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“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—“stealthy” she called it to herself—through 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—no, 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—not for the sort of man he is—to be wandering about the streets at night. I read you out the accidents in Lloyd’s—shocking, they were, all brought about by the fog! And then, that horrid monster’ll soon be at his work again—”
“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—such as “stomach,” for instance, or an even plainer term—to 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—Mr. 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—in 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—strangely 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—again, not for the first time—what 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—the 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—peculiar.
She thought of the bag—the 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—going out, as he had done the other evening, for a second time? But no, the sounds she heard—the sounds of now familiar footsteps—did not continue down the passage leading to the front door.
Instead—what 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—I 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—I 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—thank you all the same, Mrs. Bernard. I shall come down later—altogether later—after 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—which 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.