought Mr. Bernard might want to hear¡ª"

    Mrs. Bernard cut him off, her eyes darting towards the ceiling where Mr. Basset rested. "Not so loud," she chastised, "the lodger''s under the weather. He''s caught a chill and hasn''t been out lately. Let''s keep it down, shall we?"

    Chandler nodded, his expression shifting as he took in Mrs. Bernard''s pallor, the undercurrent of anxiety in her voice. The lodger''s illness was news, but the unspoken tensions of the household seemed to press upon the walls, squeezing the air from the room as they all moved to the parlor, a haven of whispered secrets and half-truths.

    Mrs. Bernard''s heart was a cacophony of drumbeats, each one echoing her betrayal of self. This lie was a stain upon her character, a deliberate deviation from her rigid code of truth-telling. For a woman like her, who saw the world in stark contrasts, the lie was more than a simple untruth¡ªit was a chasm that had opened beneath her feet.

    Chandler was preoccupied with his own concerns. "Has Miss Daisy arrived yet?" he inquired, his voice subdued.

    A nod from Mrs. Bernard was all the affirmation he needed before he moved into the room where father and daughter sat in anticipatory silence.

    "Well, Jerry? What''s this about a clue? Have they caught the fiend?" Bernard''s eagerness was palpable.

    Chandler shook his head, a rueful twist to his mouth. "No such luck. But they''re distributing a description. They''ve found what they think could be his weapon."

    Bernard was on his feet now, his voice tingling with excitement. "His weapon? Are they certain it¡¯s his?"

    "It''s likely," Chandler said, hedging his bets.

    Mrs. Bernard, a silent specter at the door, felt a wave of relief that they were all too engrossed to notice her. She could eavesdrop on their conversation without having to partake in the hysteria.

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    "Listen up," Jerry announced with a flourish. "This isn''t for the public, but we got it first thing this morning." He recited from the description, painting the image of a man, dark and slight, clothed in respectability, his deadly nature disguised by the mundane detail of a newspaper parcel.

    As the description ended, Mrs. Bernard stepped forward, her entire being sighing with relief. That man bore no resemblance to their lodger.

    Jerry, buoyed by the thought of the manhunt, turned to Daisy with a jest. "If you know any young gent who fits the bill, just point him out and you could be five hundred pounds richer."

    "Five hundred pounds!" Daisy and her father echoed, their voices a blend of shock and awe.

    Chandler confirmed the bounty, lamenting that the police were ineligible. "All the risk and none of the reward," he quipped.

    Bernard, ever practical, asked for the description. "I want to read it over myself."

    After a brief perusal, he returned the paper. "It''s clear as day."

    "But it could be anyone," Chandler retorted with sarcasm. "Carrying a newspaper parcel will soon be out of fashion."

    Daisy¡¯s laughter tinkled through the room, finding humor in Chandler''s observation.

    Bernard¡¯s question cut through the mirth. "Why didn''t anyone try to catch him?"

    Mrs. Bernard, her voice a hushed undertone, joined in. "Yes, Jerry, that does seem peculiar."

    Chandler cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "Well, the description is pieced together from various witnesses. No one saw the whole thing. The murders likely happened around two in the morning. Foggy nights, few people about." He explained that the description was a composite, based on multiple accounts, including those of previous murders.

    Mrs. Bernard listened, the tumblers of her mind clicking into place. Each piece of information was a lifeline, pulling her further from the abyss of suspicion that had nearly swallowed her whole. In her heart, a flicker of hope ignited, a desperate wish that the true Rose Killer would be found, and the shadow of doubt cast over her home would be lifted once and for all.

    Bernard''s voice was tinged with a mix of hope and disillusionment. "So, The Rose Killer could be someone entirely different from the man described?"

    Chandler''s response was hesitant, betraying his own uncertainty. "It''s possible, but I still believe the description is probably accurate."

    Bernard prodded further, a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. "And this weapon they believe they''ve found...?"

    Mrs. Bernard, who had been silently wrestling with her conscience, now stood among them, her presence a solid thing as she regained her composure.

    Chandler nodded gravely. "Yes, they found a knife¡ªa wickedly sharp one, close to that dark passage. It''s got the Yard buzzing. They''re combing through every shop in the East End now, hoping to trace it back to its owner."

    Daisy''s innocent query broke the tension. "But why all the fuss over a knife?"

    Chandler''s tone took on a darker hue as he explained, "They want to see if the knife was spotted before, who had it, who saw it. They''re keeping it hush-hush for now¡ªthey don''t want to scare him off before they have a solid lead."

    "And if they find out it was sold to a certain customer, then what?" Mrs. Bernard''s voice was a thin thread, pulled taut with anxiety.

    Chandler''s reply was measured. "If they trace it back to a buyer, they''ll keep it out of the papers entirely."

    The room was silent, heavy with the implications of his words, until Daisy, caught up in the grim fascination, declared, "I''d give anything to see that knife."

    Mrs. Bernard recoiled as if struck, her voice rising in a sharp rebuke. "You wicked girl! To crave such a ghastly sight!"

    Bernard and Daisy turned to her, startled by the sudden vehemence.

    Bernard chastised her gently. "Ellen, that''s enough."

    Mrs. Bernard stood her ground, her eyes dark with emotion. "It''s vile to even think of trading a man''s life for money."

    Daisy, stung by the accusation, defended herself. "I never mentioned the reward. I was simply curious about the knife."

    Chandler, seeking to ease the tension, offered a compromise. "Perhaps one day you''ll see it, Daisy. If we catch him and you come to the Black Museum at Scotland Yard, it''ll be there."

    Daisy''s curiosity was piqued. "The Black Museum? What on earth is that?"

    Laughter broke out, the absurdity of Daisy''s ignorance a brief respite from the grim subject.

    Bernard, his fondness for Daisy clear, explained the existence of many museums in London, remarking on their courting days when they would seek shelter in such places.

    Chandler seized the moment to extend an invitation. "Our museum''s the most interesting of them all¡ªa true Chamber of Horrors."

    Bernard''s enthusiasm was palpable. "Really, Jerry? I''d like to see that. Not just the knives, but everything."

    A silent exchange passed between Daisy and Chandler, a shared understanding that Bernard''s presence would be an imposition on their plans.

    Yet, Daisy''s silent reply was accepting, even welcoming of her father''s company.

    Chandler set the date. "How about the day after tomorrow? I''ll collect you both and we''ll head to the Yard."

    Turning to Mrs. Bernard, he offered the invitation to her, but she was resolute in her refusal.

    "It would sicken me," she said with an intensity that filled the room. "To see the remnants of such cruelty¡ªno, I''ll stay home."

    Bernard''s attempt at levity fell flat, his jest about the lodger only serving to darken Mrs. Bernard''s mood.

    "I will not have Mr. Basset made light of," she stated firmly, the weight of her words heavy in the room.

    But none of them, caught up in their own intrigue and excitement, noticed the deep undercurrent of fear that had momentarily crossed Mrs. Bernard''s face at the mention of knives. It was a fear that spoke of unvoiced suspicions and secrets held too close¡ªa fear that would keep her rooted at home while the others ventured into the macabre world of the Black Museum.

 Chapter 9

    <hr>

    As Daisy Bernard stepped through the imposing arched doors of New Scotland Yard, she felt as though she had entered the very heart of a dark, thrilling tale. The hum of activity within the building, a beehive of minds at work against the forces of crime, enveloped her in an intoxicating mix of awe and exhilaration. Even the lift, which whisked them effortlessly to the upper floors, was a novel delight for Daisy, who had only known the slow rhythms of a quiet country life with Old Aunt.

    Jerry Chandler, radiating a mix of pride and professionalism, led them down a broad, airy corridor. Daisy clung to her father¡¯s arm, her earlier excitement now tempered by the gravitas of her surroundings. The vast rooms they passed, filled with silent, focused men, each engaged in the intricate dance of criminal investigation, left her breathless and hushed.

    At an open doorway, Chandler paused. ¡°Take a look in there,¡± he said, directing his words more to Bernard than to Daisy. ¡°That¡¯s the Finger-Print Room. We¡¯ve got records of over two hundred thousand sets of finger-prints. Once we have a man¡¯s prints, he¡¯s marked for life. He can¡¯t outrun us, no matter what he does.¡±

    ¡°Remarkable,¡± murmured Bernard, though his face clouded with a mix of fascination and pity. ¡°A marvel, but a terrifying one for those poor souls whose prints are recorded.¡±

    Chandler chuckled, a dark edge to his amusement. ¡°Indeed. Some criminals know it too well. One bloke even mutilated his fingertips to blur the prints. But in six weeks, the skin healed, and the prints were as clear as ever.¡±

    ¡°Poor devil,¡± Bernard whispered, and even Daisy''s bright expression dimmed momentarily.

    They moved down a narrower passage, pausing at another partially open door. ¡°In here,¡± said Chandler, ¡°is where we keep the histories of those whose prints we¡¯ve got. Each set of prints links to a detailed record of their past crimes.¡±

    ¡°Remarkable,¡± Bernard repeated, though Daisy yearned to press on, her mind fixed on the Black Museum.

    A broad-shouldered young officer familiar with Chandler appeared and, with a friendly nod, unlocked a nondescript door. They stepped inside, and Daisy''s heart sank with initial disappointment. The room, bright and orderly, reminded her more of a mundane science exhibit than the macabre chamber of horrors she had imagined.

    Glass cases stood on pedestals, their contents seemingly ordinary and unremarkable¡ªold medicine bottles, a soiled neckerchief, a broken lantern, a box of pills. The walls were adorned with an eclectic array of objects¡ªbits of iron, wooden implements, and odd tools.

    It was all painfully underwhelming at first glance.

    But as Daisy approached the nearest case, she felt a chill. These mundane items held dark stories, each connected to a tale of crime and despair. Chandler¡¯s voice brought the room into sharper focus. ¡°This may look like ordinary junk, but each item has a history steeped in blood and mystery.¡±

    Daisy¡¯s initial disappointment gave way to a creeping sense of dread. She stared at the medicine bottles, imagining the poison they once contained, and at the neckerchief, wondering about the neck it had strangled.

    ¡°This room holds the tools of terror,¡± Chandler continued, his tone now grave. ¡°Each piece a silent witness to acts of horror.¡±

    Bernard, drawn into the gravity of the place, nodded. ¡°It¡¯s a sobering reminder of the darkness we fight.¡±

    Chandler led them to another case, where a peculiar knife gleamed under the glass. ¡°This is what they believe The Rose Killer used,¡± he said softly. ¡°Sharp as a razor, pointed as a dagger.¡±

    Daisy''s breath caught in her throat. This was no longer a mere visit to a museum; it was an intimate brush with the macabre legacy of a murderer who still walked free.

    ¡°Why do they have a museum for such things?¡± Daisy asked, her voice barely a whisper.

    ¡°It¡¯s a place to remember,¡± Chandler replied. ¡°To study and understand the minds behind the crimes, and to ensure we never forget the victims.¡±

    Daisy¡¯s gaze lingered on the knife, her earlier excitement now replaced with a somber realization of the human cost behind each artifact.

    As they left the Black Museum, the weight of what they had seen hung over them like a shroud. The thrill of the adventure was tempered by the grim reality of the world they had glimpsed¡ªa world where evil wore the guise of ordinary objects, and where the fight against darkness was unending.

    Daisy Bernard''s gaze was drawn to a row of life-size plaster heads arrayed on a shelf beneath the broad windows, their pallid faces catching the light in a way that seemed both stark and surreal. Each head tilted slightly to the right, their glassy eyes staring into an abyss only they could see.

    ¡°What are those?¡± Bernard asked in a hushed tone, his voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and dread.

    Daisy tightened her grip on her father¡¯s arm, understanding instinctively that these strange, lifeless faces were the death masks of men and women who had met their fate at the end of a noose.

    ¡°All hanged,¡± the guardian of the Black Museum stated bluntly. ¡°Casts taken after death.¡±

    Bernard managed a nervous smile. ¡°They don¡¯t look dead. They look more like they¡¯re listening,¡± he observed, his voice wavering.

    ¡°That¡¯s Jack Ketch¡¯s doing,¡± the man said with a grim chuckle. ¡°He always ties his necktie under the left ear, gives them that tilt. See here?¡± He pointed to the left side of each neck, where a dent and a furrow marked the final indignity inflicted upon them.

    ¡°They look foolish, rather than terrified,¡± Bernard said, his tone one of horrified fascination.

    Chandler, ever the pragmatist, added cheerfully, ¡°Well, a man would look foolish, wouldn¡¯t he? All his plans come to naught in an instant, knowing he¡¯s got only a second to live.¡±

    ¡°Yes, I suppose he would,¡± Bernard replied slowly, the gravity of the room pressing down on him.

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    Daisy felt a pallor creep over her. The sinister weight of the place was suffocating. She began to grasp that the shabby objects in the glass cases around her were more than relics¡ªthey were silent witnesses to crimes and the instruments that had sealed the fates of their owners.

    The guardian spoke again, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence. ¡°We had a Brahmin in here the other day. You''d have been surprised how he reacted. Said each of these things¡ªexcept the casts, funny enough¡ªexuded evil. Said the room made him feel sick. Turned green as a ghost. Had to get him out quick, he didn¡¯t feel right until he was at the other end of the passage.¡±

    ¡°Imagine that,¡± Bernard muttered. ¡°He must have had something on his conscience.¡±

    The guardian, seemingly unable to tear himself away, gestured to another case. ¡°Here are the tools of Charles Peace. Heard of him?¡±

    ¡°Of course!¡± Bernard¡¯s eyes lit up, recognizing the name.

    ¡°Many say this case is the most fascinating. Peace was a genius, could have been a great inventor. Here¡¯s his collapsible ladder¡ªlooks like a bundle of sticks, perfect for blending in. Carried it openly, claimed it made him look like any honest working man.¡±

    ¡°The audacity!¡± Bernard exclaimed, marveling at the sheer boldness.

    As Bernard and Daisy examined the case, Chandler¡¯s voice took on a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°This place, it¡¯s more than a museum. It¡¯s a testament to the darkness we fight. Each item here has a story, a life cut short, a crime that shocked the world.¡±

    Daisy''s eyes were drawn back to the death masks, the faces now seeming to hold a secret, a whisper of the final moments before the rope tightened and their lives were extinguished.

    In that chilling room, the line between the living and the dead seemed thin, and the presence of The Rose Killer loomed like a shadow over them all. The thrill of their visit had morphed into a somber realization: they were not just spectators of history, but participants in an ongoing battle against an ever-present darkness.

    ¡°Yes, and when the ladder was fully extended, it could reach the second story of any old house. Ingenious, really. Just open one section, and the others follow suit, automatically extending upward. Peace could stand on the ground and effortlessly raise the ladder to any window he wished to breach. Once his job was done, he''d walk away, carrying what appeared to be nothing more than a bundle of old sticks under his arm. Truly artful! Have you heard about how Peace lost a finger?¡±

    Bernard leaned in, intrigued. ¡°No, tell me.¡±

    ¡°Well, knowing the constables were on the lookout for a man missing a finger, he decided to go one step further¡ªhe fashioned a false hand. Here it is,¡± the guardian said, pointing to a wooden contraption lined with black felt. ¡°It fit over his stump perfectly. We consider it one of the most ingenious devices in the whole museum.¡±

    Meanwhile, Daisy had drifted away, her curiosity drawing her to another glass case at the far end of the room. Chandler followed her, eager to share his knowledge. ¡°What are those little bottles for?¡± she asked, her eyes wide with wonder.

    ¡°Those,¡± Chandler said, ¡°are filled with poison. Enough arsenic in that tiny flask to kill all three of us.¡±

    ¡°Then chemists shouldn¡¯t sell such stuff,¡± Daisy remarked with a naive smile. The idea of poison felt so distant and unreal to her, nothing more than a thrilling curiosity.

    ¡°They don¡¯t anymore. That arsenic was extracted from flypaper. The woman claimed she wanted it for a cosmetic, but she used it to kill her husband instead. Got tired of him, I suppose.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps he deserved it,¡± Daisy said, her voice light with irony. The notion struck them both as darkly humorous, and they shared a brief, uneasy laugh.

    ¡°Ever hear about Mrs. Pearce?¡± Chandler¡¯s tone turned serious.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Daisy shuddered. ¡°She was the wicked woman who killed a baby and its mother. They have her at Madame Tussaud¡¯s. Ellen won¡¯t let me visit the Chamber of Horrors, says it¡¯s too much for me.¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± Chandler continued, ¡°we¡¯ve got some of her relics here too. But the pram where they found the bodies¡ªthat¡¯s at Madame Tussaud¡¯s. Now, look at this jacket.¡±

    Daisy¡¯s eyes followed his gesture. ¡°What about it?¡±

    ¡°A burglar shot a man dead and left that jacket behind. One of the buttons was broken. Doesn¡¯t seem like much of a clue, does it? But that piece of button led to his capture and hanging. Remarkably, all three buttons were different.¡±

    Daisy stared at the broken button, her earlier excitement now mingling with a creeping dread. ¡°And what¡¯s that?¡± she asked, pointing to a piece of dirty fabric.

    Chandler hesitated. ¡°That¡¯s a bit of a shirt that was buried with a woman after her husband dismembered her and tried to burn her body. That scrap led to his conviction.¡±

    ¡°This place is horrid!¡± Daisy declared, turning away abruptly. She longed to escape the room¡¯s oppressive atmosphere, the macabre exhibits that felt so incongruously bright and cheerful.

    Her father, however, was engrossed in another case, this one displaying various infernal machines. ¡°Beautiful craftsmanship, some of these,¡± his guide noted with unsettling admiration, and Bernard could only nod in agreement.

    The Black Museum, with its ordinary objects transformed into instruments of horror, had cast a long shadow over their visit. Daisy¡¯s initial thrill had soured into a desire to flee, to leave behind the grim reminders of human cruelty and ingenuity. Each artifact, each tale, only deepened the mystery and menace that seemed to follow them, a dark whisper in the brightly lit room.

    "Come on, Father, let''s go," Daisy urged, her voice tinged with unease. "I''ve seen enough. If I stay here any longer, I''ll be haunted by nightmares. It''s terrifying to think there are so many wicked people in the world. We could bump into a murderer any moment and not even know it."

    Chandler gave her a reassuring smile. "Not you, Miss Daisy. Most people never encounter a murderer, not even a common swindler. I¡¯ve never been involved in a proper murder case myself."

    But Bernard was not ready to leave. He was engrossed in the photographs lining the walls, particularly those related to a mysterious case from Scotland. ¡°I suppose many murderers get away with it?¡± he mused aloud.

    Chandler''s friend nodded gravely. ¡°More than you''d think. Justice isn¡¯t always served. It¡¯s a sad truth, but not every murderer ends up at the gallows.¡±

    Bernard leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ¡°What do you think about these Rose Killer murders?¡±

    Chandler''s friend glanced around before replying. ¡°I doubt they''ll ever catch him. Catching a madman is much harder than catching a regular criminal. And The Rose Killer, well, he¡¯s a cunning, quiet sort of madman. Have you heard about the letter?¡±

    Bernard''s curiosity piqued. ¡°What letter?¡±

    ¡°There was a letter, sent just before the last double murder, signed ¡®The Rose Killer.¡¯ Same printed characters as on the notes he leaves. The Boss thinks it''s genuine.¡±

    ¡°Where was it posted?¡± Bernard asked, his excitement growing. ¡°That might be a clue.¡±

    ¡°Criminals are careful. They post letters far from where they live. This one was posted at the Edgware Road Post Office.¡±

    Bernard paled. ¡°That¡¯s near us! We could run into him any time.¡±

    Chandler¡¯s friend nodded. ¡°It¡¯s possible. The woman who claims she saw him might have really seen him. Our description is based on her account, but it¡¯s always a shot in the dark.¡±

    Bernard sighed. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinking about this case constantly for the past month.¡±

    Meanwhile, Daisy had slipped out into the passage, where she listened to Jerry Chandler with downcast eyes. He was talking about his home in Richmond, painting a picture of a quaint house near the park, and inviting her to visit for tea.

    ¡°I don¡¯t see why Ellen shouldn¡¯t let me,¡± Daisy said with a touch of defiance. ¡°But she¡¯s old-fashioned and fussy¡ªa regular old maid! Father always sides with her. But she likes you, Mr. Chandler. Maybe if you ask her...¡±

    Chandler nodded, a confident grin spreading across his face. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, Miss Daisy. I¡¯ll get Mrs. Bernard on our side.¡± He hesitated, turning red. ¡°I¡¯d like to ask you something¡ªno offence meant.¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡± Daisy asked, her breath quickening. ¡°Father¡¯s close by, Mr. Chandler. What is it?¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± he began awkwardly, ¡°from what you said, I gather you¡¯ve never walked out with any young fellow?¡±

    Daisy hesitated, a blush coloring her cheeks. ¡°No,¡± she admitted softly. ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡± With a burst of honesty, she added, ¡°I¡¯ve never had the chance.¡±

    Chandler¡¯s smile widened, pleased with her response. The air between them crackled with unspoken possibilities, a brief respite from the dark shadows that had loomed over their visit to the Black Museum.

 Chapter 10

    <hr>

    By what she considered a stroke of good fortune, Mrs. Bernard found herself alone in the house for nearly an hour while her husband and Daisy were out with young Chandler. Mr. Basset, who rarely ventured out during the day, had unexpectedly decided he needed a new suit of clothes just as dusk was settling. Mrs. Bernard eagerly encouraged his outing, seizing the opportunity it provided.

    As soon as he left, she ascended to the drawing-room floor with a determined stride. She told herself it was time to give the rooms a thorough dusting, but deep down, she knew her motives were far less mundane. She was driven by a gnawing curiosity, a need to search for... she wasn¡¯t even sure what.

    In her years of service, Mrs. Bernard had always looked down upon those who snooped through their employers'' private letters or rifled through desks and cupboards, hoping to uncover family secrets. Yet, here she was, ready to do exactly that with Mr. Basset.

    She began methodically in the bedroom. Mr. Basset was a tidy man; his few belongings were neatly arranged. She had taken on the task of his laundry, much to his satisfaction, and noticed how much easier it was compared to Bernard¡¯s. The soft shirts he wore required little effort.

    From the chest of drawers, she moved to the dressing table. She knew Mr. Basset often left his money in one of the drawers beneath the old-fashioned looking-glass. She perfunctorily pulled out the drawer, her eyes scanning the heap of sovereigns and a few silver coins. He had taken just enough money for his new clothes, consulting her about the cost beforehand. This transparency had given her a vague sense of comfort.

    She lifted the toilet-cover and even rolled up the carpet a bit, but found nothing¡ªnot a scrap of paper, nothing to satisfy her curiosity. She moved between the rooms, leaving the connecting door open, her mind swirling with uneasy thoughts about Mr. Basset''s past.

    He was an odd man, but in a generally harmless way. He had the same moral codes as others of his class, though he was almost fanatical about drink. Ellen Bernard had once worked for a lady who was similarly obsessed with sobriety.

    Her eyes roved the neat drawing-room, feeling a vague dissatisfaction. There was only one place left that could conceal anything¡ªthe sturdy mahogany chiffonnier. An idea struck her then, one she had never considered before.

    She listened intently for a moment, ensuring Mr. Basset wouldn¡¯t return unexpectedly, and then approached the chiffonnier. Using all her strength, she tipped the heavy piece of furniture forward. She heard a queer rumbling sound, something rolling on the second shelf¡ªsomething that hadn¡¯t been there before Mr. Basset¡¯s arrival.

    Slowly, she tipped the chiffonnier back and forth, once, twice, thrice. She was satisfied, yet troubled, for she was now certain that the missing bag was hidden there, locked away by its owner.

    A sudden, uncomfortable thought struck her: would Mr. Basset notice the bag had shifted inside the cupboard? Her heart skipped a beat as she saw a thin trickle of dark liquid oozing from the bottom of the cupboard door.

    She knelt down and touched the substance. It stained her finger bright red.

    Panic surged through her. What had she uncovered? Her mind raced with horrifying possibilities. The Rose Killer¡ªcould it be?

    Before she could gather her thoughts, she heard the front door creak open. Her heart pounded as she hurriedly tried to wipe the red stain from her finger, her mind a maelstrom of fear and confusion.

    Mrs. Bernard turned chalky white, her heart pounding in her chest. But as she stared at the trickle of red, realization dawned, and color flooded her cheeks. She felt hot all over, embarrassment replacing fear. It was only a bottle of red ink she had upset. How could she have thought it was anything else?

    She chastised herself for her foolishness. Of course, she knew the lodger used red ink; she had seen pages of Cruden¡¯s Concordance covered in Mr. Basset¡¯s distinctive, upright handwriting. In some places, the margins were so densely packed with notes and interrogations that they were hardly visible.

    Mr. Basset had simply stored his ink bottle in the chiffonnier, and her curiosity had led to this unnecessary mess. She quickly mopped up the few drops of ink that had stained the green carpet, still feeling foolishly unsettled.

    Returning to the back room, she reflected on the oddity of Mr. Basset not having any notepaper. She would have expected him to stock up on such a basic necessity, especially since paper was so cheap. She remembered a former employer who used two kinds of notepaper: white for friends and equals, and grey for what she called ¡°common people.¡± Ellen, as she had been known then, had always resented that distinction. It was strange to recall it now, especially since Mr. Basset, despite his peculiarities, was every inch a true gentleman. She felt sure that if he had bought notepaper, it would be white and of good quality, not the cheap, dirty-looking grey kind.

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    She opened the drawer of the old-fashioned wardrobe again, lifting the few pieces of underclothing Mr. Basset owned. But there was nothing hidden there. It seemed odd to leave all his money where anyone could take it, while locking away a cheap, faux leather bag and a bottle of ink.

    Mrs. Bernard checked the tiny drawers below the looking-glass, each delicately fashioned from fine old mahogany. Mr. Basset kept his money in the center drawer, a fact she knew well. She had once seen a similar looking-glass labeled ¡°Chippendale, Antique. ¡ê21 5s 0d¡± in a Baker Street shop. Here lay Mr. Basset¡¯s money, sovereigns that would eventually find their way into her and Bernard¡¯s possession, honestly earned but unattainable without their lodger.

    She went downstairs to await Mr. Basset¡¯s return, her mind a whirl of guilt and curiosity. When she heard the key turn in the door, she stepped out into the passage.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry to say I¡¯ve had an accident, sir,¡± she said, her voice a bit breathless. ¡°Taking advantage of your being out, I went up to dust the drawing-room. While trying to get behind the chiffonnier, it tilted. I¡¯m afraid, sir, that a bottle of ink inside may have broken. A few drops oozed out, but I wiped it up as well as I could, seeing that the doors of the chiffonnier are locked.¡±

    Mr. Basset stared at her, his eyes wild and almost terrified. Mrs. Bernard stood her ground, feeling far less afraid now than she had before he came in. Earlier, she had been so frightened she had nearly fled the house.

    ¡°Of course, I had no idea, sir, that you kept any ink in there.¡±

    Her tone was defensive, and slowly, Mr. Basset¡¯s brow cleared.

    ¡°I was aware you used ink, sir,¡± Mrs. Bernard continued, ¡°for I have seen you marking that book you read alongside the Bible. Would you like me to go out and get you another bottle, sir?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Mr. Basset replied, his voice clipped. ¡°No, thank you. I will go upstairs and see what damage has been done. When I require your assistance, I shall ring.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard watched as he ascended the stairs, her mind still racing. The wild look in his eyes lingered in her thoughts, a reminder that beneath Mr. Basset¡¯s calm exterior lay secrets she was perhaps better off not uncovering. The ink might have been a false alarm, but the unease it stirred within her was all too real.

    He shuffled past her, and five minutes later, the drawing-room bell rang, its sound slicing through the heavy silence of the house.

    Mrs. Bernard hurried to the drawing-room, her heart pounding in her chest. From the doorway, she saw that the chiffonnier was wide open, its shelves empty except for the bottle of red ink lying in a crimson pool on the lower shelf.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid it will have stained the wood, Mrs. Bernard. Perhaps I was ill-advised to keep my ink in there,¡± Mr. Basset said, his voice disturbingly calm.

    ¡°Oh, no, sir! That doesn¡¯t matter at all. Only a drop or two fell onto the carpet, and they don¡¯t show, as you see, sir, for it¡¯s a dark corner. Shall I take the bottle away?¡±

    Mr. Basset hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly. ¡°No,¡± he said after a long pause, ¡°I think not, Mrs. Bernard. For the little I require it, the ink remaining in the bottle will suffice, especially if I add a bit of water, or perhaps some tea. I only need it to mark passages of peculiar interest in my Concordance¡ªa work, Mrs. Bernard, that I would have taken great pleasure in compiling myself, had this gentleman named Cruden not beaten me to it.¡±

    That evening, both Bernard and Daisy noticed that Ellen seemed uncharacteristically pleasant. She listened to their tales of the Black Museum without a hint of her usual snark, even when Bernard described the eerie, haunting death masks taken from the hanged.

    But her demeanor was a fragile facade. When Bernard asked her a question a few minutes later, she responded absentmindedly, clearly not having heard him.

    ¡°A penny for your thoughts!¡± he teased, but she just shook her head, lost in her own world.

