----------------------------------------
As the inquest wrapped up, Mrs. Bernard felt a deep reluctance to return home to Ealing. She was weary, her mind fogged with fatigue and a sense of dread. Opting to walk instead of taking the train, she meandered through the streets, trying to postpone the inevitable conversation with Bernard about her visit to the doctor.
Bernard, like many of his ilk, had a curious fascination with medical matters, especially those of others. He expected a detailed account of her trip, every word exchanged with the doctor meticulously recounted.
At every turn, newsboys clamored with the latest editions, each headline screaming about The Rose Killer Inquest. Mrs. Bernard couldn’t escape the morbid curiosity gripping the city. “What is he really like? Full description,” mocked one headline. Another dared, “Do you know him?”
The weight of it all hit her like a physical blow. She stumbled into a nearby pub, needing the solace of cold water to steady her nerves.
The gas-lit streets offered little respite as her thoughts veered to the victims, their cold bodies haunting her mind. She wrestled with the relentless fear that now consumed her.
Home finally came into view, a sanctuary from the horrors outside. The mundane familiarity of her house briefly pushed aside thoughts of The Rose Killer’s victims. She focused instead on Bernard and Mr. Basset, wondering what transpired in her absence.
Entering the house, she found Bernard waiting anxiously. Relief washed over her as she fabricated a story about missing the doctor, knowing Bernard would fret otherwise.
“I was worried sick about you,” Bernard exclaimed, ushering her in. “Come in, dear. You must be freezing in this weather, especially out so little as you are. Did you manage to see the doctor?”
A sudden inspiration struck Mrs. Bernard. “No,” she replied slowly, “Doctor Evans wasn’t there. I waited, but he never showed. It’s my fault, really. I should’ve notified him beforehand. Doctors have busy schedules, after all.”
“Did they at least offer you tea?” Bernard asked with concern.
She hesitated, debating the ethics of accepting tea that was never offered. “They did offer,” she admitted wearily, “but I declined. I could really use a cup now, though, if you don’t mind making it.”
Bernard’s eagerness to please was palpable as he ushered Mrs. Bernard in, urging her not to bother removing her coat just yet.
“Where’s Daisy?” she inquired, her mind already shifting to domestic matters.
Bernard’s smile turned sly. “She won’t be back today,” he revealed with a hint of mischief.
Surprised, Mrs. Bernard asked about a telegram, but none had arrived.
“Jerry Chandler just informed me,” Bernard continued, relishing the gossip. “He’s made quite the impression on Margaret, and now they’re off to the pantomime tonight, courtesy of Daisy’s lady. Quite the turn of events, isn’t it?”
“Very nice for them,” Mrs. Bernard replied absently, grateful for the diversion. “When will Daisy return?”
Bernard explained Chandler’s plan to fetch Daisy tomorrow morning, his voice tinged with excitement.
“That works,” she replied, her thoughts drifting momentarily to the lodger. “Did Mr. Basset ring while I was out?”
“No,” Bernard replied, turning to the boiling kettle. “Funny, I didn’t think of him at all. Chandler was busy regaling me with tales of Margaret.”
“What happened while I was out?” Mrs. Bernard’s tone grew urgent.
“A message came for me,” Bernard explained, a touch of pride in his voice. “A waiter bailed last minute, so they asked me to help at a birthday party tonight. Hanover Terrace. Got a bit more coin out of them, too!”
They chuckled at the unexpected windfall, their laughter breaking the tension that had lingered between them.
“Will you be alright alone?” Bernard asked, his concern genuine.
“Of course,” she replied, though a hint of suspicion crept into her tone. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
The conversation between Mr. and Mrs. Bernard took on an eerie tone, as if shadows whispered in the corners of their words.
“Well, you see, The Rose Killer’s always done ’em in couples, so to speak,” Bernard began, his voice hushed with the weight of the night’s secrets. “They’ve got an idea that he’ll have a try again to-night. However, even so, Jerry’s only on from midnight till five o’clock. Then he’ll go and turn in a bit before going off to fetch Daisy. Fine thing to be young, ain’t it, Ellen?”
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
“I can’t believe that he’d go out on such a night as this!” Ellen exclaimed, her words carrying an unexpected fervor.
Bernard stared at her, caught off guard by her intensity. “What do you mean?” he asked, confusion clouding his features.
Ellen repeated, her voice now trembling, “I was thinking of The Rose Killer.”
“He don’t take no heed of heat nor cold,” Bernard remarked grimly. “I take it the man’s dead to all human feeling—saving, of course, revenge.”
“So that’s your idea about him, is it?” Ellen’s gaze held a newfound intensity. “D’you think he was the man that woman said she saw? That young man what passed her with a newspaper parcel?”
Bernard paused, considering. “I thought that ’twas from the bedroom window a woman saw him?”
“No, no. I mean the other woman, what was taking her husband’s breakfast to him in the warehouse,” Ellen clarified impatiently.
The blank astonishment on Bernard’s face mirrored Ellen’s sudden realization of the danger in their conversation. She had spoken too much, revealed too keen an interest in The Rose Killer.
