----------------------------------------
"All I can say is, I think Daisy ought to go. One can’t always do just what one wants to do—not 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—perfectly 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—Daisy’s godmother—had 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—you 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—same 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—a terrible deal—though I never thought I’d hear Ellen say it’s the only thing that matters. But it’d be foolish—very, very foolish, my girl, to offend your Aunt Margaret. It’ll only be two days, after all—two 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—the 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—that’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—not 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—Daisy’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’—just 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—to 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—feeling 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”—in 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—as much as lies in my power, that is—by 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.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“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—strange 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—that 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—she wouldn’t dream of going out untidy—Bernard 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—grim 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—an 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—shapeless 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—hoped against hope—that 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—utterly 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—though not the most important—why 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—at 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—oddly enough—acutely, miserably jealous. But she hadn’t let him know that—no, not she!
Of course, Jerry shouldn’t neglect his job—that would never do. But it was a blessing he wasn’t like those detectives in stories—the 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—Jerry 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.—DAISY.”
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—Mrs. 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—a 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—not 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—quite 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—the flesh is weak,” Mr. Basset sighed heavily.
“You study too hard and too long—that’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—not 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.