    Daisy slipped out of the room and returned a few minutes later, dressed in a blue-and-white check silk gown.

    ¡°My!¡± said her father, his eyes lighting up. ¡°You do look fine, Daisy. I¡¯ve never seen you in that before.¡±

    ¡°And a rare figure of fun she looks in it!¡± Mrs. Bernard remarked sarcastically. Then, with a sharper edge, she added, ¡°I suppose this dressing up means you¡¯re expecting someone. I¡¯d have thought you¡¯d had enough of young Chandler for one day. I do wonder when that young man finds time to do his work, always hanging around here.¡±

    It was the only cutting remark Ellen made all evening, but even Daisy noticed how dazed and unlike herself her stepmother seemed. Ellen went about her chores with an almost mechanical silence, her movements lacking their usual briskness.

    Beneath that still, almost sullen exterior, a storm of dread and anguish raged within her. The fear gnawed at her soul and affected her ailing body, making even the simplest tasks feel insurmountable.

    After supper, Bernard went out and returned with a penny evening paper. ¡°I¡¯ve read so much of this nasty little print the last week or two that my eyes hurt,¡± he announced with a rueful smile.

    ¡°Let me read aloud a bit to you, Father,¡± Daisy offered eagerly, and he handed her the paper.

    She had barely begun when a loud ring and a knock echoed through the house, startling them all. Mrs. Bernard¡¯s heart skipped a beat, her mind racing with dark possibilities. Who could it be at this hour? She exchanged a tense glance with Bernard, both of them feeling the weight of the house¡¯s growing secrets and the shadow of the Rose Killer hanging over them.

 Chapter 11

    <hr>

    It was only Jerry. Somehow, even Bernard called him ¡°Jerry¡± now, rather than the more formal ¡°Chandler¡± he used to use.

    Mrs. Bernard opened the front door just a crack, enough to see who was there but not enough to allow any stranger to push their way in. Her house had become a fortress in her mind, a citadel that must be defended at all costs. She always half-expected a lone spy to arrive, the vanguard of a battalion she would have to fend off with nothing but her wits and cunning.

    But when she saw Jerry standing there, his familiar smile easing her nerves, the tension in her face melted away. ¡°Why, Jerry,¡± she whispered, mindful of the door left ajar behind her, where Daisy had just started reading aloud as her father had requested. ¡°Come in! It¡¯s fairly cold tonight.¡±

    Jerry Chandler stepped into the little hall, his cheeks flushed from the brisk walk. He didn¡¯t feel the cold; he had hurried to get here, eager to escape the world outside and find solace within these walls.

    Nine days had passed since the last horrific event, the double murder committed early on the morning Daisy had arrived in London. Despite the efforts of the Metropolitan Police and the sharp-eyed detectives, no one had come close to finding the killer. Familiarity, even with horror, breeds a dangerous kind of contempt.

    But the public was far from complacent. Each day brought new waves of horror and fascination, with the press lambasting the Commissioner of Police and violent speeches targeting the Home Secretary at a recent demonstration in Victoria Park.

    Just now, though, Jerry wanted to forget all that. The little house on Marylebone Road had become an oasis of tranquility in his otherwise wearisome and fruitless search for The Rose Killer. He secretly agreed with a colleague who¡¯d said, ¡°It¡¯d be easier to find a needle in a haystack than this bloke!¡±

    And if that was true then, it was even truer now¡ªafter nine long, empty days.

    Quickly, he shed his greatcoat, muffler, and low hat, then put a finger to his lips, signaling Mrs. Bernard to wait. From his vantage point in the hall, he could see Bernard and Daisy, a tableau of contented domesticity that warmed his honest heart.

    Daisy, in her blue-and-white check silk dress¡ªthe one that had sparked a disagreement with her stepmother¡ªsat on a low stool by the fire, reading aloud. Bernard, leaning back in his comfortable armchair, listened intently, his hand cupped to his ear. The sight brought a pang to Mrs. Bernard; it was the first time she¡¯d noticed that age was beginning to creep up on her husband.

    Reading the newspaper aloud was one of Daisy¡¯s duties as a companion to her great-aunt, and she took pride in her clear, expressive reading.

    ¡°Shall I read this, Father?¡± Daisy asked, her voice bright and eager.

    ¡°Aye, do, my dear,¡± Bernard replied, absorbed in her words. He barely nodded at Jerry¡¯s arrival, the young man having become such a frequent visitor that he was almost part of the family.

    Jerry watched them for a moment, his heart swelling with affection. The warmth of the fire, the soft murmur of Daisy¡¯s voice, and the peaceful scene were a stark contrast to the grim reality outside. For a few precious moments, he allowed himself to bask in the illusion of normalcy, the shadow of The Rose Killer held at bay by the simple, enduring strength of family bonds.

    Daisy began to read aloud, her voice clear but tinged with curiosity and unease. ¡°THE ROSE KILLER: A¡ª¡± She paused, frowning slightly at the word that followed. ¡°A the-o-ry.¡±

    ¡°Go on in, do!¡± Mrs. Bernard whispered to her visitor. ¡°Why should we stay out here in the cold? It¡¯s ridiculous.¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t want to interrupt Miss Daisy,¡± Chandler whispered back, his voice rough with concern.

    ¡°You''ll hear it better in the room. Don¡¯t worry, she won¡¯t stop because of you. There¡¯s nothing shy about our Daisy!¡±

    Chandler felt a pang of irritation at Mrs. Bernard''s tart tone. ¡°Poor little girl,¡± he thought tenderly. ¡°That¡¯s what it is having a stepmother instead of a proper mother.¡± But he obeyed, stepping into the room. Daisy looked up, and a bright blush colored her cheeks.

    ¡°Jerry begs you not to stop yet. Go on with your reading,¡± Mrs. Bernard commanded quickly. ¡°Now, Jerry, sit over there, close to Daisy, so you won¡¯t miss a word.¡±

    Her voice carried a hint of sarcasm, but Chandler didn¡¯t mind. He crossed the room and sat on a chair just behind Daisy, where he could admire the way her fair hair curled delicately at the nape of her neck.

    Daisy cleared her throat and began again, ¡°THE ROSE KILLER: A THE-O-RY.¡±

    She continued reading, ¡°DEAR SIR¡ªI have a suggestion to put forward for which I think there is a great deal to be said. It seems to me very probable that The Rose Killer¡ªto give him the name by which he apparently wishes to be known¡ªcomprises in his own person the peculiarities of Jekyll and Hyde, Mr. Louis Stevenson¡¯s now famous hero.

    ¡°The culprit, according to my point of view, is a quiet, pleasant-looking gentleman who lives somewhere in the West End of London. He has, however, a tragedy in his past life. He is the husband of a dipsomaniac wife. She is, of course, under care, and is never mentioned in the house where he lives, maybe with his widowed mother and perhaps a maiden sister. They notice that he has become gloomy and brooding of late, but he lives his usual life, occupying himself each day with some harmless hobby. On foggy nights, once the quiet household is plunged in sleep, he creeps out of the house, maybe between one and two o¡¯clock, and swiftly makes his way straight to what has become The Rose Killer¡¯s murder area. Picking out a likely victim, he approaches her with Judas-like gentleness, and having committed his awful crime, goes quietly home again. After a good bath and breakfast, he turns up happy, once more the quiet individual who is an excellent son, a kind brother, esteemed and even beloved by a large circle of friends and acquaintances. Meantime, the police are searching about the scene of the tragedy for what they regard as the usual type of criminal lunatic.

    ¡°I give this theory, Sir, for what it is worth, but I confess that I am amazed the police have so wholly confined their inquiries to the part of London where these murders have been actually committed. I am quite sure from all that has come out¡ªand we must remember that full information is never given to the newspapers¡ªThe Rose Killer should be sought for in the West and not in the East End of London¡ªBelieve me to remain, Sir, yours very truly¡ª¡±

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    Daisy hesitated, then mustered her courage to pronounce the unfamiliar name. ¡°Gab-o-ri-you,¡± she said.

    ¡°What a funny name!¡± Bernard mused.

    Jerry chimed in, ¡°That¡¯s the name of a French fellow who wrote detective stories. Pretty good ones, too!¡±

    ¡°So this Gaboriyou has come over to study these Rose Killer murders?¡± Bernard asked.

    ¡°Oh, no,¡± Jerry replied confidently. ¡°Whoever wrote that silly letter just signed that name for fun.¡±

    ¡°It is a silly letter,¡± Mrs. Bernard interjected resentfully. ¡°I wonder that a respectable paper prints such rubbish.¡±

    ¡°Imagine if The Rose Killer did turn out to be a gentleman!¡± Daisy exclaimed, her voice awestruck. ¡°There¡¯d be an uproar!¡±

    ¡°There may be something to it,¡± her father said thoughtfully. ¡°After all, the monster has to be somewhere. Right now, he must be hiding.¡±

    ¡°Of course he¡¯s somewhere,¡± Mrs. Bernard said scornfully. The words hung in the air, a chilling reminder that The Rose Killer could be lurking in the shadows, closer than any of them dared to imagine.

    She had just heard Mr. Basset moving overhead. It would soon be time for the lodger¡¯s supper.

    She hurried on, her voice tinged with frustration. ¡°But what I do say is that he has nothing to do with the West End. They say it¡¯s a sailor from the Docks¡ªthat¡¯s far more likely, I reckon. But honestly, I¡¯m sick of the whole subject! We talk of nothing else in this house. The Rose Killer this, The Rose Killer that¡ª¡±

    ¡°I expect Jerry has some news for us tonight,¡± said Bernard cheerfully. ¡°Well, Jerry, is there anything new?¡±

    ¡°I say, Father, just listen to this!¡± Daisy interjected excitedly. She read out, ¡°BLOODHOUNDS TO BE SERIOUSLY CONSIDERED.¡±

    ¡°Bloodhounds?¡± repeated Mrs. Bernard, her voice quivering with terror. ¡°Why bloodhounds? That seems a most horrible idea!¡±

    Bernard looked at her, mildly astonished. ¡°Why, it¡¯d be a good idea, if it were possible to use bloodhounds in a city. But how could that work in London, with all the butchers¡¯ shops and slaughter-yards?¡±

    But Daisy continued, her voice carrying a ghoulish thrill that made her stepmother shudder. ¡°Listen to this: ¡®A man who had committed a murder in a lonely wood near Blackburn was traced by the help of a bloodhound, and thanks to the sagacious instincts of the animal, the miscreant was finally convicted and hanged.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Who¡¯d have thought of such a thing?¡± Bernard exclaimed in admiration. ¡°The newspapers do have useful hints sometimes, Jerry.¡±

    Jerry Chandler shook his head. ¡°Bloodhounds aren¡¯t any use,¡± he said, his voice weary. ¡°If the Yard listened to all the suggestions we¡¯ve received lately, we¡¯d never get anything done. Not that our work isn¡¯t already cut out for us!¡± He sighed, feeling the weight of fatigue. He longed to stay in this cozy room, listening to Daisy read, rather than venturing out into the cold, foggy night.

    Jerry was growing weary of his new job. The unpleasantness was relentless. Even in his own home and the little cook-shop where he ate, people taunted him about the police¡¯s failures. One of his pals, a young man with the gift of gab, had even spoken at the big demonstration in Victoria Park, railing against the Commissioner and the Home Secretary.

    But Daisy, like most people who take pride in their accomplishments, wasn¡¯t ready to stop reading.

    ¡°Here¡¯s another notion!¡± she exclaimed. ¡°Another letter, Father!¡±

    ¡°PARDON TO ACCOMPLICES.

    ¡°DEAR SIR¡ªDuring the last day or two, several of the more intelligent of my acquaintances have suggested that The Rose Killer, whoever he may be, must be known to a certain number of persons. It is impossible that the perpetrator of such deeds, however nomadic he may be in his habits¡ª¡±

    ¡°Now I wonder what ¡®nomadic¡¯ means?¡± Daisy paused, looking around at her little audience.

    ¡°I¡¯ve always said the fellow had all his senses about him,¡± Bernard remarked confidently.

    Daisy continued, satisfied with her father¡¯s approval. ¡°¡ªhowever nomadic he may be in his habits, must have some habitat where his ways are known to at least one person. Now, the person who knows the terrible secret is evidently withholding information in expectation of a reward, or maybe because, being an accessory after the fact, he or she is now afraid of the consequences. My suggestion, Sir, is that the Home Secretary promise a free pardon. Only thus can this miscreant be brought to justice. Unless caught red-handed, it will be exceedingly difficult to trace the crime to any individual, for English law looks very askance at circumstantial evidence.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s something worth listening to in that letter,¡± Jerry said, leaning forward. He was now almost touching Daisy, and he smiled involuntarily as she turned her bright, pretty face to hear him better.

    ¡°Yes, Mr. Chandler?¡± she asked, her voice tinged with curiosity.

    ¡°Well, d¡¯you remember that fellow who killed an old gentleman in a railway carriage? He took refuge with a woman his mother had known, and she kept him hidden for quite a while. But eventually, she gave him up and got a big reward, too!¡±

    ¡°I don¡¯t think I¡¯d like to give anybody up for a reward,¡± Bernard said slowly, his voice heavy with conviction.

    ¡°Oh, yes, you would, Mr. Bernard,¡± Chandler said confidently. ¡°You¡¯d be doing what it¡¯s the duty of every good citizen to do. And you¡¯d get something for doing it, which is more than most folks get for doing their duty.¡±

    ¡°A man who gives up someone for a reward is no better than a common informer,¡± Bernard insisted stubbornly. ¡°And no man wants to be called that! It¡¯s different for you, Jerry,¡± he added hastily. ¡°It¡¯s your job to catch those who¡¯ve done wrong. A man would be a fool to seek refuge with you. He¡¯d be walking into the lion¡¯s mouth.¡± Bernard chuckled.

    Daisy broke in coquettishly, ¡°If I¡¯d done something wrong, I wouldn¡¯t mind going to Mr. Chandler for help.¡±

    Jerry¡¯s eyes brightened. ¡°And if you did, Miss Daisy, you wouldn¡¯t need to worry. I¡¯d never give you up.¡±

    To their amazement, Mrs. Bernard suddenly let out an exclamation of impatience and anger, her voice tinged with pain.

    ¡°Why, Ellen, don¡¯t you feel well?¡± Bernard asked quickly.

    ¡°Just a spasm, a sharp stitch in my side,¡± she replied heavily. ¡°It¡¯s over now. Don¡¯t mind me.¡±

    ¡°But I don¡¯t believe¡ªno, I don¡¯t¡ªthat there¡¯s anyone in the world who knows who The Rose Killer is,¡± Chandler continued quickly. ¡°Anyone would give him up in their own interest, if not in anyone else¡¯s. Who¡¯d shelter such a creature? It¡¯d be dangerous to have him in the house!¡±

    ¡°Then you think he¡¯s not responsible for the wicked things he does?¡± Mrs. Bernard raised her head, her eyes anxious and eager.

    ¡°I¡¯d be sorry to think he wasn¡¯t responsible enough to hang,¡± Chandler replied deliberately. ¡°After all the trouble he¡¯s caused us!¡±

    ¡°Hanging¡¯s too good for that chap,¡± Bernard chimed in.

    ¡°Not if he¡¯s not responsible,¡± Mrs. Bernard snapped. ¡°If the man¡¯s mad, he ought to be in an asylum, not hanged.¡±

    ¡°Hark to her now!¡± Bernard said, looking at his wife with amusement. ¡°Contrary isn¡¯t the word for her! But I¡¯ve noticed she¡¯s seemed to be taking that monster¡¯s part lately. That¡¯s what comes of being a born total abstainer.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard stood up, her face flushed with anger. ¡°What nonsense you talk!¡± she retorted. ¡°Not that it¡¯s a bad thing if these murders have emptied the public houses of women for a bit. England¡¯s drink is England¡¯s shame¡ªI¡¯ll never depart from that! Now, Daisy, get up and put down that paper. We¡¯ve heard enough. You can lay the cloth while I go down to the kitchen.¡±

    ¡°Yes, don¡¯t forget the lodger¡¯s supper,¡± Bernard called out. ¡°Mr. Basset doesn¡¯t always ring¡ª¡± He turned to Chandler. ¡°For one thing, he¡¯s often out around this time.¡±

    ¡°Not often, just now and again when he needs to buy something,¡± Mrs. Bernard snapped. ¡°But I hadn¡¯t forgotten his supper. He never wants it before eight o¡¯clock.¡±

    ¡°Let me take up the lodger¡¯s supper, Ellen,¡± Daisy offered eagerly. She had risen and was now laying the cloth.

    ¡°Certainly not! I told you he only wants me to wait on him. You have enough to do down here. That¡¯s where I need your help.¡±

    Chandler stood up as well, feeling uneasy at doing nothing while Daisy was busy. ¡°Yes,¡± he said, looking at Mrs. Bernard, ¡°I¡¯d forgotten about your lodger. Is he doing all right?¡±

    ¡°Never knew a quieter or more well-behaved gentleman,¡± Bernard replied. ¡°Mr. Basset turned our luck around.¡±

    As Mrs. Bernard left the room, Daisy laughed. ¡°You¡¯ll hardly believe it, Mr. Chandler, but I¡¯ve never seen this wonderful lodger. Ellen keeps him to herself! If I were Father, I¡¯d be jealous!¡±

    Both men laughed. The idea of Ellen being the object of jealousy was too absurd.

 Chapter 12

    <hr>

    "All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can¡¯t always do just what one wants to do¡ªnot in this world, at any rate!"

    Mrs. Bernard¡¯s words hung in the air like an unspoken threat. She stood by the table, her gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding both her husband and her stepdaughter. Her tone carried a thin, final note of cross decision they both recognized, a decree from which there was no escape.

    Silence reigned for a moment before Daisy broke it passionately. ¡°I don¡¯t see why I should go if I don¡¯t want to!¡± she cried. ¡°You¡¯ll admit I¡¯ve been useful to you, Ellen? It¡¯s not even as if you were quite well.¡±

    ¡°I am quite well¡ªperfectly well!¡± Mrs. Bernard snapped, turning her pale, drawn face to glare angrily at Daisy.

    ¡°¡¯Tain¡¯t often I get a chance to be with you and Father.¡± Tears edged Daisy¡¯s voice, and Bernard glanced deprecatingly at his wife.

    An invitation had come for Daisy from her late mother¡¯s sister, who was housekeeper in a grand house in Belgrave Square. "The family" had gone away for the holidays, and Aunt Margaret¡ªDaisy¡¯s godmother¡ªhad begged her niece to spend a few days with her.

    But Daisy had already experienced the gloomy basement of 100 Belgrave Square. Aunt Margaret was an old-fashioned servant, devoted to her duties. She reveled in washing sixty-seven pieces of valuable china and sleeping in every bed to keep them aired. These were the tasks she intended Daisy to help with, and the prospect made Daisy¡¯s soul sick.

    The matter had to be settled immediately. The letter had come with a stamped telegraph form, and Aunt Margaret was not one to be kept waiting.

    Since breakfast, they had talked of nothing else. From the start, Mrs. Bernard insisted Daisy should go, leaving no room for debate. But debate they did, and for once, Bernard stood up to his wife. Naturally, this only made Ellen more stubborn.

    ¡°What the child says is true,¡± Bernard observed. ¡°It isn¡¯t as if you were quite well. You¡¯ve been taken ill twice in the last few days¡ªyou can¡¯t deny it, Ellen. Why shouldn¡¯t I just take a bus and go over to see Margaret? I¡¯d explain how it is. She¡¯d understand, bless you!¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t have you doing any such thing!¡± Mrs. Bernard cried, almost as passionately as Daisy. ¡°Haven¡¯t I a right to be ill? A right to be taken bad and to feel all right again¡ªsame as other people?¡±

    Daisy turned, clasping her hands. ¡°Oh, Ellen!¡± she pleaded. ¡°Do say you can¡¯t spare me! I don¡¯t want to go to that horrid old dungeon of a place.¡±

    ¡°Do as you like,¡± Mrs. Bernard said sullenly. ¡°I¡¯m tired of you both! There¡¯ll come a day, Daisy, when you¡¯ll realize, like me, that money is the main thing that matters in this world. When your Aunt Margaret leaves her savings to someone else because you wouldn¡¯t spend a few days with her this Christmas, you¡¯ll know what it¡¯s like to go without. You¡¯ll know what a fool you were, and nothing will change that.¡±

    With victory within her grasp, poor Daisy saw it snatched away.

    ¡°Ellen is right,¡± Bernard said heavily. ¡°Money does matter¡ªa terrible deal¡ªthough I never thought I¡¯d hear Ellen say it¡¯s the only thing that matters. But it¡¯d be foolish¡ªvery, very foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It¡¯ll only be two days, after all¡ªtwo days isn¡¯t a very long time.¡±

    Daisy¡¯s shoulders slumped in defeat, her dreams of a cozy Christmas dashed. Mrs. Bernard¡¯s eyes gleamed with a cold satisfaction, her iron will triumphant once more. In the shadows of their modest home, the weight of the world pressed down on them all, each step echoing the unspoken fears and dark whispers of a city haunted by The Rose Killer.

    But Daisy didn¡¯t hear her father¡¯s last words. She had already rushed from the room, fleeing to the kitchen to hide her tears of disappointment¡ªthe childish tears that came because she was starting to be a woman, with a woman¡¯s natural instinct to build her own nest.

    Aunt Margaret was not one to tolerate the comings and goings of any strange young man, and she harbored a peculiar dislike for the police.

    ¡°Who¡¯d have thought she¡¯d mind as much as that?¡± Bernard looked across at Ellen, his heart beginning to misgive him.

    ¡°It¡¯s plain enough why she¡¯s become so fond of us all of a sudden,¡± Mrs. Bernard said sarcastically. Seeing her husband¡¯s confusion, she added with a tantalizing tone, ¡°As plain as the nose on your face, my man.¡±

    ¡°What d¡¯you mean?¡± he asked. ¡°I daresay I¡¯m a bit slow, Ellen, but I really don¡¯t know what you''re getting at.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you remember telling me before Daisy came here that Jerry Chandler had become sweet on her last summer? I thought it was foolishness then, but I¡¯ve come round to your view¡ªthat¡¯s all.¡±

    Bernard nodded slowly. Yes, Jerry had been visiting more often, and there had been that trip to the macabre museum at Scotland Yard. But he had been so engrossed in the Rose Killer murders that he hadn¡¯t thought of Jerry¡¯s interest in Daisy¡ªnot this time, anyway.

    ¡°And do you think Daisy likes him?¡± Bernard¡¯s voice held an unexpected note of excitement, of tenderness.

    His wife looked at him, a thin smile lighting up her pale face. ¡°I¡¯ve never been one to prophesy,¡± she answered deliberately. ¡°But this I don¡¯t mind telling you, Bernard¡ªDaisy¡¯ll have plenty of time to get tired of Jerry Chandler before they¡¯re dead. Mark my words!¡±

    ¡°Well, she might do worse,¡± Bernard said thoughtfully. ¡°He¡¯s as steady as they come, and he¡¯s already earning thirty-two shillings a week. But I wonder how Old Aunt Margaret would like the notion? I don¡¯t see her parting with Daisy before she has to.¡±

    ¡°I wouldn¡¯t let any old aunt interfere with me on such a matter!¡± cried Mrs. Bernard. ¡°No, not for a million gold sovereigns!¡± Bernard looked at her in silent wonder. Ellen was singing a very different tune now compared to a few minutes ago when she was so adamant about Daisy going to Belgrave Square.

    ¡°If she still seems upset during dinner,¡± his wife said suddenly, ¡°wait until I¡¯ve gone out, and then say to her, ¡®Absence makes the heart grow fonder¡¯¡ªjust that, and nothing more! She¡¯ll take it from you. And I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if it comforts her quite a lot.¡±

    ¡°Well, there¡¯s no reason why Jerry Chandler shouldn¡¯t go over and see her there,¡± Bernard said hesitantly.

    ¡°Oh, yes, there is,¡± Mrs. Bernard replied with a shrewd smile. ¡°Plenty of reason. Daisy would be very foolish to let her aunt know any of her secrets. I¡¯ve only seen Margaret once, but I know exactly the sort she is. She¡¯s waiting for Old Aunt to drop off so she can have Daisy for herself¡ªto wait on her. She¡¯d turn quite nasty if she thought there was a young fellow standing in her way.¡±

    She glanced at the pretty little eight-day clock, a wedding present from a kind friend of her last employer. It had mysteriously disappeared during their time of trouble and had reappeared just as mysteriously a few days after Mr. Basset¡¯s arrival.

    ¡°I¡¯ve time to send that telegram,¡± she said briskly¡ªfeeling better, different than she had in the last few days. ¡°It needs to be done. No sense in having more words about it, and I expect we¡¯d have plenty more if I wait until the child comes upstairs again.¡±

    She did not speak unkindly, and Bernard looked at her wonderingly. Ellen rarely referred to Daisy as ¡°the child¡±¡ªin fact, he could only recall her doing so once before, a long time ago when they were discussing their future together. She had said solemnly, ¡°Bernard, I promise I will do my duty¡ªas much as lies in my power, that is¡ªby the child.¡±

    But Ellen had not had much opportunity to do her duty by Daisy. As often happens, the duties we are willing to perform are taken over by someone else who has no intention of letting them go.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    ¡°What shall I do if Mr. Basset rings?¡± Bernard asked nervously. It was the first time since the lodger had come to them that Ellen had offered to go out in the morning.

    She hesitated. In her anxiety to settle the matter of Daisy, she had momentarily forgotten about Mr. Basset. Strange that she should have done so¡ªstrange and, to her, oddly comforting.

    ¡°Oh, well, you can just go up and knock on the door and say I¡¯ll be back in a few minutes¡ªthat I had to go out with a message. He¡¯s quite a reasonable gentleman.¡± She went into the back room to put on her bonnet and thick jacket; the cold outside was biting, and the temperature seemed to be dropping by the minute.

    As she stood buttoning her gloves¡ªshe wouldn¡¯t dream of going out untidy¡ªBernard suddenly approached her. ¡°Give us a kiss, old girl,¡± he said. Ellen turned up her face.

    ¡°One would think it was catching!¡± she said, but there was a lilt in her voice.

    ¡°So it is,¡± Bernard replied briefly. ¡°Didn¡¯t that old cook get married just after us? She¡¯d never have thought of it if it hadn¡¯t been for you!¡±

    Once she was out, walking along the damp, uneven pavement, Mr. Basset revenged himself for his landlady¡¯s temporary forgetfulness. Over the last two days, the lodger had been acting queer, odder than usual. He was much like he had been ten days ago, just before the double murder.

    The night before, while Daisy recounted her visit to the grisly Scotland Yard museum, Mrs. Bernard had heard Mr. Basset moving restlessly overhead, pacing his sitting-room. Later, when she took up his supper, she had paused outside the door, listening to him read aloud from his favored texts¡ªgrim passages extolling the joys of vengeance.

    Lost in thought, Ellen didn¡¯t watch where she was going and collided with a young woman. She started violently, dazed, as the young person muttered an apology, then fell back into her deep thoughts.

    It was a good thing Daisy was going away for a few days; it made the problem of Mr. Basset and his odd behavior less pressing. Ellen regretted speaking so sharply to the girl, but given her sleepless night, it wasn¡¯t surprising. She had lain awake listening for any sound¡ªan exhausting vigil for a noise that never came.

    The house had been so silent you could hear a pin drop. Mr. Basset, snug in his warm bed upstairs, had not stirred. If he had, Ellen would have heard him, for his bed was just above hers. During those long hours of darkness, Daisy¡¯s light, steady breathing was all that reached Mrs. Bernard¡¯s ears.

    Determined to expel thoughts of Mr. Basset from her mind, she made a deliberate effort to focus elsewhere. It seemed strange that The Rose Killer had stayed his hand. As Jerry had remarked the previous evening, it was high time he turned that awful, mysterious searchlight on himself again. Ellen always pictured The Rose Killer as a black shadow in the center of a bright, blinding light¡ªshapeless and ever-changing.

    She reached the corner leading to the Post Office, and instead of turning left, she stopped short. A wave of horrible self-rebuke and self-loathing washed over her. It was dreadful that she, of all women, had longed to hear of another murder last night!

    Yet such was the shameful fact. She had listened through breakfast, hoping to hear the dreadful news shouted outside. Throughout the discussion about Margaret¡¯s letter, she had hoped¡ªhoped against hope¡ªthat the triumphant shouts of the newspaper-sellers might still echo down Marylebone Road. And yet, hypocrite that she was, she had reproved Bernard when he had expressed, not disappointment exactly, but surprise that nothing had happened.

    Caught in this web of dark thoughts, Ellen felt the weight of her own hypocrisy and the creeping dread of what lay ahead. The shadow of the Rose Killer loomed over her, a constant, unsettling presence that made her question her own sanity and the safety of her home.

    Now her thoughts drifted to Jerry Chandler. It was strange to think how afraid she had once been of that young man. But now? Now she was hardly afraid of him at all. He was smitten¡ªutterly besotted with rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed little Daisy. Anything could happen right under Jerry Chandler¡¯s very nose, and he wouldn¡¯t see it. Last summer, when this affair between Chandler and Daisy had begun, she had little patience for it. The memory of how Jerry had always been dropping by was one reason¡ªthough not the most important¡ªwhy she had been so apprehensive about Daisy¡¯s return. But now? Now she found herself quite tolerant, even kindly, toward Jerry Chandler.