Hurriedly, she changed the subject, masking her anxiety with casual words about the lodger’s supper. But as she retreated to her bedroom, a shiver of fear gripped her.
Alone in the quiet of her room, Ellen wrestled with her thoughts. The cold seemed to seep into her bones, chilling her despite the warmth of her coat. She glanced at the fireplace longingly, imagining the comfort of a fire. But thoughts of The Rose Killer, of Bernard’s impending absence, clouded her mind.
Downstairs, the sounds of the lodger’s restlessness filtered through the house. Ellen hesitated outside his door, her senses alert to the slightest noise. When she finally knocked and entered, a sense of unease settled over her.
“You are a little earlier than usual, are you not Mrs. Bernard?” Mr. Basset’s voice held an edge of irritation.
“I don’t think so, sir,” Ellen replied, her nerves frayed. “Perhaps I lost count of the time.”
The lodger’s gaze bore into her, his eyes dark and probing. “Aren’t you well?” he inquired, his voice softer now.
“No, sir,” she admitted, her voice wavering. “I’m not well.”
Their exchange hung in the air, laden with unspoken fears and hidden truths, as the night wrapped its tendrils around the house, weaving a tapestry of darkness and mystery.
Mr. Basset’s peculiar smile sent a shiver down Mrs. Bernard’s spine. “Doctors are a maligned body of men,” he remarked, his voice carrying an eerie calmness. “They do their best, Mrs. Bernard. Being human, they are liable to err, but I assure you they do their best.”
“Indeed, sir,” she replied earnestly, her thoughts drifting to the kindness doctors had shown her in the past.
After setting the table and serving Mr. Basset’s supper, she ventured to offer additional coals. “It’s bitterly cold—getting colder every minute. A fearful night to have to go out in,” she commented, her eyes searching his face for any hint of concern.
Mr. Basset’s reaction startled her. Rising abruptly, he fixed her with an intense gaze. “What d’you mean?” he demanded, a note of urgency in his voice.
Caught off guard, she stumbled over her words, trying to explain her concern for Bernard’s well-being. As Mr. Basset settled back into his chair, she made her escape, feeling a sense of unease lingering in the air.
Determined to make her husband’s evening more comfortable, she lit a fire in their bedroom, surprising Bernard with her thoughtful gesture. “Well, ’twill be pleasant for me, too; keep me company-like while you’re out; and make the room nice and warm when you come in,” she explained, masking her deeper anxieties.
While Bernard dressed, she attended to Mr. Basset’s supper. His silence and distant demeanor weighed heavily on her. Despite the warmth of the fire, an icy fear crept into her heart as she observed him staring into the flames, a solitary figure in the dimly lit room.
As she cleared away his dishes, Mrs. Bernard couldn’t shake the feeling of pity mingled with dread for the lonely lodger. His generosity and simple habits tugged at her conscience, prompting thoughts of easing his financial burden.
“Good-night, sir,” she murmured softly as she prepared to leave.
But Mr. Basset’s parting words sent a chill down her spine. “Perhaps I shall take a little turn first,” he mused, his gaze piercing. “Such is my way, Mrs. Bernard; after I have been studying all day I require a little exercise.”
Worriedly, she urged him to reconsider going out in the bitter cold, but his response only deepened her unease. “Is it not a strange thing, Mrs. Bernard, that people who have all day in which to amuse themselves should carry their revels far into the night?” he mused, his words carrying an ominous weight.
Uneasy and unsettled, Mrs. Bernard bid him goodnight once more, the shadows of the night seeming to gather around them, thick with unspoken fears and mysteries yet to unfold.
Mr. Basset’s expression of triumph sent a shiver through Mrs. Bernard, a mix of relief and unease washing over her. Had she inadvertently revealed too much with her words? Had she somehow crossed a line with her lodger?
“Providence means us to take care o’ ourselves too,” she replied respectfully, masking the lingering doubt in her mind.
Retreating to her sitting-room, Mrs. Bernard disregarded the potential consequences with Bernard the next day as she placed the remnants of Mr. Basset’s meal on her table. With deliberate care, she extinguished the lights, enveloping herself in the dim glow of the dying fire as she retired to her bedroom, shutting out the world behind closed doors.
The fire crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls, a hypnotic dance that lulled her into a drowsy state. Yet, as the clock chimed a quarter to twelve, she jolted awake, her heart racing at the familiar sound of Mr. Basset’s stealthy movements downstairs, his rubber-soled shoes barely making a sound as he slipped out into the night.
Despite her attempts to settle into sleep, Mrs. Bernard found herself restless, the dancing firelight casting unsettling shadows that seemed to whisper secrets in the dark. The discomfort grew, her mind racing with thoughts and suspicions that refused to be silenced.
An impulse to grab one of Bernard’s detective stories and lose herself in its pages tugged at her, but she resisted, aware of the lingering admonitions against reading in bed. Instead, she lay in the eerie stillness, listening to the whispers of the night, her senses heightened and her unease deepening with each passing moment.