----------------------------------------
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—not 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—the 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—something 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—could 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.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
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. £21 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—a 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.