    She wondered why.

    Still, it wouldn¡¯t harm Jerry to be away from Daisy for a couple of days. In fact, it would be good for him; he¡¯d think of nothing but Daisy. Absence makes the heart grow fonder¡ªat least initially. Mrs. Bernard knew that well. During her and Bernard¡¯s mild courtship, they had been separated for about three months, and it was that separation that had made up her mind for her. She had become so used to Bernard that she couldn¡¯t do without him, and she had felt¡ªoddly enough¡ªacutely, miserably jealous. But she hadn¡¯t let him know that¡ªno, not she!

    Of course, Jerry shouldn¡¯t neglect his job¡ªthat would never do. But it was a blessing he wasn¡¯t like those detectives in stories¡ªthe kind that know everything, see everything, guess everything, even when there isn¡¯t anything to see, know, or guess.

    To take just one little fact¡ªJerry Chandler had never shown the slightest curiosity about their lodger...

    Mrs. Bernard snapped back to reality and hurried on. Bernard would start to wonder what had happened to her. She entered the Post Office and handed the form to the young woman behind the counter without a word. Margaret, being sensible and accustomed to managing other people¡¯s affairs, had even written out the words: ¡°Will be with you to tea.¡ªDAISY.¡±

    It was a relief to have the matter settled once and for all. If anything dreadful was going to happen in the next few days, it was just as well that Daisy wasn¡¯t at home. Not that there was any real danger¡ªMrs. Bernard felt sure of that.

    As she walked back, her mind buzzed with thoughts of the notorious Rose Killer. How many murders had he committed? Nine, or was it ten? Surely by now, if he was seeking vengeance as the newspapers suggested, he must be satisfied. Surely by now, if he was a quiet, blameless gentleman living in the West End, he had achieved whatever dark satisfaction he sought.

    She quickened her pace; it wouldn¡¯t do for the lodger to ring before she returned. Bernard would never know how to manage Mr. Basset, especially if he was in one of his queer moods.

    Mrs. Bernard inserted the key into the front door lock and stepped into the house. Her heart nearly stopped with fear. The sound of unfamiliar voices emanated from the sitting-room.

    She opened the door and drew a long breath of relief. It was only Jerry Chandler, Daisy, and Bernard, talking together. They stopped rather guiltily as she entered, but not before she heard Chandler say, "That don¡¯t mean nothing! I¡¯ll just run out and send another telegram saying you won¡¯t come, Miss Daisy."

    Then, the strangest smile spread across Mrs. Bernard¡¯s face. From outside, she could hear the distant but unmistakable shouts of newspaper-sellers¡ªa sign that something significant had happened last night.

    ¡°Well?¡± she asked, a little breathlessly. ¡°Well, Jerry? I suppose you¡¯ve brought us news? I suppose there¡¯s been another?¡±

    Chandler¡¯s eyes met hers, and the room fell silent, the weight of the unspoken hovering between them, thick with the promise of dark revelations and the chilling presence of The Rose Killer.

    He looked at her, surprised. "No, there hasn''t been another, Mrs. Bernard¡ªnot as far as I know. Oh, you''re thinking of those newspaper chaps? They''ve got to cry out something," he grinned. "You wouldn''t believe how bloodthirsty folk can be. They¡¯re just shouting that there¡¯s been an arrest; but we don¡¯t take any stock in that. It¡¯s a Scotsman who gave himself up last night in Dorking. He¡¯d been drinking and feeling sorry for himself. Since this business began, there¡¯ve been about twenty arrests, but they¡¯ve all come to nothing."

    ¡°Why, Ellen, you look quite sad, quite disappointed,¡± Bernard joked. ¡°Come to think of it, it¡¯s high time The Rose Killer was at work again.¡± He laughed grimly, then turned to young Chandler. ¡°Well, you¡¯ll be glad when it''s all over, my lad.¡±

    ¡°Glad in a way,¡± Chandler replied reluctantly. ¡°But one would have liked to catch him. No one likes knowing such a creature¡¯s at large, now, do they?¡±

    Mrs. Bernard took off her bonnet and jacket. "I must just go and see about Mr. Basset¡¯s breakfast," she said in a weary, dispirited voice, and left them there.

    She felt disappointed and very, very depressed. As for the plot that had been hatching when she came in, it had no chance of success; Bernard would never dare let Daisy send out another telegram contradicting the first. Besides, Daisy¡¯s stepmother shrewdly suspected that the girl herself wouldn¡¯t care to do such a thing now. Daisy had plenty of sense tucked away somewhere in her pretty little head. If she ever lived as a married woman in London, it would be best to stay on Aunt Margaret¡¯s good side.

    When she entered the kitchen, her heart softened. Daisy had gotten everything beautifully ready. There was nothing left to do but boil Mr. Basset¡¯s two eggs. Feeling suddenly more cheerful than she had in days, Mrs. Bernard took the tray upstairs.

    ¡°As it was rather late, I didn¡¯t wait for you to ring, sir,¡± she said.

    The lodger looked up from the table where, as usual, he was studying with painful, almost agonizing intentness, the Book. ¡°Quite right, Mrs. Bernard¡ªquite right! I have been pondering over the command, ¡®Work while it is yet light.¡¯¡±

    ¡°Yes, sir?¡± she said, a queer, cold feeling stealing over her heart. ¡°Yes, sir?¡±

    ¡°The spirit is willing, but the flesh¡ªthe flesh is weak,¡± Mr. Basset sighed heavily.

    ¡°You study too hard and too long¡ªthat¡¯s what¡¯s ailing you, sir,¡± Mrs. Bernard said suddenly.

    When she went back downstairs, she found that much had been settled in her absence; among other things, that Jerry Chandler was going to escort Miss Daisy to Belgrave Square. He would carry Daisy¡¯s modest bag, and if they wanted to ride instead of walk, they could take the bus from Baker Street Station to Victoria, which would land them very near Belgrave Square.

    But Daisy seemed quite willing to walk; she declared she hadn¡¯t had a walk in a long, long time. Then she blushed rosy red, and even her stepmother had to admit that Daisy was very nice looking¡ªnot at all the sort of girl who ought to be allowed to roam the London streets by herself.

    The air was thick with unspoken tension as the household carried on, each grappling with their own thoughts and fears. The shadow of The Rose Killer loomed over them all, a constant reminder of the darkness lurking just beyond their doorstep.

 Chapter 13

    <hr>

    Daisy¡¯s father and stepmother stood side by side at the front door, watching the girl and young Chandler disappear into the foggy darkness.

    A yellow pall of fog had descended on London, and Jerry had arrived a full half-hour earlier than expected, explaining, rather lamely, that the fog had hastened his arrival.

    ¡°If we¡¯d waited much longer, it might¡¯ve been impossible to walk a yard,¡± he explained, and they accepted his explanation without question.

    ¡°I hope it¡¯s safe sending her off like that,¡± Bernard said nervously, glancing at his wife. She had already told him more than once that he was too fussy about Daisy, that he behaved like an old hen with her last chick.

    ¡°She¡¯s safer with Jerry than she would be with you or me. She couldn¡¯t have a smarter young fellow looking after her,¡± Mrs. Bernard replied.

    ¡°It¡¯ll be awful thick at Hyde Park Corner,¡± Bernard muttered. ¡°It¡¯s always worse there than anywhere else. If I were Jerry, I¡¯d have taken her by the Underground to Victoria¡ªthat would¡¯ve been the best way, considering the weather.¡±

    ¡°They don¡¯t think anything of the weather, bless you!¡± his wife said. ¡°They¡¯ll walk as long as there¡¯s a glimmer left to steer by. Daisy¡¯s been pining for a walk with that young chap. I¡¯m surprised you didn¡¯t notice how disappointed they were when you insisted on going along to that horrid place.¡±

    ¡°Do you really mean that, Ellen?¡± Bernard looked upset. ¡°I understood Jerry to say he liked my company.¡±

    ¡°Oh, did you?¡± Mrs. Bernard said dryly. ¡°I expect he liked it just about as much as we liked the company of that old cook who used to force herself on us when we were courting. It always amazed me how she could impose herself on two people who didn¡¯t want her.¡±

    ¡°But I¡¯m Daisy¡¯s father and an old friend of Chandler,¡± Bernard protested. ¡°I¡¯m different from that cook. She was nothing to us, and we were nothing to her.¡±

    ¡°She¡¯d have liked to be something to you, no doubt,¡± Ellen observed, shaking her head. Her husband smiled, a little foolishly.

    By this time, they were back in their cozy sitting room, and a feeling of not altogether unpleasant lassitude stole over Mrs. Bernard. It was a relief to have Daisy out of the way for a bit. The girl, in some ways, was very inquisitive, and she had shown an unseemly curiosity about the lodger. ¡°You might just let me have one peep at him, Ellen?¡± she had pleaded that morning. But Ellen had shaken her head. ¡°No, that I won¡¯t! He¡¯s a very quiet gentleman, but he knows exactly what he likes, and he doesn¡¯t like anyone but me waiting on him. Even your father has hardly seen him.¡±

    Naturally, this only increased Daisy¡¯s desire to see Mr. Basset.

    There was another reason why Mrs. Bernard was glad Daisy had gone away for two days. During her absence, young Chandler was less likely to haunt them as he had been lately. Despite what she had told her husband, Mrs. Bernard was sure Daisy would ask Jerry Chandler to call at Belgrave Square. It wouldn¡¯t be human nature¡ªnot girlish human nature¡ªnot to do so, even if Jerry¡¯s visit angered Aunt Margaret.

    Yes, with Daisy away, they would be rid of that young chap for a bit, and that would be a good thing. Without Daisy to occupy his attention, Mrs. Bernard felt a queer fear of Chandler. After all, he was a detective¡ªit was his job to sniff around, trying to uncover things. And though he hadn¡¯t done much of that in her house, he might start at any moment. And then¡ªwhere would she and Mr. Basset be?

    She thought of the bottle of red ink, the leather bag hidden somewhere, and her heart nearly stopped. Those were the kinds of things that, in the stories Bernard loved, always led to the detection of famous criminals...

    Mr. Basset¡¯s bell for tea rang far earlier than usual that afternoon. The fog had probably misled him into thinking it was later.

    When she went up, he said wearily, ¡°I¡¯d like a cup of tea now and just one piece of bread and butter. I don¡¯t feel like having anything else this afternoon.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s a horrible day,¡± Mrs. Bernard observed, her voice unusually cheerful. ¡°No wonder you don¡¯t feel hungry, sir. And then it hasn¡¯t been very long since you had your dinner, has it?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± he said absently. ¡°No, it hasn¡¯t, Mrs. Bernard.¡±

    As she left Mr. Basset¡¯s room, she couldn¡¯t shake the unease that settled over her. Downstairs, she found that much had been decided in her absence. Jerry Chandler was going to escort Daisy to Belgrave Square. He would carry her modest bag, and if they preferred not to walk, they could take the bus from Baker Street Station to Victoria, which would land them near Belgrave Square.

    But Daisy seemed eager to walk, declaring she hadn¡¯t had a proper walk in a long time. She blushed rosy red, and even her stepmother had to admit that Daisy was quite attractive¡ªnot the sort of girl who should wander London¡¯s streets alone.

    The air was thick with unspoken tension as the household carried on, each grappling with their own thoughts and fears. The shadow of The Rose Killer loomed over them all, a constant reminder of the darkness lurking just beyond their doorstep.

    She went downstairs, made the tea, and brought it back up. As she entered the room, she uttered an exclamation of sharp dismay.

    Mr. Basset was dressed to go out. He wore his long Inverness cloak, and his peculiar old high hat lay on the table, ready to be donned.

    ¡°You¡¯re never going out this afternoon, sir?¡± she asked falteringly. ¡°Why, the fog''s awful; you can¡¯t see a yard ahead of you!¡±

    Unbeknownst to herself, Mrs. Bernard¡¯s voice had risen almost to a scream. She moved back, still holding the tray, and stood between the door and her lodger, as if she intended to bar his way¡ªto erect a living barrier between Mr. Basset and the dark, foggy world outside.

    ¡°The weather never affects me at all,¡± he said sullenly, meeting her gaze with a wild, pleading look in his eyes. Slowly, reluctantly, she moved aside. As she did, she noticed for the first time that Mr. Basset held something in his right hand. It was the key to the chiffonnier cupboard. He had been on his way there when her entrance had disturbed him.

    ¡°It¡¯s very kind of you to be so concerned about me,¡± he stammered, ¡°but¡ªbut, Mrs. Bernard, you must excuse me if I say that I do not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I¡ªI cannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are watched¡ªspied upon.¡±

    She pulled herself together. ¡°No one spies on you, sir,¡± she said with considerable dignity. ¡°I¡¯ve done my best to satisfy you¡ª¡±

    ¡°You have¡ªyou have!¡± he interrupted, his tone distressed and apologetic. ¡°But you spoke just now as if you were trying to prevent my doing what I wish to do¡ªindeed, what I have to do. For years, I have been misunderstood¡ªpersecuted¡±¡ªhe paused, then added in a hollow voice, ¡°tortured! Do not tell me that you are going to add yourself to the number of my tormentors, Mrs. Bernard?¡±

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    She stared at him helplessly. ¡°Don¡¯t you be afraid I¡¯ll ever be that, sir. I only spoke as I did because¡ªwell, sir, because I thought it really wasn¡¯t safe for a gentleman to go out this afternoon. Why, there¡¯s hardly anyone about, though we¡¯re so near Christmas.¡±

    He walked to the window and looked out. ¡°The fog is clearing somewhat, Mrs. Bernard,¡± but there was no relief in his voice¡ªrather, disappointment and dread.

    Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Basset was right. The fog was lifting¡ªrolling off in that sudden, mysterious way London fogs sometimes do.

    He turned abruptly from the window. ¡°Our conversation has made me forget something important, Mrs. Bernard. I should be glad if you would leave out a glass of milk and some bread and butter for me this evening. I shall not require supper when I return, for after my walk, I shall probably go straight upstairs to carry out a very difficult experiment.¡±

    ¡°Very good, sir.¡± And with that, Mrs. Bernard left the lodger.

    But as she found herself downstairs in the fog-laden hall, for it had drifted in when she and her husband had stood at the door seeing Daisy off, she did a very odd thing¡ªa thing she had never considered before. She pressed her hot forehead against the cool bit of looking-glass set into the hat-and-umbrella stand. ¡°I don¡¯t know what to do!¡± she moaned to herself, and then, ¡°I can¡¯t bear it! I can¡¯t bear it!¡±

    But though she felt her secret suspense and trouble becoming intolerable, the one way in which she could have ended her misery never occurred to Mrs. Bernard.

    In the long history of crime, it has very, very seldom happened that a woman has betrayed someone who has taken refuge with her. The timorous and cautious woman often drives a fleeing human from her door, but she rarely reveals that he was ever there. It may almost be said that such betrayal never occurs unless the betrayer is motivated by love of gain or a longing for revenge. So far, perhaps because she is seen as a subject rather than a citizen, her duty as a part of civilized society weighs but lightly on a woman¡¯s shoulders.

    And then¡ªand then, in a strange way, Mrs. Bernard had become attached to Mr. Basset. A wan smile would sometimes light up his sad face when she brought in one of his meals, and when that happened, she felt pleased¡ªpleased and vaguely touched. Amidst those dreadful events outside, which filled her with suspicion, anguish, and suspense, she never felt fear¡ªonly pity¡ªfor Mr. Basset.

    Often, as she lay wide awake at night, Mrs. Bernard turned over the strange problem in her mind. The lodger must have lived somewhere during his forty-odd years of life. She didn''t even know if Mr. Basset had any brothers or sisters; friends, she knew he had none. However odd and eccentric he seemed, he had evidently led a quiet, undistinguished kind of life until¡ªuntil now.

    What had caused him to change so suddenly¡ªif he had changed at all? This was the question Mrs. Bernard wrestled with fitfully. And, more terrifyingly, having changed, why couldn''t he revert to what he once was¡ªa blameless, quiet gentleman?

    If only he would! If only he would!

    As she stood in the hall, cooling her hot forehead against the glass, these thoughts, hopes, and fears jostled through her mind at lightning speed.

    She remembered what young Chandler had said the other day¡ªthat there had never been a murderer as strange as The Rose Killer. She, Bernard, and little Daisy had hung on Jerry¡¯s every word as he recounted other famous series of murders, not only in England but abroad¡ªespecially abroad.

    One woman, believed by everyone around her to be kind and respectable, had poisoned no fewer than fifteen people for their insurance money. Then there was the terrible tale of an innkeeper and his wife, who, living at the entrance to a wood, killed all humble travelers who took shelter under their roof for their clothes and valuables. But in all those stories, the murderers always had a strong motive, usually a wicked lust for gold.

    After wiping her forehead with her handkerchief, she went into the room where Bernard sat smoking his pipe.

    ¡°The fog¡¯s lifting a bit,¡± she said uncertainly. ¡°I hope by now Daisy and Jerry Chandler are out of it.¡±

    But Bernard shook his head. ¡°No such luck!¡± he said briefly. ¡°You don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like in Hyde Park, Ellen. I expect it¡¯ll soon be just as heavy here as it was half an hour ago!¡±

    She wandered to the window and pulled back the curtain. ¡°Quite a lot of people have come out, anyway,¡± she observed.

    ¡°There¡¯s a fine Christmas show in the Edgware Road. I was thinking of asking if you¡¯d like to go with me.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± she said dully. ¡°I¡¯m content to stay at home.¡±

    She was listening¡ªlistening for the sounds that would indicate the lodger was coming downstairs.

    At last, she heard the cautious, noiseless tread of his rubber-soled shoes shuffling along the hall. But Bernard only noticed when the front door shut.

    ¡°That¡¯s never Mr. Basset going out?¡± He turned to his wife, startled. ¡°Why, the poor gentleman¡¯ll come to harm¡ªthat he will! One has to be wide awake on an evening like this. I hope he hasn¡¯t taken any of his money with him.¡±

    ¡°It isn¡¯t the first time Mr. Basset¡¯s been out in a fog,¡± Mrs. Bernard said somberly.

    She couldn¡¯t help uttering these over-true words. Then she turned, eager and half frightened, to see how Bernard would react.

    But he looked placid, as if he had hardly heard her. ¡°We don¡¯t get the good old fogs we used to¡ªnot what people called ¡®London particulars.¡¯ I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. Crowley¡ªI¡¯ve often told you about her, Ellen?¡±

    Mrs. Bernard nodded.

    Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bernard¡¯s favorite employers¡ªa cheerful, jolly lady who often gave her servants what she called a treat. It was rarely the kind of treat they would have chosen, but they appreciated her kind thought.

    ¡°Mrs. Crowley used to say,¡± Bernard continued in his slow, dogmatic way, ¡°that she never minded how bad the weather was in London, so long as it was London and not the country. Mr. Crowley liked the country best, but Mrs. Crowley always felt dull there. Fog never kept her from going out¡ªno, it didn¡¯t. She wasn¡¯t a bit afraid. But¡ª¡± he turned and looked at his wife¡ª¡°I am a bit surprised at Mr. Basset. I¡¯d have thought him a timid kind of gentleman¡ª¡±

    He waited a moment, and she felt compelled to respond.

    ¡°Maybe he¡¯s got his reasons,¡± she said quietly, a shiver running down her spine as she thought of the dark, foggy streets and the shadowy figure of The Rose Killer, always lurking, always watching.

    "I wouldn¡¯t exactly call him timid," she said in a low voice, "but he is very quiet, certainly. That¡¯s why he dislikes going out when the streets are bustling. I don¡¯t suppose he¡¯ll be out long." Her voice trailed off, heavy with unspoken fears.

    She hoped with all her soul that Mr. Basset would return soon¡ªthat the increasing gloom would drive him back. The weight of the evening was pressing down on her, making it impossible to sit still. She got up and walked over to the farthest window.

    The fog had lifted somewhat. She could see the lamp-lights on the other side of Marylebone Road, glimmering redly, and shadowy figures hurrying past, mostly making their way towards Edgware Road to see the Christmas shops.

    To his wife¡¯s relief, Bernard got up too. He went over to the cupboard where he kept his little store of books and took one out. "I think I¡¯ll read a bit," he said. "Seems a long time since I¡¯ve looked at a book. The papers were so jolly interesting for a while, but now there¡¯s nothing in them."

    His wife remained silent. She knew what he meant. Many days had gone by since the last two Rose Killer murders, and the papers had very little new to say about them. They repeated the same information in different words, over and over.

    She went into her bedroom and came back with a piece of plain sewing. Mrs. Bernard was fond of sewing, and Bernard liked to see her engaged in it. Since Mr. Basset had become their lodger, she hadn¡¯t had much time for that sort of work.

    It was funny how quiet the house was without either Daisy or the lodger. The silence was almost oppressive.

    At last, she let her needle rest, and the bit of cambric slipped down onto her knee. She listened, longingly, for Mr. Basset¡¯s return.

    As the minutes ticked by, she began to wonder with painful intensity if she would ever see her lodger again. From what she knew of Mr. Basset, Mrs. Bernard felt sure that if he got into any kind of trouble outside, he would never betray where he had been living during the last few weeks.

    No, in such a case, the lodger would disappear as suddenly as he had arrived. Bernard would never suspect, would never know, until¡ªGod, what a horrible thought¡ªa picture published in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bernard¡¯s knowledge.

    But if that happened¡ªif that unthinkably awful thing came to pass¡ªshe made up her mind then and there never to say anything. She would pretend to be amazed, shocked, unutterably horrified at the astounding revelation.

    The air seemed to grow heavier with each passing moment. The house, normally a refuge, felt like a cage. And in the back of her mind, always lurking, was the shadow of The Rose Killer, a black rose left at every crime scene, a chilling signature of death.

 Chapter 14

    <hr>

    ¡°There he is at last, and I¡¯m glad of it, Ellen. ¡¯Tain¡¯t a night you would wish a dog to be out in,¡± Bernard¡¯s voice was full of relief, but he didn¡¯t turn to look at his wife; instead, he continued reading the evening paper he held in his hand.

    He sat comfortably in his armchair, close to the fire, looking well and ruddy. Mrs. Bernard stared at him with a touch of sharp envy, and maybe even resentment. It was curious, for she was, in her own dry way, very fond of Bernard.

    ¡°You needn¡¯t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Basset can look out for himself all right,¡± she said.

    Bernard laid the paper on his knee. ¡°I can¡¯t think why he wanted to go out in such weather,¡± he said impatiently.

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s none of your business, Bernard, now, is it?¡±

    ¡°No, that¡¯s true enough. Still, ¡¯twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger¡¯s the first bit of luck we¡¯ve had for a long time, Ellen.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard shifted a little impatiently in her high-backed chair. She remained silent for a moment. What Bernard had said was too obvious to be worth answering. She was listening, following in her imagination her lodger¡¯s quick, singularly quiet progress¡ª¡°stealthy¡± she called it to herself¡ªthrough the fog-filled, lamp-lit hall. Yes, now he was going up the staircase. What was that Bernard was saying?

    ¡°It isn¡¯t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather¡ªno, that it ain¡¯t, not unless they have something to do that won¡¯t wait till tomorrow.¡± Bernard looked straight into his wife¡¯s narrow, colorless face. He was an obstinate man and liked to prove himself right. ¡°I¡¯ve half a mind to speak to him about it, that I have! He ought to be told that it isn¡¯t safe¡ªnot for the sort of man he is¡ªto be wandering about the streets at night. I read you out the accidents in Lloyd¡¯s¡ªshocking, they were, all brought about by the fog! And then, that horrid monster¡¯ll soon be at his work again¡ª¡±

    ¡°Monster?¡± repeated Mrs. Bernard absently.

    She was trying to hear the lodger¡¯s footsteps overhead. She was very curious to know whether he had gone into his sitting room or straight upstairs to that cold experiment room, as he now always called it.

    But her husband went on as if he hadn¡¯t heard her, and she gave up trying to listen to what was happening above.

    ¡°It wouldn¡¯t be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that in the fog, eh, Ellen?¡± He spoke as if the notion had a certain thrilling allure.

    ¡°What stuff you do talk!¡± said Mrs. Bernard sharply. She got up, disturbed by her husband¡¯s remarks. Why couldn¡¯t they talk about something pleasant when they had a quiet moment together?

    Bernard looked down at his paper again, and she moved quietly about the room. Very soon it would be time for supper, and tonight she was going to cook her husband a nice piece of toasted cheese. That fortunate man, as she often told him, with mingled contempt and envy, had the digestion of an ostrich, yet he was rather particular, as gentlemen¡¯s servants who have lived in good places often are.

    Yes, Bernard was very lucky in the matter of his digestion. Mrs. Bernard prided herself on having a refined mind, and she would never have allowed an unrefined word¡ªsuch as ¡°stomach,¡± for instance, or an even plainer term¡ªto pass her lips, except, of course, to a doctor in a sick room.

    Mr. Basset¡¯s landlady didn¡¯t go down to her cold kitchen immediately; instead, with a sudden furtive movement, she opened the door leading into her bedroom, then quietly closed it behind her. She stepped back into the darkness and stood motionless, listening.

    At first, she heard nothing, but gradually the sound of someone moving softly about in the room overhead reached her ears¡ªMr. Basset¡¯s bedroom. Try as she might, it was impossible for her to guess what the lodger was doing.

    At last, she heard him open the door leading out onto the little landing. She could hear the stairs creaking. That meant, no doubt, that Mr. Basset would spend the rest of the evening in the cheerless room above. He hadn¡¯t spent any time up there for quite a while¡ªin fact, not for nearly ten days. It was odd he chose tonight, when it was so foggy, to carry out an experiment.

    She groped her way to a chair and sat down. She felt very tired¡ªstrangely tired, as if she had gone through some great physical exertion. The weight of her secrets and the oppressive fog outside seemed to mingle, pressing down on her chest. And in the back of her mind, the ever-present shadow of The Rose Killer lurked, leaving a trail of black roses and unanswered questions.

    ¡°Yes, it was true that Mr. Basset had brought her and Bernard luck, and it was wrong, very wrong, of her ever to forget that,¡± she reminded herself, trying to quell the anxiety that gnawed at her insides.

    As she sat there, she also reminded herself¡ªagain, not for the first time¡ªwhat the lodger¡¯s departure would mean. It would almost certainly spell ruin. His staying meant all sorts of good things, of which physical comfort was the least. If Mr. Basset stayed on with them, as he seemed inclined to do, it meant respectability, and above all, security.

    Mrs. Bernard thought of Mr. Basset¡¯s money. He never received a letter, yet he must have some kind of income. She supposed he withdrew his funds in sovereigns from a bank as needed.

    Her mind consciously, deliberately, swung away from Mr. Basset to the enigmatic figure casting a shadow over London¡ªthe Rose Killer. What a strange name! She assured herself that there would come a time when the Rose Killer, whoever he was, must feel satiated; when he would feel, so to speak, avenged.

    Returning to thoughts of Mr. Basset, she considered their luck in having such a content lodger. He seemed pleased not only with the rooms but with his landlord and landlady. There was no real reason why Mr. Basset should ever wish to leave such nice lodgings.

    Mrs. Bernard suddenly stood up and made a strong effort to shake off her overwhelming sense of apprehension and unease. Feeling for the handle of the door leading into the passage, she turned it, and with light, firm steps, she descended into the kitchen.

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    When they had first taken the house, she had made the basement, if not pleasant, then at least very clean. She had it whitewashed, and against the still white walls, the gas stove loomed, a great square of black iron and bright steel. It was a large gas stove, the kind for which one pays four shillings a quarter to the gas company, and here in the kitchen, there was no foolish shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. Mrs. Bernard was too shrewd for that. There was a proper gas meter, and she paid for what she consumed after she had consumed it.

    Putting her candle down on the well-scrubbed wooden table, she turned up the gas jet and blew out the candle. Then, lighting one of the gas rings, she placed a frying pan on the stove. Despite herself, her mind reverted to Mr. Basset. Never had there been a more confiding or trusting gentleman, yet in some ways, he was so secretive, so¡ªpeculiar.

    She thought of the bag¡ªthe bag that had rattled so queerly in the chiffonnier. Something told her that tonight the lodger had taken that bag out with him.

    She violently thrust the thought of the bag from her mind and returned to the more agreeable thought of Mr. Basset¡¯s income and how little trouble he caused. Of course, the lodger was eccentric; otherwise, he wouldn¡¯t be their lodger at all. He would be living in quite a different way with his relations or a friend of his own class.

    As these thoughts galloped disconnectedly through her mind, Mrs. Bernard continued her cooking, preparing the cheese, cutting it into little shreds, carefully measuring out the butter, doing everything with a delicate and cleanly precision.

    Then, while in the middle of toasting the bread on which the melted cheese would be poured, she suddenly heard sounds that startled her, making her feel uncomfortable.

    Shuffling, hesitating steps creaked down the house.

    She looked up and listened.

    Surely the lodger wasn¡¯t going out again into the cold and foggy night¡ªgoing out, as he had done the other evening, for a second time? But no, the sounds she heard¡ªthe sounds of now familiar footsteps¡ªdid not continue down the passage leading to the front door.

