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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—after 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—the one that had sparked a disagreement with her stepmother—sat 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—” 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—I 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—to give him the name by which he apparently wishes to be known—comprises 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—and we must remember that full information is never given to the newspapers—The Rose Killer should be sought for in the West and not in the East End of London—Believe me to remain, Sir, yours very truly—”
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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—that’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—”
“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—During 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—”
“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. “—however 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—no, I don’t—that 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—I’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—” 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.