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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—that 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—not girlish human nature—not 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—it 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—where 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—not 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—to 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—but, Mrs. Bernard, you must excuse me if I say that I do not welcome such solicitude. I prefer to be left alone. I—I cannot stay in your house if I feel that my comings and goings are watched—spied upon.”

She pulled herself together. “No one spies on you, sir,” she said with considerable dignity. “I’ve done my best to satisfy you—”

“You have—you 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—indeed, what I have to do. For years, I have been misunderstood—persecuted”—he 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?”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

She stared at him helplessly. “Don’t you be afraid I’ll ever be that, sir. I only spoke as I did because—well, 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—rather, disappointment and dread.

Plucking up courage, she followed him. Yes, Mr. Basset was right. The fog was lifting—rolling 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—a 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—and 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—pleased and vaguely touched. Amidst those dreadful events outside, which filled her with suspicion, anguish, and suspense, she never felt fear—only pity—for 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—until now.

What had caused him to change so suddenly—if 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—a 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—that 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—especially 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—listening 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—that 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—not what people called ‘London particulars.’ I expect the lodger feels like Mrs. Crowley—I’ve often told you about her, Ellen?”

Mrs. Bernard nodded.

Mrs. Crowley had been one of Bernard’s favorite employers—a 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—no, it didn’t. She wasn’t a bit afraid. But—” he turned and looked at his wife—“I am a bit surprised at Mr. Basset. I’d have thought him a timid kind of gentleman—”

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—that 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—God, what a horrible thought—a picture published in some newspaper might bring a certain dreadful fact to Bernard’s knowledge.

But if that happened—if that unthinkably awful thing came to pass—she 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.