    Instead¡ªwhat was this she heard now? She began to listen so intently that the bread she was holding at the end of the toasting fork grew quite black. With a start, she became aware that this was so, and she frowned, vexed with herself. That came of not attending to one¡¯s work.

    Mr. Basset was evidently about to do what he had never done before. He was coming down into the kitchen.

    Nearer and nearer came the thudding sounds, treading heavily on the kitchen stairs, and Mrs. Bernard¡¯s heart began to beat as if in response. She put out the flame of the gas ring, unheedful of the fact that the cheese would stiffen and spoil in the cold air.

    Then she turned and faced the door.

    There came a fumbling at the handle, and a moment later, the door swung open to reveal, as she had feared, the lodger.

    Mr. Basset looked even odder than usual. He was clad in a plaid dressing-gown, which she had never seen him wear before, though she knew he had purchased it not long after his arrival. In his hand was a lighted candle, its flickering flame casting eerie shadows on his gaunt face.

    When he saw the kitchen all lit up and Mrs. Bernard standing in it, the lodger looked inexplicably taken aback, almost aghast.

    ¡°Yes, sir? What can I do for you, sir? I hope you didn¡¯t ring, sir?¡± Mrs. Bernard held her ground in front of the stove. Mr. Basset had no business invading her kitchen like this, and she intended to make that clear.

    ¡°No, I¡ªI didn¡¯t ring,¡± he stammered awkwardly. ¡°The truth is, I didn¡¯t know you were here, Mrs. Bernard. Please excuse my attire. My gas-stove has gone wrong, or rather, that shilling-in-the-slot arrangement has malfunctioned. So I came down to see if you had a gas-stove. I wish to use it tonight for an important experiment.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard''s heart raced. She felt horribly troubled. Why couldn¡¯t Mr. Basset¡¯s experiment wait until morning? She stared at him dubiously, but there was something in his face that made her both afraid and pitiful. It was a wild, eager, imploring look.

    ¡°Oh, certainly, sir; but you will find it very cold down here,¡± she managed to say.

    ¡°It seems most pleasantly warm,¡± he observed, his voice full of relief, ¡°warm and cozy, after my cold room upstairs.¡±

    Warm and cozy? Mrs. Bernard stared at him in amazement. Surely, even that cheerless room at the top of the house must be far warmer than this cold underground kitchen.

    ¡°I¡¯ll make you a fire, sir. We never use the grate, but it¡¯s in perfect order. The first thing I did after we moved in was to have the chimney swept. It was terribly dirty. It might have set the house on fire.¡± Mrs. Bernard¡¯s housewifely instincts were roused. ¡°For the matter of that, you ought to have a fire in your bedroom on such a cold night.¡±

    ¡°By no means¡ªI would prefer not. I certainly do not want a fire there. I dislike an open fire, Mrs. Bernard. I thought I had told you as much.¡±

    Mr. Basset frowned, standing just inside the kitchen door, a strange figure with his candle still alight.

    ¡°I shan¡¯t be very long, sir. Just about a quarter of an hour. You could come down then. I¡¯ll have everything quite tidy for you. Is there anything I can do to help you?¡±

    ¡°I do not require the use of your kitchen yet¡ªthank you all the same, Mrs. Bernard. I shall come down later¡ªaltogether later¡ªafter you and your husband have gone to bed. But I would be much obliged if you could see that the gas people come tomorrow and fix my stove. It might be done while I am out. That the shilling-in-the-slot machine should go wrong is very unpleasant. It has upset me greatly.¡±

    ¡°Perhaps Bernard could put it right for you, sir. For that matter, I could ask him to go up now.¡±

    ¡°No, no, I don¡¯t want anything done tonight. Besides, he couldn¡¯t fix it. I am something of an expert, Mrs. Bernard, and I have done all I could. The cause of the trouble is simple. The machine is choked up with shillings; a very foolish plan, as I always felt.¡±

    Mr. Basset spoke pettishly, with far more heat than usual, but Mrs. Bernard sympathized with him. She had always suspected those slot machines were as dishonest as human beings. It was dreadful the way they swallowed up shillings! She had had one once, so she knew.

    As if divining her thoughts, Mr. Basset walked forward and stared at the stove. ¡°Then you haven¡¯t got a slot machine?¡± he said wonderingly. ¡°I¡¯m very glad of that, for I expect my experiment will take some time. But, of course, I shall pay you for the use of the stove, Mrs. Bernard.¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, sir, I wouldn¡¯t think of charging you for that. We don¡¯t use our stove very much, you know, sir. I¡¯m never in the kitchen a minute longer than I can help this cold weather.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard began to feel better. When she was actually in Mr. Basset¡¯s presence, her morbid fears would be lulled, perhaps because his manner was almost invariably gentle and quiet. But still, an eerie feeling crept over her as they made their way to the ground floor.

    Once there, the lodger courteously bade his landlady goodnight and proceeded upstairs to his own apartments.

    Mrs. Bernard returned to the kitchen. She relit the stove but felt unnerved, afraid of she knew not what. As she cooked the cheese, she tried to concentrate on the task, and on the whole, she succeeded. But another part of her mind seemed to work independently, asking insistent questions.

    The place seemed alive with alien presences, and once she caught herself listening¡ªwhich was absurd, for she couldn¡¯t hope to hear what Mr. Basset was doing two, if not three, flights upstairs. She wondered what the lodger¡¯s experiments entailed. It was odd that she had never discovered what he really did with that big gas-stove. All she knew was that he used a very high degree of heat.

    The thought of his experiments and the ever-present shadow of The Rose Killer left her feeling cold, and she couldn¡¯t shake the sense of impending dread that hung over the house like the fog outside.

 Chapter 15

    <hr>

    The Bernard''s went to bed early that night, but Mrs. Bernard made up her mind to stay awake. She was determined to know when the lodger would come down into her kitchen for his experiment, and, above all, how long he would stay there.

    But after a long and anxious day, she eventually fell asleep.

    The church clock struck two, and suddenly Mrs. Bernard awoke. She felt sharply annoyed with herself. How could she have dropped off like that? Mr. Basset must have been down and up again hours ago!

    Then, she became aware of a faint, acrid odor in the room. Elusive and intangible, it seemed to envelop her and the snoring man by her side, almost like a vapor.

    Mrs. Bernard sat up in bed and sniffed; then, quietly, despite the cold, she crept out of her warm bedclothes and crawled to the bottom of the bed. There, she did a very curious thing: she leaned over the brass rail and put her face close to the hinge of the door leading into the hall. Yes, the strange, horrible odor was coming from there; it must be very strong in the passage.

    As she shivered and crept back under the bedclothes, she longed to shake her sleeping husband awake and heard herself in her mind saying, ¡°Bernard, get up! There¡¯s something strange and dreadful going on downstairs that we ought to know about.¡±

    But lying there by her husband''s side, listening with painful intentness for the slightest sound, she knew very well that she would do nothing of the sort.

    What if the lodger did make a certain amount of mess¡ªa certain amount of smell¡ªin her nice, clean kitchen? Was he not an almost perfect lodger? If they did anything to upset him, where could they ever hope to get another like him?

    Three o''clock struck before Mrs. Bernard heard slow, heavy steps creaking up the kitchen stairs. But Mr. Basset did not go straight up to his quarters as she had expected. Instead, he went to the front door, and, opening it, put on the chain. Then he came past her door, and she thought¡ªbut could not be sure¡ªthat he sat down on the stairs.

    After ten minutes or so, she heard him go down the passage again. Very softly, he closed the front door. By then, she had divined why the lodger had behaved in such a peculiar fashion. He wanted to get the strong, acrid smell of burning¡ªwas it burning wool?¡ªout of the house.

    But Mrs. Bernard, lying there in the darkness, listening to the lodger creeping upstairs, felt as if she would never get rid of the horrible odor. She felt herself to be all smell.

    At last, the unhappy woman fell into a deep, troubled sleep and dreamt a most terrible and unnatural dream. Hoarse voices seemed to be shouting in her ear: "The Rose Killer close here! The Rose Killer close here!" "Horrible murder off the Edgware Road!" "The Rose Killer at his work again!"

    And even in her dream, Mrs. Bernard felt angered¡ªangered and impatient. She knew so well why she was being disturbed by this horrid nightmare! It was because of Bernard¡ªBernard, who could think and talk of nothing else but those frightful murders, in which only morbid and vulgar-minded people took any interest.

    Why, even now, in her dream, she could hear her husband speaking to her about it: ¡°Ellen¡±¡ªso she heard Bernard murmur in her ear¡ª¡°Ellen, my dear, I¡¯m just going to get up to get a paper. It¡¯s after seven o¡¯clock.¡±

    The shouting¡ªnay, worse, the sound of tramping, hurrying feet smote on her shrinking ears. Pushing back her hair off her forehead with both hands, she sat up and listened.

    It had been no nightmare, then, but something infinitely worse¡ªreality.

    Why couldn¡¯t Bernard have lain quiet in bed a while longer and let his poor wife go on dreaming? The most awful dream would have been easier to bear than this awakening.

    She heard her husband go to the front door, and as he bought the paper, he exchanged a few excited words with the newspaper-seller. Then he came back. There was a pause, and she heard him lighting the gas-ring in the sitting room.

    Bernard always made his wife a cup of tea in the morning. He had promised to do this when they first married, and he had never yet broken his word. It was a small but significant gesture, and this morning, the knowledge that he was doing it brought tears to Mrs. Bernard¡¯s pale blue eyes. This morning he seemed to be taking rather longer than usual.

    When, at last, he came in with the little tray, Bernard found his wife lying with her face to the wall.

    ¡°Here¡¯s your tea, Ellen,¡± he said, and there was a thrill of eager, almost happy, excitement in his voice.

    She turned and sat up. ¡°Well?¡± she asked. ¡°Well? Why don¡¯t you tell me about it?¡±

    ¡°I thought you were asleep,¡± he stammered. ¡°I thought, Ellen, you never heard anything.¡±

    ¡°How could I have slept through all that din? Of course I heard. Why don¡¯t you tell me?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve hardly had time to glance at the paper myself,¡± he said slowly.

    Mrs. Bernard took the paper from him, her hands trembling. As she read the headline, her breath caught in her throat: "The Rose Killer Strikes Again¡ªHorrific Murder in Edgware Road." The room seemed to close in on her, the walls pressing down with the weight of the dreadful news.

    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°You were reading it just now,¡± she said severely, ¡°for I heard the rustling. You started reading before you lit the gas-ring. Don¡¯t tell me! What were they shouting about the Edgware Road?¡±

    ¡°Well,¡± said Bernard, ¡°since you know, I might as well tell you. The Rose Killer¡¯s moving West¡ªthat¡¯s what he¡¯s doing. Last time it was King¡¯s Cross¡ªnow it¡¯s the Edgware Road. I said he¡¯d come our way, and he has come our way!¡±

    ¡°You just go and get me that paper,¡± she commanded. ¡°I want to see for myself.¡±

    Bernard went into the next room and returned, handing her a thin, odd-looking sheet.

    ¡°Why, whatever¡¯s this?¡± she asked. ¡°This isn¡¯t our paper!¡±

    ¡°Of course not,¡± he answered, a trifle crossly. ¡°It¡¯s a special early edition of the Sun, just because of The Rose Killer. Here¡¯s the bit about it.¡± He showed her the exact spot. But she would have found it even by the dim light of the gas-jet now flaring over the dressing table, for the news was printed in large, clear characters:

    ¡°Once more, the murder fiend who calls himself The Rose Killer has escaped detection. While the entire attention of the police and the great army of amateur detectives was focused on the East End and King¡¯s Cross, he moved swiftly and silently westward. And, choosing a time when the Edgware Road is at its busiest and most thronged, he committed another murder with lightning-like quickness and savagery.

    ¡°Within fifty yards of the deserted warehouse yard where he lured his victim to destruction, scores of happy, busy people were passing by, intent on their Christmas shopping. Into that cheerful throng he must have plunged within moments of committing his atrocious crime. It was only by the merest accident that the body was discovered so soon¡ªjust after midnight.

    ¡°Dr. Dowtray, who was called to the spot immediately, believes the woman had been dead for at least three hours, if not four. Initially, there was hope that this murder was unrelated to the series now puzzling and horrifying the civilized world. But no¡ªpinned to the edge of the dead woman¡¯s dress was the now familiar triangular piece of grey paper¡ªthe grimmest visiting card ever devised! This time, The Rose Killer has surpassed himself in audacity and daring¡ªso cold in its maniacal fanaticism and abhorrent wickedness.¡±

    As Mrs. Bernard read with slow, painful intentness, her husband watched her, longing yet afraid to share a new idea that was burning to be confided, even to Ellen¡¯s unsympathetic ears.

    At last, when she had finished, she looked up defiantly. ¡°Haven¡¯t you anything better to do than stare at me like that?¡± she said irritably. ¡°Murder or no murder, I¡¯ve got to get up! Go away¡ªdo!¡±

    Bernard retreated to the next room.

    After he left, his wife lay back and closed her eyes. She tried to think of nothing. Her will was strong and determined, and for a few moments, she actually succeeded. She felt terribly tired and weak, like someone recovering from a long, wearing illness.

    Presently, detached, puerile thoughts drifted across her mind like little clouds across a summer sky. She wondered if those horrid newspaper men were allowed to shout in Belgrave Square. She wondered if Margaret, who was so unlike her brother-in-law, would get up and buy a paper. But no, Margaret was not one to leave her nice warm bed for such a silly reason.

    Was it tomorrow Daisy was coming back? Yes¡ªtomorrow, not today. Well, that was a comfort. Daisy would have amusing tales about her visit to Margaret. The girl had an excellent gift of mimicry, and Margaret, with her precise, funny ways and her perpetual talk about ¡°the family,¡± lent herself to the cruel gift.

    Then Mrs. Bernard¡¯s mind wandered off to young Chandler. Love was a funny thing when you thought about it¡ªwhich she, Ellen Bernard, didn¡¯t often do. There was Jerry, a likely young fellow, seeing a lot of pretty young women¡ªquite as pretty as Daisy and ten times more artful¡ªand yet, he passed them all by since last summer, though you could be sure those artful minxes didn¡¯t pass him by without giving him a thought! As Daisy wasn¡¯t here, he would probably keep away today. There was comfort in that thought too.

    Then Mrs. Bernard sat up, and memory returned in a dreadful, turgid flood. If Jerry did come in, she must brace herself to hear all the talk about The Rose Killer between him and Bernard.

    Slowly she dragged herself out of bed, feeling as if she had just recovered from an illness that had left her very weak, very tired in body and soul.

    She stood for a moment, listening¡ªlistening and shivering, for it was very cold. Despite the early hour, there seemed to be a lot of commotion in the Marylebone Road. She could hear the unaccustomed sounds through her closed door and tightly sealed windows. There must be a crowd of men and women, on foot and in cabs, hurrying to the scene of The Rose Killer¡¯s latest extraordinary crime.

    She heard the sudden thud of their usual morning paper falling from the letterbox onto the floor of the hall. A moment later came the sound of Bernard quickly, quietly retrieving it. She visualized him coming back, sitting down with a sigh of satisfaction by the newly-lit fire.

    Languidly, she began dressing herself to the accompaniment of distant tramping and the noise of passing traffic, which increased in volume as the moments slipped by.

    When Mrs. Bernard went down into her kitchen, everything looked just as she had left it, and there was no trace of the acrid smell she had expected to find there. Instead, the cavernous, whitewashed room was filled with fog, but she noticed that, though the shutters were bolted and barred as she had left them, the windows behind them had been opened wide to the air. She had left them shut.

    Making a ¡°spill¡± out of a twist of newspaper¡ªshe had been taught the art as a girl by one of her old mistresses¡ªshe stooped and flung open the oven door of her gas stove. As she had expected, a fierce heat had been generated there since she had last used the oven, and a mass of black, gluey soot had fallen through to the stone floor below.

    Mrs. Bernard took the ham and eggs she had bought the previous day for her and Bernard¡¯s breakfast upstairs and broiled them over the gas ring in their sitting room. Her husband watched her in surprised silence. She had never done such a thing before.

    ¡°I couldn¡¯t stay down there,¡± she said. ¡°It was so cold and foggy. I thought I¡¯d make breakfast up here, just for today.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± he said kindly. ¡°That¡¯s quite right, Ellen. I think you¡¯ve done quite right, my dear.¡±

    But when it came time to eat, his wife could not touch the nice breakfast she had prepared; she only had another cup of tea.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid you¡¯re ill, Ellen?¡± Bernard asked solicitously.

    ¡°No,¡± she said shortly. ¡°I¡¯m not ill at all. Don¡¯t be silly! The thought of that horrible thing happening so close by has upset me and put me off my food. Just listen to them now!¡±

    Through their closed windows penetrated the sound of scurrying feet and loud, ribald laughter. What a crowd¡ªnay, what a mob¡ªmust be hastening busily to and from the spot where there was now nothing to be seen!

    Mrs. Bernard made her husband lock the front gate. ¡°I don¡¯t want any of those ghouls in here!¡± she exclaimed angrily. Then she added, ¡°What a lot of idle people there are in the world!¡±

 Chapter 16

    <hr>

    Bernard began moving about the room restlessly. He would go to the window, stand there awhile staring out at the people hurrying past, then come back to the fireplace and sit down. But he couldn¡¯t stay quiet for long. After a glance at his paper, he would rise from his chair and go to the window again.

    ¡°I wish you¡¯d stay still,¡± his wife said at last. And then, a few minutes later, she exclaimed, ¡°Why don¡¯t you put on your hat and coat and go out?¡±

    Bernard, with a rather shamed expression, did as she suggested. As he put on his hat and coat and stepped out, he told himself that he was only human; it was natural to be thrilled and excited by the dreadful, extraordinary thing that had just happened so close by. Ellen wasn¡¯t reasonable about such things. How queer and disagreeable she had been that very morning¡ªangry with him for going out to hear what all the commotion was about, and even more angry when he came back and said nothing to avoid upsetting her!

    Meanwhile, Mrs. Bernard forced herself to go down to the kitchen. As she entered the low, whitewashed room, a tremor of fear and quick terror came over her. She turned and did something she had never done before in her life, something she had never heard of anyone else doing in a kitchen: she bolted the door.

    But, finding herself alone, shut off from everyone, she was still beset by a strange, uncanny dread. It felt as if she were locked in with an invisible presence that mocked, jeered, reproached, and threatened her by turns.

    Why had she allowed, nay encouraged, Daisy to go away for two days? Daisy, at least, was company¡ªkind, young, unsuspecting company. With Daisy, she could be her old sharp self. It was such a comfort to be with someone to whom she need not say anything. With Bernard, she was pursued by a sick feeling of guilt and shame. She was the man¡¯s wedded wife¡ªin his stolid way, he was very kind to her, and yet she was keeping something from him that he certainly had a right to know.

    Not for worlds, however, would she have told Bernard of her dreadful suspicion¡ªnay, her almost certainty.

    At last, she went to the door and unlocked it. Then she went upstairs and turned out her bedroom. That made her feel a little better.

    She longed for Bernard to return, yet in a way, she was relieved by his absence. She wanted to feel him nearby, yet she welcomed anything that took her husband out of the house.

    As Mrs. Bernard swept and dusted, trying to put her whole mind into what she was doing, she constantly asked herself what was going on upstairs. What a good rest the lodger was having! But that was only natural. Mr. Basset, as she well knew, had been up late last night¡ªor rather, early this morning.

    Suddenly, the drawing-room bell rang. But instead of going up immediately, as she generally did, she first hurriedly prepared the lodger¡¯s simple meal, which was both his luncheon and breakfast combined.

    Then, very slowly, with her heart beating queerly, she walked up. Just outside the sitting room¡ªfor she felt sure that Mr. Basset was there already, waiting for her¡ªshe rested the tray on the top of the banisters and listened. For a few moments, she heard nothing; then through the door came the high, quavering voice with which she had become so familiar:

    ¡°¡®She saith to him, stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant. But he knoweth not that the dead are there, and that her guests are in the depths of hell.¡¯¡±

    There was a long pause. Mrs. Bernard could hear the leaves of the Bible being turned over eagerly, busily; and then again Mr. Basset broke out, this time in a softer voice:

    ¡°¡®She hath cast down many wounded from her; yea, many strong men have been slain by her.¡¯¡± And in a softer, lower, plaintive tone came the words: ¡°¡®I applied my heart to know, and to search, and to seek out wisdom and the reason of things; and to know the wickedness of folly, even of foolishness and madness.¡¯¡±

    As she stood there listening, a feeling of keen distress and spiritual oppression came over Mrs. Bernard. For the first time in her life, she envisioned the infinite mystery, the sadness and strangeness, of human existence.

    Poor Mr. Basset¡ªpoor unhappy, distraught Mr. Basset! An overwhelming pity blotted out, for a moment, the fear and loathing she had been feeling for her lodger.

    She knocked at the door, then took up her tray.

    ¡°Come in, Mrs. Bernard.¡± Mr. Basset¡¯s voice sounded feebler, more toneless than usual.

    She turned the handle of the door and walked in. The lodger was not sitting in his usual place; he had moved the small round table where his candle generally rested when he read in bed, and placed it by the drawing-room window. On it lay an open Bible and a Concordance. As his landlady entered, Mr. Basset hastily closed the Bible and began staring dreamily out of the window at the sordid, hurrying crowd of men and women now sweeping along the Marylebone Road.

    ¡°There seem to be a great many people out today,¡± he observed without looking around.

    ¡°Yes, sir, there do,¡± Mrs. Bernard replied, her voice steady but her heart racing.

    She busied herself with laying the cloth and putting out the breakfast-lunch, all the while seized with a mortal, instinctive terror of the man sitting there.

    At last, Mr. Basset got up and turned around. She forced herself to look at him. How tired, how worn he appeared, and¡ªhow strange.

    Walking towards the table where his meal lay, he rubbed his hands together with a nervous gesture¡ªone she recognized as a sign of something that had pleased him. Mrs. Bernard remembered that he had rubbed his hands together in this way when he first saw the room upstairs and realized it contained a large gas stove and a convenient sink.

    What Mr. Basset was doing now also reminded her in an odd way of a play she had once seen¡ªa play to which a young man had taken her when she was a girl, unnumbered years ago, and which had thrilled and fascinated her. ¡°Out, out, damned spot!¡± the tall, fierce, beautiful actress had cried, twisting her hands together just as the lodger was doing now.

    ¡°It¡¯s a fine day,¡± said Mr. Basset, sitting down and unfolding his napkin. ¡°The fog has cleared. I do not know if you will agree with me, Mrs. Bernard, but I always feel brighter when the sun is shining, as it is now, at any rate, trying to shine.¡± He looked at her inquiringly, but Mrs. Bernard could not speak. She only nodded. However, that did not seem to affect Mr. Basset adversely.

    He had acquired a great liking and respect for this well-balanced, taciturn woman. She was the first woman for whom he had experienced any such feelings in many years.

    He looked down at the still-covered dish and shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t feel as if I could eat very much today,¡± he said plaintively. Then he suddenly took a half-sovereign out of his waistcoat pocket.

    Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on.

    Mrs. Bernard noticed that it was not the same waistcoat Mr. Basset had been wearing the day before.

    ¡°Mrs. Bernard, may I ask you to come here?¡±

    After a moment of hesitation, his landlady obeyed him.

    ¡°Will you please accept this little gift for the use you kindly allowed me to make of your kitchen last night?¡± he said quietly. ¡°I tried to make as little mess as I could, Mrs. Bernard, but¡ªthe truth is, I was carrying out a very elaborate experiment.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard held out her hand. She hesitated, then took the coin. The fingers that brushed lightly against her palm were icy cold¡ªcold and clammy. Mr. Basset was evidently not well.

    As she walked down the stairs, the winter sun, a scarlet ball hanging in the smoky sky, glinted in on Mr. Basset¡¯s landlady, casting blood-red gleams¡ªso it seemed to her¡ªonto the piece of gold she held in her hand.

    The day went by as other days had in that quiet household, but there was far greater animation outside than usual.

    Perhaps because the sun was shining for the first time in days, all of London seemed to be making a holiday in that part of town.

    When Bernard finally returned, his wife listened silently as he recounted the extraordinary excitement reigning everywhere. After he had been talking for a long while, she suddenly shot him a strange look.

    ¡°I suppose you went to see the place?¡± she said.

    Guiltily, he acknowledged that he had.

    ¡°Well?¡±

    ¡°Well, there wasn¡¯t much to see¡ªnot now. But, oh, Ellen, the audacity of him! If the poor soul had had time to cry out¡ªwhich they don¡¯t believe she did¡ªsomeone would¡¯ve heard her. They say that if he keeps doing it like this¡ªin broad daylight¡ªhe might never be caught. He must¡¯ve blended in with the crowd within seconds of what he¡¯d done!¡±

    During the afternoon, Bernard bought papers recklessly¡ªhe must have spent the best part of sixpence. But despite all the supposed and suggested clues, there was nothing¡ªnothing new to read, less even than before. The police, it was clear, were at a complete loss. Mrs. Bernard began to feel curiously better, less tired, less ill, less¡ªterrified than she had felt throughout the morning.

    And then something happened that shattered the quietude of the day with dramatic suddenness.

    They had just finished their tea, and Bernard was reading the latest paper he had run out to buy, when suddenly there came a loud, thundering, double knock at the door.

    Mrs. Bernard looked up, startled. ¡°Whoever can that be?¡± she said.

    But as Bernard got up, she quickly added, ¡°You sit down. I¡¯ll go myself. Sounds like someone after lodgings. I¡¯ll soon send them packing!¡±

    She left the room, but not before another loud double knock echoed through the house.

    Mrs. Bernard opened the front door. Standing there was a stranger¡ªa big, dark man with fierce, black mustaches. Somehow, he immediately suggested a policeman to Mrs. Bernard¡¯s mind.

    This notion was confirmed by his very first words. ¡°I¡¯m here to execute a warrant!¡± he exclaimed in a theatrical, hollow tone.

    With a weak cry of protest, Mrs. Bernard suddenly threw out her arms as if to bar the way; she turned deadly white¡ªbut then, in an instant, the supposed stranger¡¯s laugh rang out, loud, jovial, and familiar.

    ¡°There now, Mrs. Bernard! I never thought I¡¯d take you in as well as all that!¡±

    It was Jerry Chandler¡ªJerry Chandler dressed up, as he occasionally did for his work.

    Mrs. Bernard began laughing¡ªhelplessly, hysterically, just as she had on the morning of Daisy¡¯s arrival, when the newspaper-sellers had come shouting down the Marylebone Road.

    ¡°What¡¯s all this about?¡± Bernard came out, looking concerned.

    Young Chandler, looking sheepish, shut the front door. ¡°I didn¡¯t mean to upset her like this,¡± he said, looking foolish. ¡°¡¯Twas just my silly nonsense, Mr. Bernard.¡± Together, they helped her into the sitting room.

    But once there, Mrs. Bernard¡¯s hysteria worsened; she threw her black apron over her face and began to sob hysterically.

    ¡°I made sure she¡¯d know who I was when I spoke,¡± the young fellow continued apologetically. ¡°But there now, I have upset her. I am sorry!¡±

    ¡°It don¡¯t matter!¡± she exclaimed, throwing the apron off her face, though tears still streamed from her eyes as she sobbed and laughed by turns. ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter one bit, Jerry! ¡¯Twas stupid of me to be so taken aback. But that murder that happened close by, it¡¯s just upset me¡ªupset me altogether today.¡±

    ¡°Enough to upset anyone¡ªthat was,¡± acknowledged the young man ruefully. ¡°I¡¯ve only come in for a minute. I shouldn¡¯t be here while I¡¯m on duty like this¡ª¡±

    Jerry Chandler glanced longingly at the remnants of the meal still on the table.

    ¡°You can take a minute to have a bite and a sup,¡± said Bernard hospitably. ¡°Then you can tell us any news, Jerry. We¡¯re right in the thick of things now, aren¡¯t we?¡± He spoke with evident enjoyment, almost pride, in the gruesome fact.

    Jerry nodded. Already his mouth was full of bread and butter. He waited a moment, then said, ¡°Well, I have got one piece of news¡ªnot that I suppose it¡¯ll interest you much.¡±

    They both looked at him¡ªMrs. Bernard suddenly calm, though her chest still heaved from time to time.

    ¡°Our boss has resigned!¡± said Jerry Chandler slowly, impressively.

    ¡°No! Not the Commissioner of Police?¡± exclaimed Bernard.

    ¡°Yes, he has. He can¡¯t bear what¡¯s being said about us any longer¡ªand I don¡¯t blame him! He did his best, and so have we all. The public has gone daft¡ªin the West End, that is, today. As for the papers, well, they¡¯re something cruel¡ªthat¡¯s what they are. And the ridiculous ideas they print! You¡¯d never believe the things they ask us to do¡ªand they¡¯re quite serious about it.¡±

    ¡°What do you mean?¡± questioned Mrs. Bernard. She genuinely wanted to know.

    ¡°Well, the Courier declares there ought to be a house-to-house investigation¡ªall over London. Just think of it! Everybody to let the police search their houses, from garret to kitchen, just to see if The Rose Killer isn¡¯t hiding there. Dotty, I call it! Why, it¡¯d take us months just to do that one job in a city like London.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯d like to see them dare come into my house!¡± said Mrs. Bernard angrily.

    ¡°Well, you see, it¡¯s this way. The newspapers were always saying how extraordinary it was that The Rose Killer chose such peculiar times to strike¡ªtimes when no one¡¯s about. Now, doesn¡¯t it stand to reason that the fellow, reading all that, and seeing the sense of it, said to himself, ¡®I¡¯ll go on another tack this time¡¯? Just listen to this!¡± He pulled a strip of paper, part of a column cut from a newspaper, out of his pocket.

    ¡°¡¯AN EX-LORD MAYOR OF LONDON ON THE ROSE KILLER"

    ¡®Will the murderer be caught? Yes,¡¯ replied Sir John, ¡¯he will certainly be caught¡ªprobably when he commits his next crime. A whole army of bloodhounds, metaphorical and literal, will be on his track the moment he draws blood again. With the whole community against him, he cannot escape, especially when it is remembered that he chooses the quietest hour in the twenty-four to commit his crimes. ¡°¡®Londoners are now in such a state of nerves¡ªif I may use the expression, in such a state of funk¡ªthat every passer-by, however innocent, is looked at with suspicion by his neighbor if his avocation happens to take him abroad between the hours of one and three in the morning.¡¯ ¡°I¡¯d like to gag that ex-Lord Mayor!¡± concluded Jerry Chandler wrathfully.

    Just then, the lodger¡¯s bell rang.

    ¡°Let me go up, my dear,¡± said Bernard, noticing his wife still looked pale and shaken.

    ¡°No, no,¡± she said hastily. ¡°You stay down here and talk to Jerry. I¡¯ll look after Mr. Basset. He may want his supper a bit earlier today.¡±

    Slowly, painfully, feeling as if her legs were made of cotton wool, she dragged herself up to the first floor, knocked at the door, and then went in.

    ¡°You did ring, sir?¡± she asked in her quiet, respectful way.

    Mr. Basset looked up. She thought¡ªbut later reminded herself it might have been just her imagination¡ªthat for the first time, the lodger looked frightened, frightened and cowed.

    ¡°I heard a noise downstairs,¡± he said fretfully, ¡°and I wanted to know what it was all about. As I told you, Mrs. Bernard, when I first took these rooms, quiet is essential to me.¡±

    ¡°It was just a friend of ours, sir. I¡¯m sorry you were disturbed. Would you like the knocker taken off tomorrow? Bernard can do it if you don¡¯t like the sound of knocks.¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, I wouldn¡¯t put you to such trouble as that.¡± Mr. Basset looked relieved. ¡°Just a friend of yours, was it, Mrs. Bernard? He made a great deal of noise.¡±

    ¡°Just a young fellow,¡± she said apologetically. ¡°The son of one of Bernard¡¯s old friends. He often comes here, sir; but he never gave such a great big double knock before. I¡¯ll speak to him about it.¡±

    ¡°Oh, no, Mrs. Bernard. I would really prefer you did nothing of the kind. It was just a passing annoyance¡ªnothing more!¡±

    She waited a moment. How strange that Mr. Basset said nothing of the hoarse cries which had turned the road outside into a perfect Bedlam every hour or two throughout the day. But no, Mr. Basset made no allusion to what might well have disturbed any quiet gentleman at his reading.

    ¡°I thought maybe you¡¯d like to have supper a little earlier tonight, sir?¡±

    ¡°Just whenever you like, Mrs. Bernard¡ªwhenever it¡¯s convenient. I do not wish to put you out in any way.¡±

    She felt herself dismissed and, going out quietly, closed the door behind her.

    As she did so, she heard the front door banging shut. She sighed¡ªJerry Chandler was really a very noisy young fellow.

 Chapter 17

    <hr>

    Mrs. Bernard slept well the night following the lodger¡¯s mysterious experiments in her kitchen. She was so tired, so utterly exhausted, that sleep came to her the moment her head hit the pillow.

    Perhaps that was why she rose so early the next morning. Hardly giving herself time to swallow the tea Bernard had made and brought her, she got up and dressed.

    She had suddenly decided that the hall and staircase required a thorough cleaning, and she didn¡¯t even wait until breakfast was over before beginning her labors. It made Bernard feel quite uncomfortable. As he sat by the fire reading his morning paper¡ªthe paper which was again of such absorbing interest¡ªhe called out, ¡°There¡¯s no need for so much hurry, Ellen. Daisy¡¯ll be back today. Why don¡¯t you wait till she¡¯s home to help you?¡±

    From the hall, where she was busy dusting, sweeping, and polishing, his wife¡¯s voice came back: ¡°Girls aren¡¯t no good at this sort of work. Don¡¯t you worry about me. I feel like doing an extra bit of cleaning today. I don¡¯t like to think anyone could come in and see my place dirty.¡±

    ¡°No fear of that!¡± Bernard chuckled. Then a new thought struck him. ¡°Aren¡¯t you afraid of waking the lodger?¡± he called out.

    ¡°Mr. Basset slept most of yesterday and all last night,¡± she answered quickly. ¡°As it is, I study him over-much; it¡¯s a long, long time since I¡¯ve done this staircase down.¡±

    All the while she was cleaning the hall, Mrs. Bernard left the sitting-room door wide open. It was a queer thing for her to do, but Bernard didn¡¯t like to get up and shut her out, as it were. Still, try as he might, he couldn¡¯t read with any comfort while all that noise was going on. He had never known Ellen to make such a racket before. Once or twice he looked up and frowned rather crossly.

    There came a sudden silence, and he was startled to see Ellen standing in the doorway, staring at him, doing nothing.

    ¡°Come in,¡± he said, ¡°do! Aren¡¯t you finished yet?¡±

    ¡°I was just resting a minute,¡± she said. ¡°You don¡¯t tell me nothing. I¡¯d like to know if there¡¯s anything¡ªI mean anything new¡ªin the paper this morning.¡±

    She spoke in a muffled voice, almost as if she were ashamed of her unusual curiosity, and her look of fatigue, of pallor, made Bernard suddenly uneasy. ¡°Come in¡ªdo!¡± he repeated sharply. ¡°You¡¯ve done quite enough¡ªand before breakfast, too. It isn¡¯t necessary. Come in and shut that door.¡±

    He spoke authoritatively, and his wife, for a wonder, obeyed him.

    She came in and did something she had never done before¡ªshe brought the broom with her and propped it up against the wall in the corner.

    Then she sat down.

    ¡°I think I¡¯ll make breakfast up here,¡± she said. ¡°I¡ªI feel cold, Bernard.¡± Her husband stared at her, surprised, for drops of perspiration were glistening on her forehead.

    He got up. ¡°All right. I¡¯ll go down and bring the eggs up. Don¡¯t you worry. For that matter, I can cook them downstairs if you like.¡±

    ¡°No,¡± she said obstinately. ¡°I¡¯d rather do my own work. You just bring them up here¡ªthat¡¯ll be all right. Tomorrow morning we¡¯ll have Daisy to help see to things.¡±

    ¡°Come over here and sit down comfortably in my chair,¡± he suggested kindly. ¡°You never do take any bit of rest, Ellen. I¡¯ve never seen such a woman!¡±

    Again she got up and meekly obeyed him, walking across the room with languid steps.

    He watched her anxiously, uncomfortably.

    She picked up the newspaper he had just laid down, and Bernard took two steps towards her.

    ¡°I¡¯ll show you the most interesting bit,¡± he said eagerly. ¡°It¡¯s the piece headed, ¡®Our Special Investigator.¡¯ You see, they¡¯ve started a special investigator of their own, and he¡¯s got hold of a lot of little facts the police seem to have overlooked. The man who writes all that¡ªI mean the Special Investigator¡ªwas a famous detective in his time, and he¡¯s just come out of retirement to do this bit of work for the paper. You read what he says¡ªI wouldn¡¯t be a bit surprised if he ends up getting that reward! One can see he just loves the work of tracking people down.¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s nothing to be proud of in such a job,¡± said his wife listlessly.

    ¡°He¡¯ll have something to be proud of if he catches The Rose Killer!¡± cried Bernard. He was too keen about the affair to be put off by Ellen¡¯s contradictory remarks. ¡°Just notice that bit about the rubber soles. Now, no one¡¯s thought of that. I¡¯ll just tell Chandler¡ªhe doesn¡¯t seem to me to be half awake, that young man doesn¡¯t.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯s quite wide awake enough without you saying things to him! How about those eggs, Bernard? I feel quite ready for my breakfast even if you don¡¯t.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard now spoke in what her husband sometimes secretly described to himself as ¡°Ellen¡¯s snarling voice.¡±

    He turned away and left the room, feeling oddly troubled. There was something off about her, and he couldn¡¯t quite put his finger on it. It wasn¡¯t the sharp and nasty tone she sometimes used; he was used to that. But now, she was so up and down, so different from what she used to be. In the old days, she had always been the same, but now a man never knew where he stood with her.

    As he went downstairs, he pondered uneasily over his wife¡¯s changed ways and mannerisms.

    Take the question of his easy chair. A very small matter, no doubt, but he had never known Ellen to sit in that chair¡ªno, not even once, for a minute¡ªsince it had been purchased by her as a present for him.

    They had been so happy, so restful, during that first week after Mr. Basset had come to them. Perhaps it was the sudden, dramatic change from agonizing anxiety to peace and security that had been too much for Ellen. Yes, that was what was the matter with her, that and the universal excitement about these Rose Killer murders, which were shaking the nerves of all London. Even Bernard, unobservant as he was, had come to realize that his wife took a morbid interest in these terrible happenings. And it was all the more peculiar because at first, she had refused to discuss them and had said openly that she was utterly uninterested in murder or crime of any sort.

    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

    He, Bernard, had always had a mild pleasure in such things. In his time, he had been a great reader of detective tales, and even now he thought there was no pleasanter reading. It was that which had first drawn him to Jerry Chandler and made him welcome the young chap as cordially as he had when they first came to London.

    But though Ellen had tolerated, she had never encouraged, that sort of talk between the two men. More than once, she had exclaimed reproachfully, ¡°To hear you two, one would think there were no nice, respectable, quiet people left in the world!¡±

    But now all that was changed. She was as keen as anyone could be to hear the latest details of a Rose Killer crime. True, she took her own view of any theory suggested. But there! Ellen always had her own notions about everything under the sun. Ellen was a woman who thought for herself¡ªa clever woman, not an everyday woman by any means.

    While these thoughts were going disconnectedly through his mind, Bernard was breaking four eggs into a basin. He was going to give Ellen a nice little surprise¡ªan omelette as a French chef had once taught him to make, years and years ago. He didn¡¯t know how she would take his doing such a thing after what she had said; but never mind, she would enjoy the omelette when done. Ellen hadn¡¯t been eating her food properly of late.

    When he went up again, his wife, to his relief and surprise, took it very well. She hadn¡¯t even noticed how long he had been downstairs, for she had been reading with intense, painful care the column that the great daily paper they took in had allotted to the one-time famous detective.

    According to this Special Investigator¡¯s account, he had discovered all sorts of things that had escaped the eye of the police and official detectives. For instance, due to a fortunate chance, he had been at the place where the two last murders had been committed very soon after the double crime had been discovered¡ªin fact, within half an hour¡ªand he had found, or so he felt sure, imprints of the murderer¡¯s right foot on the slippery, wet pavement.

    The paper reproduced the impression of a half-worn rubber sole. At the same time, he also admitted¡ªbecause the Special Investigator was very honest, and he had a good bit of space to fill in the enterprising paper that had engaged him to probe the awful mystery¡ªthat there were thousands of rubber soles being worn in London...

    When she came to that statement, Mrs. Bernard looked up, and a wan smile crossed her thin, closely-shut lips. It was quite true¡ªthat about rubber soles; there were thousands of them being worn just now. She felt grateful to the Special Investigator for having stated the fact so clearly.

    The column ended with the words: ¡°And today will take place the inquest on the double crime of ten days ago. To my mind, it would be well if a preliminary public inquiry could be held at once. Say, on the very day the discovery of a fresh murder is made. In that way alone would it be possible to weigh and sift the evidence offered by members of the general public. For when a week or more has elapsed, and these same people have been examined and cross-examined in private by the police, their impressions have had time to become blurred and hopelessly confused. On that last occasion but one there seems no doubt that several people, at any rate two women and one man, actually saw the murderer hurrying from the scene of his atrocious double crime¡ªthis being so, today¡¯s investigation may be of the highest value and importance. Tomorrow I hope to give an account of the impression made on me by the inquest, and by any statements made during its course.¡±

    Even when her husband had come in with the tray, Mrs. Bernard had gone on reading, only lifting her eyes for a moment. At last, he said rather crossly, ¡°Put down that paper, Ellen, this minute! The omelet I¡¯ve cooked for you will be just like leather if you don¡¯t eat it.¡±

    But once his wife had begun her breakfast¡ªand to Bernard¡¯s mortification, she left more than half the nice omelet untouched¡ªshe took up the paper again. She turned over the big sheets until she found, at the foot of one of the ten columns devoted to The Rose Killer and his crimes, the information she wanted, and then uttered an exclamation under her breath.

    What Mrs. Bernard had been looking for¡ªwhat she had finally found¡ªwas the time and place of the inquest to be held that day. The hour named was rather odd¡ªtwo o¡¯clock in the afternoon¡ªbut from Mrs. Bernard¡¯s point of view, it was most convenient. By two o¡¯clock, or rather by half-past one, the lodger would have had his lunch; by hurrying matters a little, she and Bernard would have had their dinner, and¡ªDaisy wasn¡¯t coming home until tea-time.

    She got up out of her husband¡¯s chair. ¡°I think you¡¯re right,¡± she said in a quick, hoarse tone. ¡°I mean about me seeing a doctor, Bernard. I think I will go and see a doctor this very afternoon.¡±

    ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you like me to go with you?¡± he asked, concern in his voice.

    ¡°No, that I wouldn¡¯t. In fact, I wouldn¡¯t go at all if you were to go with me.¡±

    ¡°All right,¡± he said, vexedly. ¡°Please yourself, my dear; you know best.¡±

    ¡°I should think I did know best where my own health is concerned.¡±

    Even Bernard was incensed by this lack of gratitude. ¡°¡¯Twas I who said long ago you ought to go and see the doctor; ¡¯twas you who said you wouldn¡¯t!¡± he exclaimed pugnaciously.

    ¡°Well, I never said you were never right, did I? At any rate, I¡¯m going.¡±

    ¡°Have you a pain anywhere?¡± He stared at her with genuine concern on his normally phlegmatic face.

    Somehow, Ellen didn¡¯t look right, standing there opposite him. Her shoulders seemed to have shrunk; even her cheeks had sunken in a little. She had never looked so bad¡ªnot even when they had been half-starving and dreadfully overworked.

    ¡°Yes,¡± she said briefly, ¡°I¡¯ve a pain in my head, at the back of my neck. It doesn¡¯t often leave me; it gets worse when anything upsets me, like I was upset last night by Jerry Chandler.¡±

    ¡°He was a silly ass to come and do a thing like that!¡± said Bernard crossly. ¡°I¡¯d a good mind to tell him so, too. But I must say, Ellen, I wonder he took you in¡ªhe didn¡¯t fool me!¡±

    ¡°Well, you had no chance he should¡ªyou knew who it was,¡± she said slowly.

    And Bernard remained silent, for Ellen was right. Jerry Chandler had already spoken when he, Bernard, came out into the hall and saw their cleverly disguised visitor.

    ¡°Those big black mustaches,¡± he went on complainingly, ¡°and that black wig¡ªwhy, it was ridiculous¡ªthat¡¯s what I call it!¡±

    ¡°Not to anyone who didn¡¯t know Jerry,¡± she retorted sharply.

    ¡°Well, I don¡¯t know. He didn¡¯t look like a real man¡ªnohow. If he¡¯s a wise lad, he won¡¯t let our Daisy ever see him looking like that!¡± Bernard laughed, a comfortable laugh.

    He had thought a good deal about Daisy and young Chandler the last two days, and on the whole, he was well pleased. It was a dull, unnatural life the girl was leading with Old Aunt. And Jerry was earning good money. They wouldn¡¯t have to wait long, these two young people, as many a beau and his girl often had to wait, as he, Bernard, and Daisy¡¯s mother had had to do, for ever so long before they could be married. No, there was no reason why they shouldn¡¯t be spliced quite soon¡ªif so the fancy took them. And Bernard had very little doubt that so the fancy would take Jerry, at any rate.

    But there was plenty of time. Daisy wouldn¡¯t be eighteen until the week after next. They might wait until she was twenty. By that time, Old Aunt might be dead, and Daisy might come into quite a tidy little bit of money.

    ¡°What are you smiling at?¡± his wife snapped, breaking his reverie.

    He shook himself. ¡°I¡ªsmiling? At nothing that I know of.¡± Then he waited a moment. ¡°Well, if you must know, Ellen, I was thinking of Daisy and that young chap Jerry Chandler. He is gone on her, isn¡¯t he?¡±

    ¡°Gone?¡± Mrs. Bernard laughed, a queer, odd, not unkindly laugh. ¡°Gone, Bernard? Why, he¡¯s out of sight¡ªright, out of sight!¡±

    Then, hesitatingly and looking narrowly at her husband, she continued, twisting a bit of her black apron with her fingers as she spoke: ¡°I suppose he¡¯ll be going over this afternoon to fetch her? Or¡ªdo you think he¡¯ll have to be at that inquest, Bernard?¡±

    ¡°Inquest? What inquest?¡± He looked at her, puzzled.

    ¡°Why, the inquest on those bodies found in the passage near King¡¯s Cross.¡±

    ¡°Oh, no; he¡¯d have no call to be at the inquest. For that matter, I know he¡¯s going over to fetch Daisy. He said so last night¡ªjust when you went up to the lodger.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s just as well.¡± Mrs. Bernard spoke with considerable satisfaction. ¡°Otherwise I suppose you¡¯d have had to go. I wouldn¡¯t like the house left¡ªnot with us out of it. Mr. Basset would be upset if there came a ring at the door.¡±

    ¡°Oh, I won¡¯t leave the house, don¡¯t you worry, Ellen¡ªnot while you¡¯re out.¡±

    ¡°Not even if I¡¯m out a good while, Bernard.¡±

    ¡°No fear. Of course, you¡¯ll be a long time if it¡¯s your idea to see that doctor at Eating?¡±

    He looked at her questioningly, and Mrs. Bernard nodded. Somehow, nodding didn¡¯t seem as bad as speaking a lie.

 Chapter 18

    <hr>

    Any ordeal is far less terrifying, far easier to meet with courage, when it is repeated, than is even a milder experience which is entirely novel.

    Mrs. Bernard had already attended an inquest as a witness, and it was one of the few events sharply etched against the somewhat blurred screen of her memory.

    Years ago, when she was still Ellen Green, she had been staying at a country house with her elderly mistress. It was there that one of those sudden, pitiful tragedies had occurred, shattering the serenity and apparent decorum of a large, respectable household.

    The under-housemaid, a pretty, happy-natured girl, had drowned herself for love of the footman, who had given his sweetheart cause for bitter jealousy. The girl had chosen to confide in the strange lady¡¯s maid rather than her own fellow-servants, and it was during their conversation that she had threatened to take her own life.

    As Mrs. Bernard put on her outdoor clothes, preparing to go out, she recalled very clearly all the details of that dreadful affair and the part she had unwillingly played in it.

    She visualized the country inn where the inquest on that poor, unfortunate creature had been held.

    The butler had escorted her from the Hall, for he too was to give evidence, and as they arrived, there had been a look of cheerful animation about the inn yard¡ªpeople coming and going, many women as well as men, village folk, among whom the dead girl¡¯s fate had aroused a great deal of interest and the kind of horror which those who live in a dull countryside welcome rather than avoid.

    Everyone there had been particularly nice and polite to her, to Ellen Green; there had been a time of waiting in a room upstairs in the old inn, and the witnesses had been accommodated not only with chairs but with cake and wine.

    She remembered how she had dreaded being a witness, how she had felt as if she would rather run away from her nice, easy place than have to get up and tell the little that she knew of the sad business.

    But it had not been so very dreadful after all. The coroner had been a kindly-spoken gentleman; in fact, he had complimented her on the clear, sensible way she had given her evidence concerning the exact words the unhappy girl had used.

    One thing Ellen Green had said, in answer to a question put by an inquisitive juryman, had raised a laugh in the crowded, low-ceilinged room. ¡°Ought not Miss Ellen Green,¡± the man had asked, ¡°to have told someone of the girl¡¯s threat? If she had done so, might not the girl have been prevented from throwing herself into the lake?¡± And she, the witness, had answered, with some asperity¡ªfor by that time the coroner¡¯s kind manner had put her at ease¡ªthat she had not attached any importance to what the girl had threatened to do, never believing that any young woman could be so silly as to drown herself for love!

    Vaguely, Mrs. Bernard supposed that the inquest she was going to attend this afternoon would be like that country inquest of long ago.

    It had been no mere perfunctory inquiry; she remembered very well how little by little that pleasant-spoken gentleman, the coroner, had extracted the whole truth¡ªthe story of how that horrid footman, whom she, Ellen Green, had disliked from the first minute she had set eyes on him, had taken up with another young woman. It had been supposed that this fact would not be elicited by the coroner; but it had been, quietly, remorselessly. More, the dead girl¡¯s letters had been read out¡ªpiteous, queerly expressed letters, full of wild love and bitter, threatening jealousy. And the jury had censured the young man most severely; she remembered the look on his face when the people, shrinking back, had made a passage for him to slink out of the crowded room.

    Come to think of it now, it was strange she had never told Bernard that long-ago tale. It had occurred years before she knew him, and somehow nothing had ever happened to make her tell him about it.

    She wondered whether Bernard had ever been to an inquest. She longed to ask him. But if she asked him now, this minute, he might guess where she was thinking of going.

    And then, while still moving about her bedroom, she shook her head¡ªno, no, Bernard would never guess such a thing; he would never, never suspect her of telling him a lie.

    Stop¡ªhad she told a lie? She did mean to go to the doctor after the inquest was finished¡ªif there was time, that is. She wondered uneasily how long such an inquiry was likely to last. In this case, as so very little had been discovered, the proceedings would surely be very formal¡ªformal and therefore short.

    She had one quite definite objective¡ªto hear the evidence of those who believed they had seen the murderer leaving the spot where his victims lay, weltering in their still-flowing blood. She was filled with a painful, secret, and yes, eager curiosity to hear how those who were so positive about the matter would describe the appearance of The Rose Killer. After all, a lot of people must have seen him, for as Bernard had said only the day before to young Chandler, The Rose Killer was not a ghost; he was a living man with some kind of hiding place where he was known, and where he spent his time between his awful crimes.

    As she came back to the sitting-room, her extreme pallor struck her husband.

    ¡°Why, Ellen,¡± he said, ¡°it¡¯s high time you saw the doctor. You look like you¡¯re heading to a funeral. I¡¯ll come along with you as far as the station. You¡¯re taking the train, aren¡¯t you? Not the bus? It¡¯s a long way to Ealing, you know.¡±

    ¡°There you go! Breaking your solemn promise to me the very first minute!¡± But her tone wasn¡¯t unkind, only fretful and sad.

    Bernard hung his head. ¡°Why, I¡¯d clean forgotten about the lodger! But will you be all right, Ellen? Why not wait till tomorrow and take Daisy with you?¡±

    ¡°I like doing my own business in my own way, not in someone else¡¯s way!¡± she snapped. Then, more gently, seeing the genuine concern in his eyes, she added, ¡°I¡¯ll be all right, old man. Don¡¯t you worry about me.¡±

    As she turned to go to the door, she drew the black shawl she had put over her long jacket more closely around her shoulders.

    She felt ashamed, deeply ashamed, of deceiving such a kind husband. And yet, what could she do? How could she share her dreadful burden with poor Bernard? Why, it would be enough to drive a man mad. Even she often felt as if she could no longer bear it, as if she would give anything to tell someone¡ªanyone¡ªwhat it was that she suspected, what deep in her heart she so feared to be the truth.

    This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

    But, unknown to herself, the fresh outside air, fog-laden though it was, soon began to do her good. She had gone out far too little the last few days, plagued by a nervous terror of leaving the house unprotected and a great unwillingness to allow Bernard to interact with the lodger.

    When she reached the Underground station, she stopped short. There were two ways to get to St. Pancras¡ªby bus or train. She decided on the latter. But before turning into the station, her eyes strayed over the bills of the early afternoon papers lying on the ground.

    Two words, THE ROSE KILLER, stared up at her in varying type.

    Drawing her black shawl even closer about her shoulders, Mrs. Bernard looked down at the placards. She didn¡¯t feel inclined to buy a paper, as many of the people around her were doing. Her eyes were still smarting from following the close print in the paper Bernard took in.

    Slowly, she turned into the Underground station.

    And now a piece of extraordinary good fortune befell Mrs. Bernard.

    The third-class carriage she entered was empty, save for the presence of a police inspector. Once they were well on their way, she summoned the courage to ask him the question she knew she would have to ask someone within the next few minutes.

    ¡°Can you tell me,¡± she said in a low voice, ¡°where death inquests are held¡±¡ªshe moistened her lips, waited a moment, and then concluded¡ª¡°in the neighborhood of King¡¯s Cross?¡±

    The man turned and looked at her attentively. She didn¡¯t look at all like the sort of Londoner who goes to an inquest¡ªthere are many such¡ªjust for the thrill of it. Approvingly, for he was a widower, he noted her neat black coat and skirt, and the plain Princess bonnet that framed her pale, refined face.

    ¡°I¡¯m going to the Coroner¡¯s Court myself,¡± he said good-naturedly. ¡°So you can come along with me. With that big Rose Killer inquest going on today, they¡¯ll likely have other arrangements for¡ªhum, hum¡ªordinary cases.¡± As she looked at him dumbly, he continued, ¡°There¡¯ll be a mighty crowd of people at The Rose Killer inquest¡ªa lot of ticket holders to accommodate, to say nothing of the public.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s the inquest I¡¯m going to,¡± faltered Mrs. Bernard. She could scarcely get the words out. She realized with acute discomfort, and yes, shame, how strange, how untoward, her errand was. Fancy a respectable woman wanting to attend a murder inquest!

    During the last few days, all her perceptions had become sharpened by suspense and fear. She realized now, as she looked into the stolid face of her unknown companion, how she herself would have regarded any woman who wanted to attend such an inquiry out of morbid curiosity. And yet¡ªthat was just what she was about to do.

    ¡°I¡¯ve got a reason for wanting to go there,¡± she murmured. It was a comfort to unburden herself this little way, even to a stranger.

    ¡°Ah!¡± he said reflectively. ¡°A¡ªa relative connected with one of the two victims¡¯ husbands, I presume?¡±

    Mrs. Bernard nodded.

    ¡°Going to give evidence?¡± he asked casually, then turned and looked at her with far more attention.

    ¡°Oh, no!¡± There was a world of horror, of fear in her voice.

    The inspector felt concerned and sorry. ¡°Hadn¡¯t seen her for quite a long time, I suppose?¡±

    ¡°Never had seen her. I¡¯m from the country.¡± Something impelled Mrs. Bernard to say these words. But she hastily corrected herself, ¡°At least, I was.¡±

    ¡°Will he be there?¡±

    She looked at him dumbly, not understanding to whom he was alluding.

    ¡°I mean the husband,¡± the inspector clarified hastily. ¡°I felt sorry for the last poor chap¡ªI mean the husband of the last one¡ªhe seemed so awfully miserable. You see, she¡¯d been a good wife and a good mother till she took to the drink.¡±

    ¡°It always is so,¡± breathed Mrs. Bernard, her voice barely a whisper, as the weight of her secrets pressed down on her shoulders, mingling dread with a morbid sense of anticipation.

    ¡°Aye,¡± he said, pausing for a moment. ¡°D¡¯you know anyone about the court?¡±

    She shook her head.

    ¡°Well, don¡¯t you worry. I¡¯ll take you in with me. You¡¯d never get in by yourself.¡±

    They got out, and oh, the comfort of being in someone¡¯s charge, of having a determined man in uniform to look after one! And yet, even now, there was something dream-like, unsubstantial about the whole business to Mrs. Bernard.

    ¡°If he knew¡ªif he only knew what I know!¡± she kept saying over and over again to herself as she walked lightly beside the big, burly form of the police inspector.

    ¡°¡¯Tisn¡¯t far¡ªnot three minutes,¡± he said suddenly. ¡°Am I walking too quick for you, ma¡¯am?¡±

    ¡°No, not at all. I¡¯m a quick walker.¡±

    They turned a corner and came upon a mass of people, a densely packed crowd of men and women, staring at a mean-looking little door sunk into a high wall.

    ¡°Better take my arm,¡± the inspector suggested. ¡°Make way there! Make way!¡± he cried authoritatively, and he swept her through the serried ranks which parted at the sound of his voice and the sight of his uniform.

    ¡°Lucky you met me,¡± he said, smiling. ¡°You¡¯d never have gotten through alone. And ¡¯tain¡¯t a nice crowd, not by any manner of means.¡±

    The small door opened just a little way, and they found themselves on a narrow stone-flagged path, leading into a square yard. A few men were out there, smoking.

    Before leading her into the building that rose at the back of the yard, Mrs. Bernard¡¯s kind new friend took out his watch. ¡°There¡¯s another twenty minutes before they begin,¡± he said. ¡°There¡¯s the mortuary¡±¡ªhe pointed with his thumb to a low room built out to the right of the court. ¡°Would you like to go in and see them?¡± he whispered.

    ¡°Oh, no!¡± she cried, in a tone of extreme horror. He looked down at her with sympathy and increased respect. She was a nice, respectable woman, she was. She had not come here imbued with any morbid curiosity, but because she thought it her duty to do so. He suspected her of being a sister-in-law to one of The Rose Killer¡¯s victims.

    They walked through into a big room or hall, now full of men talking in subdued yet eager, animated tones.

    ¡°I think you¡¯d better sit down here,¡± he said considerately, leading her to one of the benches that stood out from the whitewashed walls, ¡°unless you¡¯d rather be with the witnesses, that is.¡±

    But again she said, ¡°Oh, no!¡± And then, with an effort, ¡°Oughtn¡¯t I to go into the court now, if it¡¯s likely to be so full?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t you worry,¡± he said kindly. ¡°I¡¯ll see you get a proper place. I must leave you now for a minute, but I¡¯ll come back in good time and look after you.¡±

    She raised the thick veil she had pulled down over her face while they were going through that sinister, wolfish-looking crowd outside, and looked about her.

    Many of the gentlemen¡ªthey mostly wore tall hats and good overcoats¡ªstanding around her looked vaguely familiar. She picked out one at once. He was a famous journalist, whose shrewd, animated face was familiar to her owing to the fact that it was widely advertised in connection with a preparation for the hair¡ªthe preparation which, in happier, more prosperous days, Bernard had had great faith in, and used, or so he always said, with great benefit to himself. This gentleman was the center of an eager circle; half a dozen men were talking to him, listening deferentially when he spoke, and each of these men, so Mrs. Bernard realized, was a Somebody.

    How strange, how amazing, to reflect that from all parts of London, from their doubtless important avocations, one unseen, mysterious beckoner had brought all these men together, to this sordid place, on this bitterly cold, dreary day. Here they were, all thinking of, talking of, evoking one unknown, mysterious personality¡ªthat of the shadowy and yet terribly real human being who chose to call himself The Rose Killer. And somewhere, not so very far away from them all, The Rose Killer was keeping these clever, astute, highly trained minds¡ªaye, and bodies, too¡ªat bay.

    Even Mrs. Bernard, sitting there unnoticed, realized the irony of her presence among them. She, who harbored suspicions and fears that none of them could even begin to fathom, was here among the elite of London¡¯s investigative world, drawn by a compulsion she could scarcely understand, let alone articulate.

 Chapter 19

    <hr>

    It seemed to Mrs. Bernard that she had been sitting there for an eternity¡ªit was really only about fifteen minutes¡ªwhen her official acquaintance returned.

    ¡°Better come along now,¡± he whispered, his voice like a ghostly breeze. ¡°It¡¯ll begin soon.¡±

    She followed him out into a dimly lit passage, up a row of steep, cold stone steps, and into the Coroner¡¯s Court.

    The courtroom was a large, well-lit room, with an eerie resemblance to a chapel. A gallery ran halfway around, clearly meant for the public, as it was now filled to bursting with curious faces. Mrs. Bernard glanced timidly at the sea of eager spectators. Had she not met the man she was now trailing, she would have been among them, struggling to find a place. She would have failed. The crowd had surged in the moment the doors opened, pushing and shoving in a manner she could never have matched.

    Among the throng were a few women¡ªdetermined, unyielding, driven by their hunger for sensation and their ability to force their way into any space they desired. But they were a minority; the bulk of the crowd was men, a cross-section of London society.

    The center of the court was like an arena, sunken a few steps below the surrounding gallery. It was relatively empty, save for the benches occupied by the jury. Some distance from them, huddled together in a large pew, stood seven people¡ªthree women and four men.

    ¡°See the witnesses?¡± whispered the inspector, pointing them out. He assumed she recognized one of them, but she made no sign.

    Between the windows, facing the room, was a small platform with a desk and an armchair. Mrs. Bernard guessed correctly that this was where the coroner would preside. To the left of the platform was the witness stand, raised high above the jury, adding to its intimidating presence.

    The scene was starkly different, far more grim and imposing than the inquest that had taken place long ago in the bright village inn. There, the coroner had sat at the same level as the jury, and the witnesses had simply stepped forward to speak.

    Looking around nervously, Mrs. Bernard felt she would die if ever subjected to the ordeal of standing in that confining, box-like stand. She gazed at the witnesses with sincere pity in her heart.

    But even she soon realized her pity was misplaced. Each woman witness appeared eager, excited, almost giddy with the attention. They reveled in their roles as key players in the drama captivating all of London¡ªindeed, the whole world.

    Mrs. Bernard wondered which witness was which. Was it that rather bedraggled young woman who had almost certainly seen The Rose Killer within seconds of the double murder? The woman who, alerted by a victim¡¯s scream, had rushed to her window to see the murderer¡¯s shadowy form pass swiftly in the fog?

    Another woman had given a detailed description of The Rose Killer, claiming he had brushed past her as he fled. These two had been interrogated and cross-examined countless times by police and reporters alike. From their conflicting accounts, the official description of The Rose Killer had emerged: a good-looking, respectable young man of twenty-eight, carrying a newspaper parcel.

    The third woman, Mrs. Bernard supposed, was likely an acquaintance or companion of the deceased.

    She turned her gaze from the witnesses to another unfamiliar sight. Prominently running through the center of the court was an ink-splattered table, at which three men had been sketching when she first arrived. Now, every seat was occupied by tired, intelligent-looking men with notebooks and loose sheets of paper.

    ¡°Them¡¯s the reporters,¡± whispered her friend. ¡°They don¡¯t like to come till the last minute, for they have to be the last to leave. At an ordinary inquest, there might be two or three, but now every paper in the kingdom wants a place at that table.¡±

    He looked thoughtfully down into the well of the court. ¡°Now, let me see what I can do for you¡ª¡±

    Then he beckoned to the coroner¡¯s officer, a man with a gaunt face and a dour expression. ¡°Perhaps you could put this lady just over there, in a corner by herself? Related to a relation of the deceased, but doesn¡¯t want to be...¡± He whispered a few words, and the officer nodded sympathetically, casting an intrigued glance at Mrs. Bernard.

    ¡°I¡¯ll put her just here,¡± he muttered, his voice a gravelly rumble. ¡°There¡¯s no one coming there today. You see, there are only seven witnesses¡ªsometimes we have a lot more than that.¡±

    With surprising gentleness, he guided her to an empty bench opposite where the seven witnesses stood and sat, their faces taut with a mix of eagerness and dread, ready¡ªalmost too ready¡ªto play their part.

    For a moment, every eye in the court was on Mrs. Bernard, a spotlight of curiosity and suspicion. But soon, the interest waned as the spectators realized she was just another onlooker, albeit one with a ¡°friend at court,¡± allowing her the rare privilege of a seat.

    Her solitude didn¡¯t last. Soon, the important-looking gentlemen she had glimpsed downstairs entered the court, some ushered to seats near her, while a few, including a famous writer whose face was so familiar it felt like an old friend¡¯s, were seated at the reporters¡¯ table.

    ¡°Gentlemen, the Coroner.¡±

    The jury stood, a restless shuffle of feet, then sat down again. A hush fell over the room, a silence so profound it seemed to echo.

    The proceedings began with the ancient call: ¡°Oyez! Oyez!¡°¡ªa ghostly echo from the past, summoning all to witness the solemn inquiry into the sudden, inexplicable, and horrifying death of a fellow human.

    The jury¡ªthere were fourteen of them¡ªstood again. They raised their hands, chanting the words of their oath with solemn gravity.

    A brief, informal exchange followed between the coroner and his officer. Yes, everything was in order. The jury had viewed the bodies¡ªno, the body, as technically this inquest concerned just one.

    In the ensuing silence, so complete that even a whisper could carry through the room, the coroner began to speak. He was younger than Mrs. Bernard had expected, his eyes sharp and his demeanor serious as he recounted the grim history of The Rose Killer¡¯s reign of terror.

    He spoke clearly, each word a precise note in a dirge, building a narrative that gripped his audience. He mentioned attending an inquest for one of The Rose Killer¡¯s earlier victims out of professional curiosity. ¡°Little thinking, gentlemen, that the inquest on one of these unfortunate souls would ever be held in my court,¡± he added, almost as an afterthought.

    On he went, though the information was familiar to all present. Mrs. Bernard caught a whispered exchange between two older men nearby: ¡°Drawing it out all he can; that¡¯s what he¡¯s doing. Having the time of his life, evidently!¡±

    ¡°Aye, aye,¡± the other replied, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. ¡°But he¡¯s a good chap¡ªI knew his father; we were at school together. Takes his job very seriously, you know¡ªhe does today, at any rate.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard listened intently, her heart pounding in her chest, waiting for a word, a sentence that might dispel her fears or confirm them. But the word, the sentence, never came.

    Yet, at the very end of his lengthy speech, the coroner offered a cryptic hint. ¡°I am glad to say that we hope to obtain such evidence today as will in time lead to the apprehension of the miscreant who has committed, and is still committing, these terrible crimes.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard stared uneasily up into the coroner¡¯s firm, determined face. What did he mean by that? Was there any new evidence¡ªevidence that Jerry Chandler, for instance, was unaware of? Her heart gave a sudden leap as a big, burly man took his place in the witness box¡ªa policeman who had not been sitting with the other witnesses.

    But soon her uneasy terror was stilled. This witness was simply the constable who had found the first body. In quick, business-like tones, he described exactly what had happened to him on that cold, foggy morning ten days ago. He was shown a plan, and he marked it slowly, carefully, with a thick finger. That was the exact place¡ªno, he was making a mistake¡ªthat was the place where the other body had lain. He explained apologetically that he had gotten rather mixed up between the two bodies¡ªthat of Johanna Cobbett and Sophy Hurtle.

    The coroner intervened authoritatively. ¡°For the purpose of this inquiry,¡± he said, ¡°we must, I think, for a moment consider the two murders together.¡±

    After that, the witness went on far more comfortably. As he proceeded, in a quick monotone, the full and deadly horror of The Rose Killer¡¯s acts came over Mrs. Bernard in a great seething flood of sick fear and¡ªand, yes, remorse.

    Up to now, she had given very little thought¡ªif any¡ªto the drink-sodden victims of The Rose Killer. It was he who had filled her thoughts¡ªhe and those trying to track him down. But now? Now she felt sick and sorry she had come here today. She wondered if she would ever be able to get the vision the policeman¡¯s words had conjured up out of her mind¡ªout of her memory.

    Then came an eager stir of excitement and attention throughout the whole court, for the policeman had stepped down from the witness box, and one of the women witnesses was being conducted to his place.

    Mrs. Bernard looked with interest and sympathy at the woman, remembering how she herself had trembled with fear, just as that poor, bedraggled, common-looking person was trembling now. The woman had looked so cheerful, so¡ªso well pleased with herself until a minute ago, but now she had become very pale, and she looked around as a hunted animal might have done.

    The coroner was kind, soothing, and gentle in his manner, just as the other coroner had been when dealing with Ellen Green at the inquest on that poor drowned girl.

    After the witness had repeated, in a toneless voice, the solemn words of the oath, she began to be taken, step by step, through her story. At once, Mrs. Bernard realized that this was the woman who claimed to have seen The Rose Killer from her bedroom window. Gaining confidence as she went on, the witness described how she had heard a long-drawn, stifled screech and, aroused from deep sleep, had instinctively jumped out of bed and rushed to her window.

    The coroner looked down at something lying on his desk. ¡°Let me see! Here is the plan. Yes¡ªI think I understand that the house in which you are lodging exactly faces the alley where the two crimes were committed?¡±

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    A quick, futile discussion arose. The house did not face the alley, but the window of the witness¡¯s bedroom did.

    ¡°A distinction without a difference,¡± said the coroner testily. ¡°And now tell us as clearly and quickly as you can what you saw when you looked out.¡±

    There fell a dead silence on the crowded court. Then the woman broke out, speaking more volubly and firmly than she had yet done. ¡°I saw ¡¯im!¡± she cried. ¡°I shall never forget it¡ªno, not till my dying day!¡± She looked around defiantly.

    Mrs. Bernard suddenly remembered a chat one of the newspaper men had had with a person who slept under this woman¡¯s room. That person had unkindly said she felt sure that Lizzie Cole had not gotten up that night¡ªthat she had made up the whole story. The speaker slept lightly, and that night had been tending a sick child. Accordingly, she would have heard if there had been either the scream described by Lizzie Cole, or the sound of Lizzie Cole jumping out of bed.

    ¡°We quite understand that you think you saw the¡±¡ªthe coroner hesitated¡ª¡°the individual who had just perpetrated these terrible crimes. But what we want from you is a description of him. In spite of the foggy atmosphere, you say you saw him distinctly, walking along for some yards below your window. Now, please, try and tell us what he was like.¡±

    The woman began twisting and untwisting the corner of a colored handkerchief she held in her hand.

    ¡°Let us begin at the beginning,¡± said the coroner patiently, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade through fog. ¡°What sort of a hat was this man wearing when you saw him hurrying from the passage?¡±

    ¡°It was just a black ¡¯at,¡± the witness finally said, her voice husky, anxiety threading through her tone.

    ¡°Yes¡ªjust a black hat. And a coat¡ªwere you able to see what sort of a coat he was wearing?¡±

    ¡°¡¯E ¡¯adn¡¯t got no coat,¡± she replied decidedly. ¡°No coat at all! I remembers that very perticulerly. I thought it queer, as it was so cold¡ªeverybody as can wears some sort o¡¯ coat this weather!¡±

    A juryman, who had been idly examining a strip of newspaper, suddenly jumped up and raised his hand.

    ¡°Yes?¡± The coroner turned to him, a hint of irritation in his eyes.

    ¡°I just want to say that this ¡¯ere witness¡ªif her name is Lizzie Cole, began by saying The Rose Killer was wearing a coat¡ªa big, heavy coat. I¡¯ve got it here, in this bit of paper.¡±

    ¡°I never said so!¡± Lizzie cried passionately. ¡°I was made to say all those things by the young man what came to me from the Evening Sun. Just put in what ¡¯e liked in ¡¯is paper, ¡¯e did¡ªnot what I said at all!¡±

    A ripple of laughter spread through the court, quickly suppressed by the coroner¡¯s stern gaze.

    ¡°In future,¡± he said severely, addressing the juryman who had now sat down again, ¡°you must ask any question you wish to ask through your foreman, and please wait till I have concluded my examination of the witness.¡±

    But the interruption, the accusation, had utterly unsettled Lizzie. She began to contradict herself hopelessly. The man she had seen hurrying by in the semi-darkness was tall¡ªno, he was short. He was thin¡ªno, he was a stoutish young man. And as to whether he was carrying anything, a heated discussion ensued.

    Most confidently, the witness declared that she had seen a newspaper parcel under his arm; it had bulged out at the back¡ªso she claimed. But it was gently and firmly proved that she had said nothing of the kind to the gentleman from Scotland Yard who had taken down her first account¡ªin fact, to him she had confidently stated that the man had carried nothing at all; she had seen his arms swinging freely.

    One fact¡ªif it could be called a fact¡ªdid emerge. Lizzie suddenly volunteered the statement that as he had passed her window, he had looked up at her. This was quite new.

    ¡°He looked up at you?¡± repeated the coroner, his eyes narrowing. ¡°You said nothing of that in your initial statement.¡±

    ¡°I said nothink because I was scared¡ªnigh scared to death!¡±

    ¡°If you could really see his countenance, for we know the night was dark and foggy, will you please tell me what he was like?¡±

    The coroner¡¯s question seemed casual, his hand straying over his desk. Not a creature in that court believed Lizzie¡¯s story anymore.

    ¡°Dark!¡± she answered dramatically. ¡°Dark, almost black! If you can take my meaning, with a sort of nigger look.¡±

    A titter spread through the room. Even the jury smiled. The coroner sharply bade Lizzie Cole stand down, a note of finality in his voice.

    Far more credence was given to the next witness. This was an older, quieter-looking woman, decently dressed in black. Being the wife of a night watchman whose work lay in a big warehouse about a hundred yards from the alley where the crimes had taken place, she had gone out to take her husband some food he always had at one in the morning. A man had passed her, breathing hard and walking very quickly. Her attention had been drawn to him because she very seldom met anyone at that hour, and because he had such an odd, peculiar look and manner.

    Mrs. Bernard, listening attentively, realized that it was very much from what this witness had said that the official description of The Rose Killer had been composed¡ªthe description which had brought such comfort to her own soul.

    This witness spoke quietly, confidently, and her account of the newspaper parcel the man was carrying was perfectly clear and positive.

    ¡°It was a neat parcel,¡± she said, ¡°done up with string.¡±

    ¡°I thought it odd, a respectably dressed young man carrying such a parcel,¡± she murmured, her fingers twisting in her lap. ¡°That¡¯s what made me notice it. But it was a foggy night, so foggy I was afraid of losing my way, though I knew every step.¡±

    When the third woman took the stand, sighs and tears punctuating her story of acquaintance with one of the deceased, Johanna Cobbett, a ripple of sympathetic attention passed through the courtroom. She had little to offer that could shed light on the investigation, reluctantly admitting that ¡°Anny¡± would have been a respectable young woman if not for the drink.

    Her examination was mercifully brief, as was that of the next witness, Johanna Cobbett¡¯s husband. A respectable-looking man, a foreman in a big business house at Croydon, he seemed to feel his position acutely. He hadn¡¯t seen his wife for two years; he hadn¡¯t had news of her for six months. Before she took to drink, she had been an admirable wife, and yes, a mother.

    Then came another painful few minutes when the father of the murdered woman took the stand. He had had more recent news of his daughter than her husband had, but he could shed no light on her murder or murderer.

    A barman who had served both women with drinks just before the public-house closed for the night was handled rather roughly. He had stepped into the box with a jaunty air and left it looking cast down and uneasy.

    And then the unexpected happened. It was an incident that the evening papers would sensationalize, much to Mrs. Bernard¡¯s indignation, though neither the coroner nor the jury, the people who mattered, thought much of it.

    There came a pause in the proceedings. All seven witnesses had been heard, and a gentleman near Mrs. Bernard whispered, ¡°They are now going to call Dr. Gaunt. He¡¯s been in every big murder case for the last thirty years. He¡¯s sure to have something interesting to say. It was really to hear him I came.¡±

    But before Dr. Gaunt could even rise from his seat near the coroner, a stir arose among the general public, particularly among those near the low wooden door separating the official part of the court from the gallery. The coroner¡¯s officer, with an apologetic air, approached and handed the coroner an envelope. The court fell into an expectant silence.

    Looking rather annoyed, the coroner opened the envelope and glanced at the note inside. He then looked up, ¡°Mr.¡ª¡± he glanced down again, ¡°Mr.¡ªis it Cannot?¡± he said doubtfully. ¡°May come forward.¡±

    A titter ran through the spectators, and the coroner frowned. A neat, jaunty-looking old gentleman, in a fur-lined overcoat, with a fresh, red face and white side-whiskers, was conducted to the witness-box.

    ¡°This is somewhat out of order, Mr.¡ªer¡ªCannot,¡± said the coroner severely. ¡°You should have sent me this note before the proceedings began. This gentleman,¡± he addressed the jury, ¡°informs me that he has something of the utmost importance to reveal in connection with our investigation.¡±

    ¡°I have remained silent¡ªI have locked what I knew within my own breast,¡± began Mr. Cannot in a quavering voice. ¡°Because I am so afraid of the press! I knew if I said anything, even to the police, that my house would be besieged by reporters and newspaper men. I have a delicate wife, Mr. Coroner. Such a state of things¡ªthe state of things I imagine¡ªmight cause her death. Indeed, I hope she will never read a report of these proceedings. Fortunately, she has an excellent trained nurse¡ª¡±

    ¡°You will now take the oath,¡± said the coroner sharply. He already regretted allowing this absurd person to have his say.

    Mr. Cannot took the oath with a gravity and decorum that had been lacking in most of the preceding witnesses.

    ¡°I will address myself to the jury,¡± he began.

    ¡°You will do nothing of the sort,¡± the coroner interrupted. ¡°Now, please attend to me. You assert in your letter that you know who is the¡ªthe¡ª¡±

    ¡°The Rose Killer,¡± Mr. Cannot put in promptly.

    ¡°The perpetrator of these crimes. You further declare that you met him on the very night he committed the murder we are now investigating?¡±

    ¡°I do so declare,¡± said Mr. Cannot confidently. ¡°Though in the best of health myself,¡±¡ªhe beamed around the court, a now amused and attentive court¡ª¡°it is my fate to be surrounded by sick people, to have only ailing friends. I have to trouble you with my private affairs, Mr. Coroner, in order to explain why I happened to be out at such an undue hour as one o¡¯clock in the morning.¡±

    Another titter ran through the court. Even the jury broke into broad smiles.

    The courtroom held its breath as Mr. Cannot¡¯s tale unfolded, each word dripping with suspense and the chill of impending doom. Mrs. Bernard clutched at her smelling salts, her heart racing in tandem with the old gentleman¡¯s account.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Mr. Cannot began, his voice carrying the weight of a dark revelation. ¡°I was with a sick friend¡ªnay, a dying friend, for since then he has passed away. I shall not divulge my exact abode; you have it on my notepaper. But understand this, sir, that to return home, I had to traverse a portion of the Regent¡¯s Park. And there, in the midst of Prince¡¯s Terrace, a peculiar figure crossed my path.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard¡¯s hand trembled as she listened, a sense of foreboding settling over her like a shroud.

    ¡°He was a grim, gaunt man,¡± Mr. Cannot continued, his words painting a vivid portrait of terror. ¡°An educated man, a gentleman¡ªyet there was madness in his eyes. He spoke aloud, reciting poetry as if possessed by some unholy muse. In that tranquil neighborhood, his presence was an aberration, a portent of impending darkness.¡±

    A sudden burst of laughter from the gallery drew sharp rebuke from Mr. Cannot, his voice quivering with indignation.

    ¡°I beseech you, sir,¡± he cried out, ¡°to shield me from this mockery! I am here solely to discharge my duty as a citizen!¡±

    The coroner¡¯s patience wore thin, urging Mr. Cannot to focus on the crux of his encounter¡ªthe reason for his suspicion of the man as The Rose Killer.

    ¡°I am coming to that!¡± Mr. Cannot exclaimed, a sense of urgency gripping his frail frame. ¡°Bear with me, sir. As we passed, this man, instead of continuing on his path, turned to face me. His words were cryptic, laden with sinister meaning. ¡®A foggy night,¡¯ I remarked. ¡®Yes,¡¯ he replied, ¡®a night fit for the commission of dark and salutary deeds.¡¯ A chilling phrase, sir, that¡ª¡®dark and salutary deeds.¡¯¡±

    The courtroom hung on Mr. Cannot¡¯s every word, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

    ¡°And then?¡± prompted the coroner, his voice tinged with anticipation.

    ¡°And then,¡± Mr. Cannot continued, ¡°he veered off, disappearing into the fog, a bag clutched in his hand¡ªa bag that might well harbor a long-handled knife.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard¡¯s heart raced as she glanced over at the reporters¡¯ table, a surge of relief washing over her. None of them had caught Mr. Cannot¡¯s chilling final words. It was as if fate had intervened to shield her from the weight of his revelation.

    The last witness raised his hand, demanding attention once more. A hush fell over the court, every eye fixed on him with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

    ¡°One more thing,¡± his voice quavered, ¡°may I have a seat for the remainder of the proceedings? There seems to be space on the witnesses¡¯ bench.¡± Without waiting for confirmation, he swiftly made his way to the vacant seat.

    Mrs. Bernard felt a hand on her shoulder, startling her. It was the inspector, his expression urgent.

    ¡°Perhaps it¡¯s best you leave now,¡± he whispered. ¡°You don¡¯t need to hear the medical evidence. It¡¯s not something a lady should be subjected to. And the rush after the inquest will be chaotic. I can get you out discreetly.¡±

    She nodded, her emotions in turmoil. Tears welled up in her eyes as she followed him out of the courtroom, her veil pulled low over her face.

    Descending the stone staircase, they reached the empty room below.

    ¡°I¡¯ll lead you out the back,¡± the inspector offered. ¡°You must be exhausted, ma¡¯am, and in need of some tea at home.¡±

    ¡°Thank you,¡± she murmured gratefully. ¡°You¡¯ve been very kind to me.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s nothing,¡± he replied, a hint of awkwardness in his tone. ¡°I can only imagine what you¡¯ve been through.¡±

    As they reached the back exit, Mrs. Bernard couldn¡¯t help but ask in a whisper, ¡°Will they bring back that old gentleman?¡±

    ¡°Absolutely not,¡± he chuckled. ¡°Just an eccentric old man. We encounter many of them in the city, retired and looking for something to occupy their time. No cause for concern.¡±

    ¡°And his words?¡± she pressed.

    ¡°His words?¡± he repeated, amusement dancing in his eyes. ¡°Pure imagination. But I¡¯ll tell you what I do believe. If not for the time lapse, I¡¯d almost think the second witness saw the real devil himself,¡± he lowered his voice conspiratorially. ¡°But Dr. Gaunt and his colleagues have made it clear¡ªthe victims were long dead before they were discovered. Medical evidence doesn¡¯t lie, you know. Well, mostly.¡± He chuckled again, leading her out into the quiet evening, leaving behind the echoes of the courtroom drama.

 Chapter 20

    <hr>

    As the inquest wrapped up, Mrs. Bernard felt a deep reluctance to return home to Ealing. She was weary, her mind fogged with fatigue and a sense of dread. Opting to walk instead of taking the train, she meandered through the streets, trying to postpone the inevitable conversation with Bernard about her visit to the doctor.

    Bernard, like many of his ilk, had a curious fascination with medical matters, especially those of others. He expected a detailed account of her trip, every word exchanged with the doctor meticulously recounted.

    At every turn, newsboys clamored with the latest editions, each headline screaming about The Rose Killer Inquest. Mrs. Bernard couldn¡¯t escape the morbid curiosity gripping the city. ¡°What is he really like? Full description,¡± mocked one headline. Another dared, ¡°Do you know him?¡±

    The weight of it all hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled into a nearby pub, needing the solace of cold water to steady her nerves.

    The gas-lit streets offered little respite as her thoughts veered to the victims, their cold bodies haunting her mind. She wrestled with the relentless fear that now consumed her.

    Home finally came into view, a sanctuary from the horrors outside. The mundane familiarity of her house briefly pushed aside thoughts of The Rose Killer¡¯s victims. She focused instead on Bernard and Mr. Basset, wondering what transpired in her absence.

    Entering the house, she found Bernard waiting anxiously. Relief washed over her as she fabricated a story about missing the doctor, knowing Bernard would fret otherwise.

    ¡°I was worried sick about you,¡± Bernard exclaimed, ushering her in. ¡°Come in, dear. You must be freezing in this weather, especially out so little as you are. Did you manage to see the doctor?¡±

    A sudden inspiration struck Mrs. Bernard. ¡°No,¡± she replied slowly, ¡°Doctor Evans wasn¡¯t there. I waited, but he never showed. It¡¯s my fault, really. I should¡¯ve notified him beforehand. Doctors have busy schedules, after all.¡±

    ¡°Did they at least offer you tea?¡± Bernard asked with concern.

    She hesitated, debating the ethics of accepting tea that was never offered. ¡°They did offer,¡± she admitted wearily, ¡°but I declined. I could really use a cup now, though, if you don¡¯t mind making it.¡±

    Bernard¡¯s eagerness to please was palpable as he ushered Mrs. Bernard in, urging her not to bother removing her coat just yet.

    ¡°Where¡¯s Daisy?¡± she inquired, her mind already shifting to domestic matters.

    Bernard¡¯s smile turned sly. ¡°She won¡¯t be back today,¡± he revealed with a hint of mischief.

    Surprised, Mrs. Bernard asked about a telegram, but none had arrived.

    ¡°Jerry Chandler just informed me,¡± Bernard continued, relishing the gossip. ¡°He¡¯s made quite the impression on Margaret, and now they¡¯re off to the pantomime tonight, courtesy of Daisy¡¯s lady. Quite the turn of events, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    ¡°Very nice for them,¡± Mrs. Bernard replied absently, grateful for the diversion. ¡°When will Daisy return?¡±

    Bernard explained Chandler¡¯s plan to fetch Daisy tomorrow morning, his voice tinged with excitement.

    ¡°That works,¡± she replied, her thoughts drifting momentarily to the lodger. ¡°Did Mr. Basset ring while I was out?¡±

    ¡°No,¡± Bernard replied, turning to the boiling kettle. ¡°Funny, I didn¡¯t think of him at all. Chandler was busy regaling me with tales of Margaret.¡±

    ¡°What happened while I was out?¡± Mrs. Bernard¡¯s tone grew urgent.

    ¡°A message came for me,¡± Bernard explained, a touch of pride in his voice. ¡°A waiter bailed last minute, so they asked me to help at a birthday party tonight. Hanover Terrace. Got a bit more coin out of them, too!¡±

    They chuckled at the unexpected windfall, their laughter breaking the tension that had lingered between them.

    ¡°Will you be alright alone?¡± Bernard asked, his concern genuine.

    ¡°Of course,¡± she replied, though a hint of suspicion crept into her tone. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t I be?¡±

    The conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Bernard took on an eerie tone, as if shadows whispered in the corners of their words.

    ¡°Well, you see, The Rose Killer¡¯s always done ¡¯em in couples, so to speak,¡± Bernard began, his voice hushed with the weight of the night¡¯s secrets. ¡°They¡¯ve got an idea that he¡¯ll have a try again to-night. However, even so, Jerry¡¯s only on from midnight till five o¡¯clock. Then he¡¯ll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy. Fine thing to be young, ain¡¯t it, Ellen?¡±

    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe that he¡¯d go out on such a night as this!¡± Ellen exclaimed, her words carrying an unexpected fervor.

    Bernard stared at her, caught off guard by her intensity. ¡°What do you mean?¡± he asked, confusion clouding his features.

    Ellen repeated, her voice now trembling, ¡°I was thinking of The Rose Killer.¡±

    ¡°He don¡¯t take no heed of heat nor cold,¡± Bernard remarked grimly. ¡°I take it the man¡¯s dead to all human feeling¡ªsaving, of course, revenge.¡±

    ¡°So that¡¯s your idea about him, is it?¡± Ellen¡¯s gaze held a newfound intensity. ¡°D¡¯you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?¡±

    Bernard paused, considering. ¡°I thought that ¡¯twas from the bedroom window a woman saw him?¡±

    ¡°No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband¡¯s breakfast to him in the warehouse,¡± Ellen clarified impatiently.

    The blank astonishment on Bernard¡¯s face mirrored Ellen¡¯s sudden realization of the danger in their conversation. She had spoken too much, revealed too keen an interest in The Rose Killer.

    Hurriedly, she changed the subject, masking her anxiety with casual words about the lodger¡¯s supper. But as she retreated to her bedroom, a shiver of fear gripped her.

    Alone in the quiet of her room, Ellen wrestled with her thoughts. The cold seemed to seep into her bones, chilling her despite the warmth of her coat. She glanced at the fireplace longingly, imagining the comfort of a fire. But thoughts of The Rose Killer, of Bernard¡¯s impending absence, clouded her mind.

    Downstairs, the sounds of the lodger¡¯s restlessness filtered through the house. Ellen hesitated outside his door, her senses alert to the slightest noise. When she finally knocked and entered, a sense of unease settled over her.

    ¡°You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bernard?¡± Mr. Basset¡¯s voice held an edge of irritation.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so, sir,¡± Ellen replied, her nerves frayed. ¡°Perhaps I lost count of the time.¡±

    The lodger¡¯s gaze bore into her, his eyes dark and probing. ¡°Aren¡¯t you well?¡± he inquired, his voice softer now.

    ¡°No, sir,¡± she admitted, her voice wavering. ¡°I¡¯m not well.¡±

    Their exchange hung in the air, laden with unspoken fears and hidden truths, as the night wrapped its tendrils around the house, weaving a tapestry of darkness and mystery.

    Mr. Basset¡¯s peculiar smile sent a shiver down Mrs. Bernard¡¯s spine. ¡°Doctors are a maligned body of men,¡± he remarked, his voice carrying an eerie calmness. ¡°They do their best, Mrs. Bernard. Being human, they are liable to err, but I assure you they do their best.¡±

    ¡°Indeed, sir,¡± she replied earnestly, her thoughts drifting to the kindness doctors had shown her in the past.

    After setting the table and serving Mr. Basset¡¯s supper, she ventured to offer additional coals. ¡°It¡¯s bitterly cold¡ªgetting colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in,¡± she commented, her eyes searching his face for any hint of concern.

    Mr. Basset¡¯s reaction startled her. Rising abruptly, he fixed her with an intense gaze. ¡°What d¡¯you mean?¡± he demanded, a note of urgency in his voice.

    Caught off guard, she stumbled over her words, trying to explain her concern for Bernard¡¯s well-being. As Mr. Basset settled back into his chair, she made her escape, feeling a sense of unease lingering in the air.

    Determined to make her husband¡¯s evening more comfortable, she lit a fire in their bedroom, surprising Bernard with her thoughtful gesture. ¡°Well, ¡¯twill be pleasant for me, too; keep me company-like while you¡¯re out; and make the room nice and warm when you come in,¡± she explained, masking her deeper anxieties.

    While Bernard dressed, she attended to Mr. Basset¡¯s supper. His silence and distant demeanor weighed heavily on her. Despite the warmth of the fire, an icy fear crept into her heart as she observed him staring into the flames, a solitary figure in the dimly lit room.

    As she cleared away his dishes, Mrs. Bernard couldn¡¯t shake the feeling of pity mingled with dread for the lonely lodger. His generosity and simple habits tugged at her conscience, prompting thoughts of easing his financial burden.

    ¡°Good-night, sir,¡± she murmured softly as she prepared to leave.

    But Mr. Basset¡¯s parting words sent a chill down her spine. ¡°Perhaps I shall take a little turn first,¡± he mused, his gaze piercing. ¡°Such is my way, Mrs. Bernard; after I have been studying all day I require a little exercise.¡±

    Worriedly, she urged him to reconsider going out in the bitter cold, but his response only deepened her unease. ¡°Is it not a strange thing, Mrs. Bernard, that people who have all day in which to amuse themselves should carry their revels far into the night?¡± he mused, his words carrying an ominous weight.

    Uneasy and unsettled, Mrs. Bernard bid him goodnight once more, the shadows of the night seeming to gather around them, thick with unspoken fears and mysteries yet to unfold.

    Mr. Basset¡¯s expression of triumph sent a shiver through Mrs. Bernard, a mix of relief and unease washing over her. Had she inadvertently revealed too much with her words? Had she somehow crossed a line with her lodger?

    ¡°Providence means us to take care o¡¯ ourselves too,¡± she replied respectfully, masking the lingering doubt in her mind.

    Retreating to her sitting-room, Mrs. Bernard disregarded the potential consequences with Bernard the next day as she placed the remnants of Mr. Basset¡¯s meal on her table. With deliberate care, she extinguished the lights, enveloping herself in the dim glow of the dying fire as she retired to her bedroom, shutting out the world behind closed doors.

    The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls, a hypnotic dance that lulled her into a drowsy state. Yet, as the clock chimed a quarter to twelve, she jolted awake, her heart racing at the familiar sound of Mr. Basset¡¯s stealthy movements downstairs, his rubber-soled shoes barely making a sound as he slipped out into the night.

    Despite her attempts to settle into sleep, Mrs. Bernard found herself restless, the dancing firelight casting unsettling shadows that seemed to whisper secrets in the dark. The discomfort grew, her mind racing with thoughts and suspicions that refused to be silenced.

    An impulse to grab one of Bernard¡¯s detective stories and lose herself in its pages tugged at her, but she resisted, aware of the lingering admonitions against reading in bed. Instead, she lay in the eerie stillness, listening to the whispers of the night, her senses heightened and her unease deepening with each passing moment.

 Chapter 21

    <hr>

    It was a bitterly cold night, the kind that cuts through to the bone. The wind howled like a tortured spirit, whipping snowflakes into frantic dances in the pale moonlight. Sensible people stayed indoors, seeking warmth and comfort, but Bernard was trudging home through the icy streets, his breath visible in the air before him.

    Bernard¡¯s heart was lighter than usual, a rare stroke of good fortune having brightened his evening. The young lady whose birthday party he had attended in the capacity of a waiter had inherited a fortune that very day. In a gracious, unexpected gesture, she had gifted each of the hired help a sovereign, along with kind words that had warmed Bernard¡¯s heart. It confirmed his Conservative principles¡ªonly true gentlefolk behaved so kindly, in stark contrast to the boorish Radicals.

    Yet, despite his good fortune, Bernard was uneasy. He slowed his steps, lost in troubled thoughts about his wife, Ellen. Lately, she had become increasingly nervous and jumpy, her usual capable demeanor replaced by a fraught, almost hysterical edge. It was not like her. Ellen had always been strong-willed and somewhat sharp-tongued, but this newfound anxiety was alarming.

    Her sleep was often disturbed by nightmares. Just the previous night, she had cried out in her sleep, her voice filled with fear and defiance. ¡°No, no, no! It isn¡¯t true¡ªI won¡¯t have it said¡ªit¡¯s a lie!¡± The words had sent a chill down Bernard¡¯s spine, echoing the turmoil that had settled over their home.

    As the cold bit through his thin coat, Bernard cursed himself for forgetting his gloves. He shoved his hands into his pockets, quickening his pace. The solitary street was empty, save for the occasional flicker of a gas lamp casting long, eerie shadows.

    Then he saw him¡ªMr. Basset, their lodger. The tall, thin figure moved swiftly along the opposite side of the street, his head bent low. One arm was hidden beneath his long Inverness cape, while the other side of the cape bulged oddly, as if concealing something.

    Bernard squinted through the swirling snow, watching as Mr. Basset muttered to himself, his voice carried away by the wind. It was peculiar, this late-night stroll. Bernard thought back to Ellen¡¯s remarks about their lodger. Mr. Basset was certainly eccentric, his habits unusual and his tastes peculiar, especially his aversion to meat and other ¡°sensible¡± foods. But he paid well and caused no trouble, which was more than enough for Bernard and Ellen.

    Determined to catch up, Bernard crossed the street, his footsteps crunching loudly on the frozen pavement. He called out, ¡°Mr. Basset! Mr. Basset, sir!¡±

    The lodger stopped abruptly, his head snapping up. For a moment, they stood still, the night air thick with an unspoken tension. Mr. Basset turned slowly, his face pale in the moonlight, eyes glinting with a strange intensity.

    He had been walking so quickly, and his physical condition was so poor, that sweat poured down his face despite the frigid night.

    ¡°Ah! So it¡¯s you, Mr. Bernard?¡± Mr. Basset¡¯s voice broke the eerie silence, his tone unexpectedly sharp. ¡°I heard footsteps behind me and hurried on. I wish I¡¯d known it was you; there are so many queer characters about at night in London.¡±

    ¡°Not on a night like this, sir,¡± Bernard replied, his breath visible in the frosty air. ¡°Only honest folk with business out would be in such weather. It is cold, sir!¡±

    As Bernard spoke, a question began to form in his slow, honest mind. What on earth could Mr. Basset¡¯s business be on such a bitter night?

    ¡°Cold?¡± Mr. Basset repeated, his breath coming in sharp, quick puffs. ¡°I can¡¯t say that I find it cold, Mr. Bernard. When the snow falls, the air always becomes milder.¡±

    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

    ¡°Yes, sir, but tonight there¡¯s a sharp east wind. It freezes the very marrow in one¡¯s bones! Still, there¡¯s nothing like walking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, sir.¡±

    Bernard noticed that Mr. Basset kept his distance in a peculiar way, walking at the edge of the pavement, leaving the wall side to his landlord.

    ¡°I lost my way,¡± Mr. Basset said abruptly. ¡°I¡¯ve been over Primrose Hill to see a friend of mine, a man I studied with as a lad, and coming back, I lost my way.¡±

    They reached the little gate that opened onto the shabby, paved court in front of the house. Mr. Basset pushed forward, eager to escape the biting cold. Bernard, stepping aside with a courteous ¡°By your leave, sir,¡± slipped in front of his lodger to open the front door.

    As Bernard passed Mr. Basset, the back of his bare left hand brushed lightly against the lodger¡¯s long Inverness cape. To Bernard¡¯s surprise, the cloth wasn¡¯t just damp from the falling snow¡ªit was wet and sticky. He thrust his left hand into his pocket, his mind racing, while he used his other hand to unlock the door.

    The two men stepped into the dark, silent house. Compared to the faint glow from the street, the hall seemed black as pitch. As Bernard groped forward, followed closely by Mr. Basset, a sudden wave of mortal terror washed over him. It was a primal, gut-wrenching fear, an instinctive awareness of immediate danger.

    In that moment, a voiceless whisper, the voice of his first wife¡ªlong dead and rarely thought of¡ªbreathed in his ear, ¡°Take care!¡±

    Before Bernard could react, Mr. Basset spoke, his voice harsh and grating, though not loud.

    <hr>

    Bernard wiped the sweat from his brow, his heart pounding like a drum. The dark street seemed to close in around them, and the silence was only broken by the sound of his own ragged breathing.

    ¡°I¡¯m afraid, Mr. Bernard,¡± Mr. Basset began, his voice calm but unsettling, ¡°that you must have felt something dirty, foul, on my coat? It¡¯s too long a story to tell you now, but I brushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose Hill.¡±

    Bernard¡¯s mind raced. His fingers still tingled with the sensation of the wet, sticky substance he¡¯d touched. But the words came out almost against his will. ¡°No, sir, no. I didn¡¯t notice nothing. I scarcely touched you, sir.¡±

    It felt as if a dark force compelled him to lie. ¡°And now, sir, I¡¯ll be saying goodnight to you,¡± he added, pressing himself against the wall, allowing Mr. Basset to pass.

    ¡°Goodnight,¡± Mr. Basset replied, his voice hollow and echoing in the narrow hallway.

    Bernard waited until he heard the creak of the stairs and the soft click of the bedroom door. Only then did he draw his left hand from his pocket, staring at it in the dim light. Flecks and streaks of pale, reddish blood marred his skin, confirming his worst fears.

    Barefoot and silent, he crept into the room where his wife lay sleeping. He moved stealthily across to the washstand and dipped his hand into the water jug, hoping to wash away the evidence.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Ellen¡¯s voice cut through the silence, making him jump. ¡°What on earth are you doing?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m just washing my hands,¡± he stammered, guilt sharpening his tone.

    ¡°Indeed, you¡¯re doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such a thing¡ªputting your hand into the water in which I was going to wash my face tomorrow morning!¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m very sorry, Ellen,¡± he said meekly. ¡°I meant to throw it away. You don¡¯t suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?¡±

    She said no more, but her eyes followed him as he undressed, making him feel even more uncomfortable than before. He finally slipped into bed, the oppressive silence weighing heavily on him. He wanted to tell her about the sovereign the young lady had given him, but that now seemed as worthless as a farthing.

    Ellen¡¯s voice broke the silence again, causing him to start. ¡°I suppose you don¡¯t know that you¡¯ve left the light burning in the hall, wasting our good money?¡± she said tartly.

    With a sigh, he got up, opened the door, and extinguished the light. The gaslight flickered and died, casting the house back into darkness. He groped his way back to bed, and without another word, they lay awake until dawn.

    The next morning, Bernard woke with a start, his limbs heavy and eyes tired. He drew his watch from under his pillow. Seven o¡¯clock. Without waking Ellen, he pulled the blind aside. Snow was falling heavily, blanketing the city in an eerie silence.

    After dressing, he went into the passage and found the newspaper lying on the mat. It was probably the sound of it being pushed through the letterbox that had woken him. He picked it up and went into the sitting room, carefully spreading the newspaper on the table.

    As he bent over the paper, scanning it intently, his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, he looked up, a wave of relief washing over his face. The news item he had dreaded, the story he was certain would be splashed across the front page, was nowhere to be found.

 Chapter 22

    <hr>

    Bernard felt an unusual lightness in his step as he went about the morning routine, preparing tea for his wife. But the air of contentment was shattered by her weak call from the other room.

    ¡°Bernard!¡± she called out, her voice tinged with urgency.

    Hurrying to her side, he asked, ¡°Yes, my dear, what is it? I¡¯ll bring your tea right away.¡± His grin was wide, almost foolishly so.

    She sat up, a puzzled look on her face. ¡°Why are you grinning like that?¡± she asked suspiciously.

    ¡°I had a stroke of luck last night,¡± he explained eagerly. ¡°But you were so cross that I didn¡¯t dare mention it.¡±

    ¡°Well, tell me now,¡± she demanded in a low voice.

    ¡°I was given a sovereign by the young lady at the party. It was her birthday, you see, and she came into some money, so she gave each of us waiters a sovereign.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard made no immediate comment, instead closing her eyes wearily.

    ¡°When is Daisy expected?¡± she asked, her voice a mix of exhaustion and curiosity. ¡°You didn¡¯t say when Jerry was supposed to bring her over yesterday.¡±

    ¡°Did I forget? Well, they should be here for dinner,¡± Bernard replied.

    ¡°I wonder how long her old aunt expects us to keep her,¡± mused Mrs. Bernard. The cheer from Bernard¡¯s face faded as he felt her mood shift.

    ¡°Daisy will stay as long as she needs to,¡± he said curtly. ¡°It¡¯s unfair of you, Ellen, to talk like that. She helps us both and lifts our spirits. Besides, it would be cruel to take her away now, just as she¡¯s getting along with that young man. Surely you can see that!¡±

    But Mrs. Bernard remained silent, lost in her own thoughts.

    Bernard retreated to the sitting room, feeling a pang of guilt and self-reproach. Why had he entertained such horrible thoughts? It was just a little blood. Maybe Mr. Basset had a nosebleed. But then again, he had mentioned brushing against a dead animal.

    As he tried to shake off the unsettling thoughts, a sharp knock at the door shattered the uneasy calm. Ellen rushed past him to answer it.

    ¡°I¡¯ll get it,¡± she exclaimed, her breathless voice breaking the silence.

    Surprised by her sudden energy, Bernard followed her into the hall. She took the telegram from the delivery boy, her hands shaking slightly.

    ¡°It¡¯s only from Jerry Chandler,¡± she said with relief. ¡°He can¡¯t fetch Daisy this morning. You¡¯ll have to go.¡±

    Back in the sitting room, Bernard read the message. ¡°On duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged.¡ªCHANDLER.¡±

    ¡°I wonder why he¡¯s on duty,¡± Bernard mused aloud, feeling uneasy. ¡°Jerry¡¯s hours are usually like clockwork. But I suppose I¡¯ll go around twelve. It might have stopped snowing by then.¡±

    ¡°You¡¯ll start at twelve,¡± Ellen said quickly. ¡°That¡¯ll give you plenty of time.¡±

    The morning passed without incident. Bernard received a letter from Aunt Daisy, demanding Daisy¡¯s return next Monday. Mr. Basset remained silent in his room, and the house felt strangely peaceful.

    Bernard and Ellen found themselves in a rare moment of cheerfulness. They chatted amiably before Bernard left to fetch Daisy.

    ¡°Daisy will be surprised to see you,¡± Ellen remarked with a hint of amusement. ¡°And perhaps a bit disappointed. But it¡¯ll be a pleasant surprise, won¡¯t it?¡±

    As Bernard prepared to leave, his wife accompanied him to the door. The snowfall had lessened, leaving the street quiet with only a few passing cabs and carts trudging through the slush.

    Still in the kitchen, Mrs. Bernard heard a familiar ring and knock at the door. ¡°Jerry thinks Daisy''s home by now!¡± she murmured with a smile.

    Before she could open the door fully, Jerry''s voice reached her ears. ¡°Don¡¯t be scared this time, Mrs. Bernard!¡± But despite her attempts to remain calm, a gasp escaped her lips as she saw Jerry transformed into a public-house loafer, complete with ragged hair, shabby clothes, and a worn-out hat.

    ¡°I haven¡¯t much time,¡± he explained hurriedly. ¡°But I had to check if Miss Daisy got home safely. Did you receive my telegram? I couldn¡¯t send any other message.¡±

    ¡°She''s not back yet. Her father just left to fetch her,¡± Mrs. Bernard replied, noticing a look of concern in Jerry''s eyes. ¡°What¡¯s wrong?¡± she asked, her voice tinged with suspense and worry.

    Stepping into the sitting room and closing the door behind him, Jerry spoke in a hushed tone. ¡°There¡¯s been another one,¡± he whispered. ¡°But it''s all hush-hush for now. The Yard thinks we¡¯ve got a solid lead this time.¡±

    ¡°Where and how?¡± Mrs. Bernard asked, her face draining of color.

    ¡°A body was found dead on Primrose Hill,¡± Jerry explained. ¡°Our man stumbled upon it, and we''re keeping it under wraps. The clue leads us to ¡®The Hammer and Tongs¡¯ pub. The Rose Killer might have been there.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard sank into a chair, her mind racing with questions. ¡°What about the clue?¡± she asked anxiously.

    ¡°I''m not entirely sure,¡± Jerry admitted. ¡°But it''s linked to a peculiar gentleman at the pub near closing time.¡±

    ¡°A gentleman?¡± Mrs. Bernard repeated, her voice trembling. ¡°Why would they think that?¡±

    ¡°Because this man paid for a glass of milk with a sovereign, a rather generous act,¡± Jerry revealed. ¡°But the barmaid is reluctant to speak. We don¡¯t want to alarm anyone yet. That¡¯s why it¡¯s not in the news.¡±

    ¡°Are you heading to the pub now?¡± she inquired.

    ¡°Yes, to get more information,¡± Jerry confirmed. ¡°But keep this quiet. I may drop by for tea later.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard bid him farewell with a strained smile, her thoughts consumed by fear and uncertainty.

    As she returned to her kitchen duties, she tried to push aside the disturbing thoughts. But the uncertainty gnawed at her. She dared not ask Jerry about the suspect''s appearance. It was fortunate that her lodger and the curious young man hadn¡¯t crossed paths.

    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

    When Mr. Basset''s bell rang, she braced herself and headed upstairs with his breakfast, only to find his sitting room empty.

    Mrs. Bernard presumed Mr. Basset was still in his bedroom as she set the cloth on the table. The sound of his footsteps descending the stairs and the faint whir of the gas-stove signaled his intent for an afternoon experiment.

    ¡°Still snowing?¡± Mr. Basset inquired, noting the eerie quietness of a snow-covered London. ¡°Quite a change from the usual noise in the Marylebone Road.¡±

    ¡°Yes,¡± Mrs. Bernard replied flatly. ¡°It¡¯s unnaturally quiet today¡ªalmost too quiet.¡±

    The gate clattered, startling them both. ¡°Is someone coming?¡± Mr. Basset asked urgently.

    ¡°It¡¯s just Bernard and his daughter,¡± she reassured him.

    As they peered out the window, Daisy¡¯s smile brightened the scene. Mr. Basset remarked on her sweetness, quoting Wordsworth and surprising Mrs. Bernard.

    ¡°Your breakfast will get cold, sir,¡± she reminded him, ushering him back to the table.

    Later, Bernard arrived, sharing mundane news while Daisy expressed concern for Mr. Chandler¡¯s absence.

    ¡°He¡¯s been here,¡± Mrs. Bernard disclosed, leaving Bernard puzzled.

    ¡°There¡¯s been another murder,¡± she revealed solemnly. ¡°The police are keeping it quiet.¡±

    Bernard¡¯s grip tightened on the mantelpiece, his face reddening. ¡°Where did it happen?¡± he asked, trying to mask his unease.

    She hesitated, wary of Daisy¡¯s presence. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she deflected. ¡°Let¡¯s not talk about it now.¡±

    Bernard reluctantly agreed, the weight of the unspoken horrors hanging heavy in the room.

    ¡°You can set the table, child. I¡¯ll clear the lodger¡¯s breakfast,¡± Mrs. Bernard instructed without waiting for a response, rushing upstairs.

    Mr. Basset had barely touched his lemon sole. ¡°I¡¯m not feeling well today,¡± he complained. ¡°And, Mrs. Bernard? I¡¯d appreciate it if your husband would lend me that newspaper he had earlier. I don¡¯t usually bother with the news, but I¡¯m curious now.¡±

    She relayed the request to Bernard, who handed over the paper. ¡°I¡¯ve finished with it,¡± he remarked. ¡°He can keep it.¡±

    Glancing at the paper, Mrs. Bernard saw a chilling headline about The Rose Killer¡¯s footprint. She entered the sitting-room, finding it empty.

    ¡°Put the paper on the table,¡± Mr. Basset¡¯s voice drifted from upstairs.

    She complied. ¡°Yes, sir. Bernard doesn¡¯t need it back,¡± she informed him before leaving the room.

    As the snow continued outside, the three of them sat in anticipation¡ªBernard and his wife unsure of what they awaited, Daisy eagerly awaiting Jerry Chandler¡¯s arrival.

    Around four, the expected knock came. Mrs. Bernard opened the door and whispered to Chandler, ¡°We haven¡¯t told Daisy yet. Girls can¡¯t keep secrets.¡±

    Chandler nodded, appearing worn from his disguise. Daisy, amused by his appearance, exclaimed, ¡°You look quite horrid, Mr. Chandler!¡±

    Her comment lightened the mood, especially for Bernard, who had been somber all afternoon.

    ¡°It won¡¯t take me long to look respectable again,¡± Chandler said ruefully.

    Despite the pleasant tea, there was an air of discomfort. Bernard, itching for answers, seized the chance when Chandler prepared to leave.

    ¡°Where did it happen?¡± he whispered urgently.

    ¡°Primrose Hill,¡± Chandler replied shortly. ¡°You¡¯ll hear about it in the evening papers.¡±

    ¡°No arrests?¡± Bernard prodded.

    Chandler shook his head, leaving Bernard with more questions than answers.

    Chandler shook his head, disheartened. ¡°No,¡± he admitted, ¡°I think the Yard was off track this time. But one can only do their best. Did Mrs. Bernard mention I had to question a barmaid about a man at closing time? She¡¯s spilled everything she knows, and it¡¯s clear to me that the eccentric old gent she mentioned was just a harmless lunatic. Gave her a sovereign for being a teetotaller!¡± He chuckled wryly.

    Even Bernard found amusement in the situation. ¡°Well, that¡¯s a twist,¡± he remarked. ¡°A barmaid turning down a drink!¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s the niece of the pub owners,¡± Chandler explained before bidding them farewell with a cheery ¡°So long!¡±

    Returning to the sitting-room, Bernard noticed Daisy was gone. ¡°Where¡¯s my girl?¡± he asked irritably.

    ¡°She¡¯s taken the tray downstairs,¡± Mrs. Bernard replied.

    He called down to her sharply, ¡°Daisy! Are you down there?¡±

    ¡°Yes, father!¡± came her eager response.

    ¡°Come up from that cold kitchen,¡± he ordered, returning to his wife. ¡°Is the lodger in? I don¡¯t want Daisy involved with him.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard assured him, ¡°Mr. Basset doesn¡¯t seem well today. I wouldn¡¯t let Daisy near him, especially since she¡¯s never even seen him.¡±

    Despite her irritation, Mrs. Bernard didn¡¯t suspect Bernard¡¯s odd behavior. She had kept her secret so long that sharing it with Bernard seemed impossible.

    Daisy, however, noticed her father¡¯s change. ¡°Are you okay, father?¡± she asked.

    He replied, ¡°I¡¯m alright, but it¡¯s cold. Never felt it this bad.¡±

    As the evening progressed, shouts about The Rose Killer filled the air. Daisy, excited, exclaimed, ¡°Listen! Do you hear that? I wish Mr. Chandler was here!¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t, Daisy,¡± Bernard warned, clearly troubled.

    ¡°I can¡¯t stand this,¡± he muttered. ¡°I want to get away from London, far away.¡±

    ¡°To John-o¡¯-Groat¡¯s?¡± Daisy teased.

    ¡°Maybe,¡± he replied, heading out to get a paper.

    Outside, he bought a copy of the Sun, annoyed at spending money on news he already knew. But as he read under a lamppost, the cold seemed to seep into his bones, matching the chill of the headlines about The Rose Killer.

    The newspaper¡¯s bold headline screamed about The Rose Killer¡¯s ninth murder, this time on the eerie Primrose Hill. Bernard¡¯s eyes scanned the page, absorbing the police¡¯s secrecy and the eerie outline of the killer¡¯s rubber sole, a chilling clue to his identity. Criminals had been nabbed by less, and Bernard¡¯s mind raced to the shoes he cleaned every morning¡ªa row of worn soles that told tales.

    His mind churned with dread, envisioning his wife¡¯s boots, his own patched pairs, Mr. Basset¡¯s expensive ones, and Daisy¡¯s dainty, paper-thin soles¡ªa detail that haunted him now. The thinness of Daisy¡¯s shoes seemed to echo in the quiet of the house, a stark reminder of the danger lurking outside.

    Returning from the newsstand, every step felt like a march toward doom. The lamp¡¯s light was a cold companion as Bernard stood, trying to delay the inevitable confrontation with his family. Shuffling sounds from the courtyard only heightened his unease, a fear that their home was already under surveillance.

    But relief washed over him as Mr. Basset emerged from the shadows, carrying a mysterious parcel. The lodger¡¯s new boots clicked ominously, a sound Bernard couldn¡¯t shake off as he watched from afar.

    Once inside, Bernard¡¯s demeanor shifted, his sullenness palpable. ¡°There it is,¡± he muttered, dropping the paper. ¡°Not much to see.¡±

    His wife¡¯s concern was immediate. ¡°You¡¯re ill,¡± she declared, alarmed by his demeanor. ¡°You got a chill last night!¡± Her words hung heavy in the air, mingling with the dread that had settled over the household.

    Bernard¡¯s attempt to divert the conversation from the chilling news in the paper fell flat, his mind racing to escape the looming dread. ¡°Jerry Chandler, always out in all weathers,¡± he muttered, his words a feeble attempt at normalcy.

    His wife¡¯s irritation crackled in the air. ¡°Why were you out so long, then?¡± she demanded, not letting him off the hook. ¡°Just for the paper?¡±

    Bernard¡¯s admission of stopping to read it only added to the tension. Daisy, eager for more details, found the paper lacking. ¡°They don¡¯t say much,¡± she remarked, disappointment clear in her voice.

    Her stepmother¡¯s rebuke was sharp. ¡°Young girls shouldn¡¯t be curious about murders,¡± she scolded. ¡°Jerry won¡¯t think highly of your interest in such things.¡±

    Daisy¡¯s defiance rose. ¡°What¡¯s surprising?¡± she challenged, eager for any scrap of information.

    Mrs. Bernard seized the opportunity, spinning a tale about Jerry¡¯s secretive visit and his wish to shield Daisy from the grisly news. Bernard, weighed down by the darkness of it all, added, ¡°¡¯Tain¡¯t healthy to speak overmuch about such happenings.¡±

    When Jerry arrived later, the conversation danced around the murder, barely mentioned. Daisy and Jerry found solace in lighter topics, sharing stories that brought laughter to the room. Jerry, in particular, relished the diversion, enjoying Daisy¡¯s tales of Aunt Margaret¡¯s escapades.

    Laughter rang in the air, momentarily pushing back the shadows of fear and suspicion that lurked just beyond the doorstep.

    Chandler¡¯s tale of catching a clever swindler captivated the room, even drawing Mrs. Bernard¡¯s interest¡ªa rare occurrence given her usual disdain for Jerry¡¯s line of work.

    As they basked in the aftermath of Jerry¡¯s story, a bell rang, jolting them back to reality. Bernard¡¯s glance at his wife spoke volumes, prompting her reluctant ascent to investigate the lodger¡¯s request.

    Upstairs, Mr. Basset¡¯s demeanor was a stark contrast to his usual aloofness. He appeared unwell, his voice tinged with weakness as he declined supper and expressed regret over asking for the newspaper earlier. Mrs. Bernard¡¯s gaze, unintentionally intense, betrayed her own hidden thoughts as she interacted with him.

    Returning downstairs, Mrs. Bernard¡¯s stiffness didn¡¯t escape Daisy¡¯s notice. Her curiosity about the lodger¡¯s well-being was met with terse responses. Jerry, ever light-hearted, tried to lighten the mood, only to be met with a sharp rebuke from Mrs. Bernard. Her sudden change in demeanor caught Jerry off guard, leading him to apologize humbly.

    Mrs. Bernard¡¯s cryptic remark about the lodger¡¯s normalcy left a lingering sense of mystery in the room, accentuated by her abrupt departure.

 Chapter 23

    <hr>

    Each passing hour seemed to inject more fear and uncertainty into Bernard¡¯s already tormented mind. He grappled with the haunting question of what to do next, cycling through a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

    The gnawing realization that he lacked certainty plagued him incessantly. If only he could be sure, he might have found a clear path forward. But the specter of involving the police loomed large, casting a shadow of ruin and disgrace over his and Ellen¡¯s lives. The thought of public scrutiny and the stain of a gruesome crime hanging over them like a perpetual curse fueled Bernard¡¯s desperation for an alternative solution.

    His mind raced, searching for any loophole, any escape from the suffocating grip of guilt and dread. Yet, with each passing moment, the weight on his conscience grew heavier, the options dwindling into a maze of uncertainty.

    Amidst this turmoil, a perverse hope emerged¡ªan unspeakable desire for the lodger to slip up, to be caught in the act and relieve Bernard of his unbearable burden. But Mr. Basset, instead of venturing out on his nocturnal activities, retreated further into seclusion, claiming illness and spending prolonged hours in bed, much to Bernard¡¯s unease.

    Adding to Bernard¡¯s turmoil was Jerry Chandler¡¯s relentless presence. The detective¡¯s constant scrutiny and obsession with The Rose Killer only intensified Bernard¡¯s anxiety. Even as Chandler delved into every detail of the killer¡¯s modus operandi, painting a vivid picture that made Bernard and Ellen squirm with discomfort, he showed no interest in their enigmatic lodger.

    Then came a fateful morning, a tense moment of reckoning between Bernard and Chandler. The atmosphere crackled with unspoken tension as Chandler, unusually serious, sought a private conversation in the absence of Ellen and Daisy. Bernard braced himself for the worst, anticipating an accusation that would shatter his fragile facade of normalcy and expose him as an unwitting accomplice to a murderer.

    ¡°Yes?¡± Bernard¡¯s voice wavered, teetering on the edge of apprehension as Chandler¡¯s gaze bore into him. ¡°What is it, Jerry?¡± The words hung in the air, heavy with anticipation, as Bernard sank into his chair, his nerves coiled tight. ¡°Yes?¡± he repeated, the uncertainty palpable. Chandler¡¯s intense scrutiny felt almost menacing. ¡°Well, out with it, Jerry! Don¡¯t keep me in suspense.¡±

    A faint smile played on Chandler¡¯s lips, a cryptic glint in his eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t think what I¡¯ve got to say can take you by surprise, Mr. Bernard,¡± he remarked coolly, his demeanor tinged with calculated restraint.

    Bernard¡¯s response was a mixture of relief and confusion, his emotions shifting like shadows in the dimly lit room. ¡°My girl?¡± he exclaimed, caught off guard by the unexpected turn of conversation. ¡°Good Lord, Jerry! Is that all you want to talk about? Why, you fair frightened me¡ªthat you did!¡±

    The tension ebbed, replaced by a strained cordiality as Bernard attempted to regain his composure. Chandler¡¯s irritation simmered beneath the surface, his impatience palpable as he navigated Bernard¡¯s sudden shift in mood.

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    ¡°As far as I¡¯m concerned,¡± Bernard declared with forced solemnity, ¡°you have my blessing, Jerry. You¡¯re a very likely young chap, and I had a true respect for your father.¡± Chandler, though grateful, pressed on, probing for assurance about Daisy¡¯s feelings.

    ¡°I can¡¯t answer for Daisy,¡± Bernard admitted heavily, the weight of parental responsibility evident in his demeanor. ¡°You¡¯ll have to ask her yourself¡ªthat¡¯s not a job any other man can do for you, my lad.¡±

    Chandler¡¯s frustration bubbled up, fueled by the obstacles in his path to Daisy. ¡°I never get a chance. I never see her, not by ourselves,¡± he vented, his impatience breaking through.

    Bernard, distracted by his own thoughts, offered a distracted promise. ¡°You come along tomorrow,¡± he suggested, ¡°and I¡¯ll see you get your walk with Daisy.¡± The conversation drifted, a dance of words on the surface while deeper concerns gnawed at Bernard¡¯s mind.

    Chandler, eager for solitude with Daisy, couldn¡¯t hide his longing. ¡°D¡¯you think they¡¯ll be out long now, Mr. Bernard?¡± he inquired, his restlessness seeping into his tone.

    Bernard, jolted back to the present, hastily invited Chandler to stay. ¡°Sit down, sit down; do!¡± he urged, a hint of hospitality masking the turmoil brewing within. The mundane act of waiting for Daisy and Ellen to return from shopping became a facade for the undercurrent of tension that pulsed beneath their polite conversation.

    The atmosphere in Bernard¡¯s house crackled with tension as he probed Jerry Chandler about the ongoing hunt for The Rose Killer, their voices taking on a darker, more ominous tone.

    ¡°And how about your job, Jerry? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you¡¯re all just waiting for the next time?¡± Bernard¡¯s voice quivered with suppressed anxiety, a sense of dread hanging heavy in the air.

    ¡°Aye¡ªthat¡¯s about the figure of it,¡± Chandler replied, his voice now tinged with somber gravity, a glimpse into the grim reality of their relentless pursuit. ¡°We¡¯re fair tired of it¡ªbeginning to wonder when it¡¯ll end, that we are!¡±

    Bernard couldn¡¯t help but delve deeper into the haunting image of their elusive prey. ¡°Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master¡¯s like?¡± he ventured, his curiosity tinged with a hint of dread.

    Chandler¡¯s response was chillingly descriptive. ¡°I¡¯ve a sort of notion¡ªa savage, fierce-looking devil, the chap must be,¡± he mused, his words painting a vivid yet terrifying portrait. ¡°It¡¯s someone used to killing, that¡¯s flat.¡±

    Bernard¡¯s mind raced with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last. ¡°Then it don¡¯t seem to you possible¡ª?¡± he trailed off, his gaze drifting towards the window, a sense of foreboding settling over him. ¡°You don¡¯t take any stock, I suppose, in that idea some of the papers put out, that the man is¡±¡ªhe hesitated, the words catching in his throat¡ª¡°a gentleman?¡±

    Chandler¡¯s reaction was swift and dismissive. ¡°No,¡± he declared emphatically. ¡°I¡¯ve made up my mind that¡¯s quite a wrong tack.¡±

    As the conversation veered into increasingly grim territories, Bernard couldn¡¯t shake off the creeping fear that The Rose Killer might be closer than they imagined. ¡°You don¡¯t think,¡± he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, ¡°that he could be just staying somewhere, lodging like?¡±

    Chandler¡¯s response, though tinged with a hint of humor, underscored the gravity of their predicament. ¡°Well, if that idea¡¯s correct then, ¡¯twould make our task more difficult than ever,¡± he acknowledged, a note of resignation creeping into his tone.

    The weight of their discussion hung heavy in the room, both men grappling with the magnitude of their quest. Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of Mrs. Bernard¡¯s return, a welcome distraction from the dark thoughts that had consumed them.

    Daisy¡¯s presence brought a fleeting moment of normalcy, her blush betraying her pleasure at Chandler¡¯s continued presence. However, even her innocent interactions were tinged with the underlying tension that permeated Bernard¡¯s household, a stark reminder of the ever-present threat lurking in their midst.

 Chapter 24

    <hr>

    Daisy¡¯s eighteenth birthday crept in without fanfare, a quiet marker of time amidst the turbulent currents swirling around the Bernard household. Bernard¡¯s gift, a secondhand silver watch, held echoes of happier days, a poignant reminder of a past slipping further into the shadows with each passing moment.

    Mrs. Bernard, consumed by her own turmoil, offered no more than a passing glance at the supposedly extravagant gift. Her thoughts were elsewhere, leaving Bernard and his daughter to navigate their strained relationship without interference.

    As the birthday morning unfolded, Bernard found solace in the act of buying tobacco, a ritual that had become his refuge in the storm of recent days. The smoke curling from his pipe whispered of fleeting pleasures, a temporary respite from the gnawing anxieties that plagued his every waking moment.

    Avoiding familiar faces and well-trodden paths had become Bernard¡¯s modus operandi, a desperate attempt to shield himself from conversations that might unravel the fragile web of suspicions haunting his mind. But on this day, an unbidden desire for human contact pulled him towards the bustling streets near Edgware Road.

    In a quaint tobacco shop, Bernard engaged in idle chatter with the tobacconist, a brief reprieve from the suffocating weight of his thoughts. Yet, even in this mundane exchange, the specter of The Lodger loomed large, a silent presence lurking just beyond the threshold of conversation.

    His respite shattered by a sudden realization, Bernard¡¯s frantic dash out of the shop mirrored the urgency of his inner turmoil. The sight of his wife standing alone, oblivious to the danger at home, ignited a primal fear that surged through Bernard¡¯s veins like wildfire.

    ¡°Ellen!¡± he croaked, the words torn from his throat by sheer terror. ¡°You¡¯ve never gone and left my little girl alone in the house with the lodger?¡±

    The panic in Mrs. Bernard¡¯s eyes mirrored Bernard¡¯s own dread, an unspoken acknowledgement passing between them in the charged silence that followed.

    With hurried steps, they raced back home, Bernard¡¯s heart pounding in his chest with each passing second. ¡°Don¡¯t run,¡± he urged, his voice strained with fear. ¡°People are noticing you, Ellen. Don¡¯t run.¡±

    The clamor of their approach shattered the stillness of their home, Bernard¡¯s frantic call for Daisy a haunting refrain in the air. Relief flooded his senses as Daisy¡¯s voice broke through the tension, a beacon of safety in the midst of chaos.

    ¡°She¡¯s all right,¡± Bernard murmured, a tremor of emotion in his voice. ¡°She¡¯s all right, Ellen.¡± But beneath the reassurance lay a deeper unease, a realization that the shadows closing in around them were far from dispelled.

    He paused for a moment, the weight of uncertainty pressing against the walls of the narrow passage. ¡°It did startle me,¡± he admitted, his voice carrying a tinge of caution. ¡°Let¡¯s not alarm the girl, Ellen.¡±

    In the sitting room, Daisy stood before the crackling fire, her reflection dancing in the mirror. ¡°Oh, father,¡± she chirped, her back still turned, ¡°I¡¯ve met the lodger! Quite the interesting character, though a bit eccentric. He rang for service, but I hesitated, so he ventured downstairs. We had a delightful chat¡ªI mentioned it¡¯s my birthday, and he proposed a visit to Madame Tussaud¡¯s this afternoon.¡± Her laughter rang through the room, tinged with a hint of self-awareness. ¡°He¡¯s a peculiar one, he is. Asked me who I was in a rather menacing tone, and when I said I¡¯m Mr. Bernard¡¯s daughter, he remarked, ¡®Then you¡¯re a lucky girl to have such a nice stepmother. That¡¯s why you look so innocent.¡¯ Quoted some lines from the Prayer Book about innocence. Made me feel like I was back with Old Aunt again.¡±

    ¡°I won¡¯t have you gallivanting with the lodger¡ªnot today,¡± Bernard interjected, his tone laced with frustration. His hand absentmindedly squeezed the forgotten packet of tobacco, a small act of agitation.

    Daisy¡¯s disappointment was palpable. ¡°Oh, father, it¡¯s my birthday! Can¡¯t I have a little fun? I told him Saturday wasn¡¯t ideal for Madame Tussaud¡¯s, but he insisted we go early, before the crowds.¡±

    Her plea was cut short by a tap at the door, sending a ripple of apprehension through the room. Had they left the door ajar, inviting in unwelcome eyes?

    Their relief was palpable as Mr. Basset entered, his tall hat exchanged for a coat, a semblance of normalcy in his demeanor. ¡°I overheard your return,¡± he explained to Mrs. Bernard, his voice hesitant yet oddly compelling. ¡°Would you and Miss Bernard care to join me at Madame Tussaud¡¯s? I¡¯ve never seen the waxworks, though they¡¯ve been a part of folklore for as long as I can remember.¡±

    Bernard¡¯s gaze lingered on the lodger, a sudden doubt creeping into his mind. Could this unassuming man truly be the shadowy figure he had feared for days? The monster he had conjured in his nightmares seemed incongruous with the gentle soul before him.

    Attempting to gauge his wife¡¯s reaction, Bernard found her gaze distant, lost in thoughts unknown. ¡°Yes, sir. We¡¯ll be along shortly,¡± she replied wearily, the weight of uncertainty hanging heavy in the air.

    <hr>

    Madame Tussaud¡¯s, a place once filled with fond memories of courtship for Mrs. Bernard, now echoed with an eerie tension as they made their way inside. The memories of free passes given by the butler¡¯s acquaintance, Hopkins, were overshadowed by the looming presence of the wax figures, frozen in macabre poses.

    Ascending the grand staircase into the gallery, Mr. Basset¡¯s abrupt halt hinted at a deeper unease, his eyes flickering over the lifeless figures that seemed to beckon death itself. Daisy, seizing the moment, urged for a venture into the Chamber of Horrors, a forbidden territory in her childhood. The lodger¡¯s agreement to this dark excursion sent a chill through the air, a precursor to the unfolding mystery.

    Inside the Napoleonic relics room, Mrs. Bernard¡¯s discomfort grew, tempered only by the familiar face of Hopkins at the turnstile. The casual banter veiled an underlying tension, especially when Mr. Basset¡¯s reaction hinted at a hidden past or secrets yet untold.

    As the trio navigated the Chamber of Horrors¡¯ anticipation, Hopkins¡¯s revelation of Sir John Burney¡¯s presence, the Commissioner of Police, added a layer of intrigue. Mrs. Bernard¡¯s unease heightened, especially as Daisy wandered away with Mr. Basset, leaving her to navigate a sea of unknown faces and whispered conversations.

    A group approached, their laughter mingling with the air heavy with secrets. Mrs. Bernard¡¯s eyes darted among them, instinctively recognizing Sir John Burney, the authoritative figure with a shadowed past. His words, spoken with a jovial air but carrying a weight of truth about the flaws in the justice system, resonated ominously in the chamber of dark truths.

    The mention of recent murders and the uncertainty of justice hung in the air, each word a thread in the fabric of suspense that wrapped around them. Daisy¡¯s innocent inquiry pierced through the tension, drawing attention to the unsolved crimes that haunted the city, crimes that perhaps lurked closer than anyone dared to imagine.

    The party huddled together, their faces lit only by the flickering glow of the fire. ¡°Well, no.¡± The words hung in the air like a challenge. ¡°I doubt that particular murderer will ever hang.¡±

    The girl¡¯s voice was a sharp blade cutting through the tension. ¡°You mean you¡¯ll never catch him?¡±

    ¡°I think we¡¯ll catch him,¡± he drawled, his voice dripping with confidence, ¡°because...now, don¡¯t go repeating this to your newspaper friends, Miss Rose...because I think we know who the murderer is.¡±

    Gasps echoed through the room, a chorus of disbelief.

    ¡°Then why haven¡¯t you caught him?¡± The girl¡¯s voice was indignant, accusatory.

    ¡°I didn¡¯t say we knew where he was,¡± he corrected her, his smile a thin, cruel line. ¡°I only said we know who he is. Or, rather, I have a very strong suspicion.¡±

    The Frenchman¡¯s eyes snapped to his, a flicker of interest. ¡°De Leipsic and Liverpool?¡±

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    He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. ¡°You¡¯ve reviewed the case?¡±

    His words tumbled out then, a rush of confession. ¡°Four murders, eight years ago. Two in Leipsic, two in Liverpool. The same hand, the same...flourishes. He was caught, red-handed, at his last victim¡¯s house. I saw him, spoke with him. He was mad, no question. Religious mania, they called it. But he¡¯s escaped, made off with a fortune in gold meant for the asylum staff. That¡¯s why it was covered up...¡±

    He trailed off, his gaze dropping to the floor as if only now realizing what he¡¯d revealed. The room was silent, heavy with the weight of his words.

    Mrs. Bernard felt as if she¡¯d been carved from ice, her heart frozen in her chest. Even if she¡¯d had the time, she couldn¡¯t have warned him, couldn¡¯t have screamed the warning that ripped through her mind. Her lodger and the detective were face to face, their gazes locked like wolves.

    Bissett¡¯s face contorted, a mask of rage and terror. But they swept past, oblivious, leaving Mrs. Bernard to breathe again.

    The turnstile creaked, a rusty voice calling out, ¡°Move along, love. You¡¯ll have the place to yourselves.¡±

    Her lodger¡¯s voice was a snake slithering through the grass. ¡°Mrs. Bernard, a word.¡±

    She took a step towards him, her heart pounding in her ears. His face was twisted, inhuman. ¡°You betrayed me,¡± he spat, his breath hot against her ear. ¡°But I am protected. I have work yet to do. Your end will be bitter, your steps will lead you to hell.¡±

    Even as he spoke, he was moving, his eyes darting towards escape, towards freedom.

    His gaze locked onto a faded placard above a tattered curtain. ¡°Emergency Exit.¡± Mrs. Bernard tensed, expecting him to bolt. But Bissett surprised her. He strode over to the turnstile, his fingers fumbling in his pocket like a man searching for a lifeline. He clutched at the attendant¡¯s arm. ¡°I¡¯m ill,¡± he gasped, his voice a panicked whisper. ¡°The atmosphere...it¡¯s too much. I must get out. Quickly.¡±

    His hand flashed out, pressing something into the other man¡¯s palm. Mrs. Bernard caught the glint of gold. ¡°There¡¯s an exit there. Can I go out that way?¡±

    The attendant hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his face. He glanced at Daisy, her cheeks flushed with excitement, then at Mrs. Bernard, her face ashen. The half-sovereign seemed to burn against his skin. ¡°Well, yes, sir. I suppose so.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll come back in the front if I feel better,¡± Bissett babbled, his words tumbling out. ¡°I¡¯ll pay again. Only fair.¡±

    ¡°You won¡¯t have to pay again, sir. Just explain¡ª¡±

    But Bissett was already pushing past him, his shoulder against the door. It burst open, the sudden light forcing him to shield his eyes. ¡°Thank you,¡± he muttered, his voice barely audible. ¡°I¡¯ll be all right now.¡±

    A rusted iron staircase spiraled down into a dim, neglected courtyard. A single door led out into the night.

    Bissett spun back, his gaze raking over the small group. He did feel ill, his stomach churning with a mix of rage and fear. How easy it would be to fling himself over the railing, to end it all in one swift moment.

    But no. He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. He couldn¡¯t abandon his work, not yet. And he couldn¡¯t let her win. His landlady, whom he¡¯d trusted, whom he¡¯d paid so generously. How could she have betrayed him to his enemy? To the man who¡¯d conspired to lock him away, to rob him of his purpose?

    He stumbled out into the cool night air, the curtain falling behind him like a shroud. He was alone, but he knew it wouldn¡¯t last. He had to keep moving, had to find a place to hide, to plan.

    Daisy¡¯s voice drifted out after him, tinged with worry. ¡°He did look bad, didn¡¯t he?¡±

    The attendant nodded, his gaze flicking to Mrs. Bernard. ¡°That he did, poor gentleman. Your lodger, ain¡¯t he?¡±

    She nodded, the word barely more than a whisper. ¡°Yes. My lodger.¡±

    <hr>

    Hopkins invited them to explore the Chamber of Horrors, but Mrs. Bernard was adamant. ¡°We should get home,¡± she said, her voice firm. Daisy meekly agreed. The girl felt a flutter of unease, a prickling sense of fear. It was as if Bissett¡¯s sudden disappearance had ripped the joy from the evening.

    They made their way home in silence, the only sound the rustle of their clothes. It was Daisy who broke the silence, her voice trembling as she described Bissett¡¯s strange collapse.

    ¡°He¡¯ll be home soon,¡± Bernard said, but there was little conviction in his voice. He glanced at his wife, her face pale and drawn. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

    The hours ticked by, heavy with tension. They all knew Chandler wouldn¡¯t be visiting tonight.

    Around six, Mrs. Bernard rose, her movements stiff. She went upstairs, the gas flaring to life in Bissett¡¯s sitting room. The space seemed to vibrate with his absence. Her Bible and his concordance lay side by side, abandoned. She felt a pang, a sharp sense of loss.

    She moved to the window, peering out into the darkness. What a night to be alone, adrift.

    She spun back, her gaze falling on the open drawer. The heap of sovereigns had dwindled. Why hadn¡¯t he taken it all? Did he have enough for a night¡¯s lodging? Then she remembered the glint of gold as he¡¯d pressed something into Hopkins¡¯ hand.

    His words, his threat, they barely touched her now. She hadn¡¯t betrayed him. She¡¯d sheltered him, kept his secret. But now...now she knew. The Frenchman¡¯s careless question echoed in her mind. ¡°De Leipsic and Liverpool man?¡±

    A sudden urge seized her. She pinned a black-headed pin between the pages of the Bible. Then she opened it, reading the words the pin had marked. ¡°¡®My tabernacle is spoiled and all my cords are broken...There is none to set up my curtains.¡¯¡±

    Leaving the Bible open, a stark testament, she went downstairs. Daisy met her in the doorway. ¡°I¡¯ll get the lodger¡¯s supper started. He¡¯ll come in when he¡¯s hungry.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard stepped aside, her voice barely more than a whisper. ¡°Mr. Bissett won¡¯t be coming back.¡±

    A flicker of relief crossed Bernard¡¯s face, quickly replaced by anxiety. ¡°What makes you think that?¡± he muttered.

    ¡°Wait until Daisy¡¯s asleep.¡±

    He had to content himself with that. It wasn¡¯t until Daisy had retired to the back room that Mrs. Bernard beckoned him upstairs. He chained the front door, earning a sharp look from his wife.

    ¡°You can¡¯t shut him out,¡± she hissed.

    ¡°I won¡¯t leave Daisy alone with him maybe walking in any minute.¡±

    ¡°Mr. Bissett won¡¯t hurt Daisy. More like to hurt me,¡± she said, her voice cracking.

    Bernard stared, his face hardening. ¡°What do you mean? Tell me.¡±

    And so she did, the words spilling out in a rush. He listened, his face growing grimmer with each passing moment.

    ¡°So you see,¡± she finished, ¡°I was right. He was never responsible.¡±

    He stared at her, his gaze unreadable. ¡°Depends what you mean by responsible,¡± he said at last.

    But she would have none of it. ¡°I heard him myself,¡± she spat, her voice venomous. ¡°A lunatic, a religious maniac.¡±

    Bernard shook his head stubbornly. ¡°He never seemed mad to me. Just...odd. No madder than plenty I could name.¡±

    He paced the room, his agitation growing. ¡°I wish I could leave out some supper for him. And his money...I hate to think of it sitting there.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯ll be back for that,¡± Bernard said, his voice firm.

    But Mrs. Bernard just shook her head. ¡°There¡¯s nothing for us to do,¡± she said quietly. ¡°Why should there be?¡±

    He resumed his pacing, the motion restless, aimless. ¡°If only I could leave out a bit of supper,¡± he muttered. ¡°And his money...I hate to think of it there.¡±

    ¡°He¡¯ll be back,¡± Bernard repeated. ¡°Count on it.¡±

    But Mrs. Bernard just shook her head. ¡°You go up to bed,¡± she said finally. ¡°There¡¯s no sense in sitting up longer.¡±

    He did as he was told, taking the candle she offered him. She watched him climb the stairs, his movements slow. Then he was back, his voice a low whisper. ¡°Ellen, take off the chain. Lock yourself in. That¡¯s what I¡¯ll do. He can sneak in and get his...filthy money.¡±

    She said nothing, just watched as he disappeared into the darkness. She took off the chain, but she didn¡¯t lock herself in. Instead, she sat, waiting. At half past seven, she made herself a cup of tea, then retired to her bedroom.

    Daisy stirred, her eyes fluttering open. ¡°Ellen, I must have been so tired...I never heard you come to bed or get up.¡±

    ¡°Young people sleep heavier,¡± Mrs. Bernard said, her voice a gentle reprimand.

    ¡°Did the lodger come in? Is he upstairs now?¡±

    Mrs. Bernard shook her head. ¡°It should be a lovely day at Richmond.¡±

    Daisy smiled, a bright, carefree smile.

    That evening, Mrs. Bernard broke the news to Chandler. They¡¯d rehearsed it, the words spilling out in a practiced rhythm. Chandler took it well, lost as he was in his own happiness.

    ¡°Gone, has he?¡± he said, his tone casual. ¡°Paid up, did he?¡±

    ¡°Oh, yes,¡± Mrs. Bernard hastened to reassure him. ¡°No trouble there.¡±

    Bernard spoke up, his voice tinged with guilt. ¡°He was an honest soul, Jerry. I feel bad for him. He was such a...fragile creature.¡±

    ¡°You always said he was odd,¡± Chandler pointed out, a smile in his voice.

    ¡°He was that,¡± Bernard agreed. ¡°A bit...touched.¡± He tapped his forehead, and the young people burst out laughing.

    ¡°Want me to put out a description?¡± Chandler asked, still chuckling.

    Mr. and Mrs. Bernard exchanged a look. ¡°Not yet,¡± they said in unison.

    Chandler shrugged. ¡°You¡¯d be surprised how many people vanish,¡± he said, his tone light.

    He got up to leave, Daisy following him into the hallway. When she returned, she went straight to her father, wrapping her arms around his neck.

    ¡°Father, I have news,¡± she whispered, her voice trembling.

    He turned, his eyes lighting up. ¡°What is it, my dear?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m engaged,¡± she breathed. ¡°Aren¡¯t you surprised?¡±

    He turned, pulling her into a warm hug. ¡°What will Old Aunt say?¡± he whispered.

    ¡°Leave Old Aunt to me,¡± his wife said, her voice firm. ¡°I¡¯ll manage her.¡±

    Mrs. Bernard never heard from her lodger again. Days turned into weeks, and finally, she stopped listening for the click of the lock.

    The ¡°Rose Killer¡± murders stopped as abruptly as they¡¯d begun, but come spring, a gardener found a newspaper-wrapped package in Regent¡¯s Park. A pair of rubber-soled shoes and a long, peculiar knife. The police took an interest, but it was the anonymously donated sovereigns to the Foundling Hospital that made the news.

    Mrs. Bernard had kept her word about Old Aunt, who took the news of Daisy¡¯s engagement with surprising equanimity. ¡°Funny thing,¡± she said, ¡°leave a house to the police and it¡¯s sure to be burgled.¡±

    Daisy took offense, but Jerry just laughed. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure to keep an eye on the place,¡± he promised.

    The Bernard''s found a new position, with an old lady who valued them. They kept her comfortable, and she kept them on their toes.

    THE END

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