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It was a bitterly cold night, the kind that cuts through to the bone. The wind howled like a tortured spirit, whipping snowflakes into frantic dances in the pale moonlight. Sensible people stayed indoors, seeking warmth and comfort, but Bernard was trudging home through the icy streets, his breath visible in the air before him.
Bernard’s heart was lighter than usual, a rare stroke of good fortune having brightened his evening. The young lady whose birthday party he had attended in the capacity of a waiter had inherited a fortune that very day. In a gracious, unexpected gesture, she had gifted each of the hired help a sovereign, along with kind words that had warmed Bernard’s heart. It confirmed his Conservative principles—only true gentlefolk behaved so kindly, in stark contrast to the boorish Radicals.
Yet, despite his good fortune, Bernard was uneasy. He slowed his steps, lost in troubled thoughts about his wife, Ellen. Lately, she had become increasingly nervous and jumpy, her usual capable demeanor replaced by a fraught, almost hysterical edge. It was not like her. Ellen had always been strong-willed and somewhat sharp-tongued, but this newfound anxiety was alarming.
Her sleep was often disturbed by nightmares. Just the previous night, she had cried out in her sleep, her voice filled with fear and defiance. “No, no, no! It isn’t true—I won’t have it said—it’s a lie!” The words had sent a chill down Bernard’s spine, echoing the turmoil that had settled over their home.
As the cold bit through his thin coat, Bernard cursed himself for forgetting his gloves. He shoved his hands into his pockets, quickening his pace. The solitary street was empty, save for the occasional flicker of a gas lamp casting long, eerie shadows.
Then he saw him—Mr. Basset, their lodger. The tall, thin figure moved swiftly along the opposite side of the street, his head bent low. One arm was hidden beneath his long Inverness cape, while the other side of the cape bulged oddly, as if concealing something.
Bernard squinted through the swirling snow, watching as Mr. Basset muttered to himself, his voice carried away by the wind. It was peculiar, this late-night stroll. Bernard thought back to Ellen’s remarks about their lodger. Mr. Basset was certainly eccentric, his habits unusual and his tastes peculiar, especially his aversion to meat and other “sensible” foods. But he paid well and caused no trouble, which was more than enough for Bernard and Ellen.
Determined to catch up, Bernard crossed the street, his footsteps crunching loudly on the frozen pavement. He called out, “Mr. Basset! Mr. Basset, sir!”
The lodger stopped abruptly, his head snapping up. For a moment, they stood still, the night air thick with an unspoken tension. Mr. Basset turned slowly, his face pale in the moonlight, eyes glinting with a strange intensity.
He had been walking so quickly, and his physical condition was so poor, that sweat poured down his face despite the frigid night.
“Ah! So it’s you, Mr. Bernard?” Mr. Basset’s voice broke the eerie silence, his tone unexpectedly sharp. “I heard footsteps behind me and hurried on. I wish I’d known it was you; there are so many queer characters about at night in London.”
“Not on a night like this, sir,” Bernard replied, his breath visible in the frosty air. “Only honest folk with business out would be in such weather. It is cold, sir!”
As Bernard spoke, a question began to form in his slow, honest mind. What on earth could Mr. Basset’s business be on such a bitter night?
“Cold?” Mr. Basset repeated, his breath coming in sharp, quick puffs. “I can’t say that I find it cold, Mr. Bernard. When the snow falls, the air always becomes milder.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Yes, sir, but tonight there’s a sharp east wind. It freezes the very marrow in one’s bones! Still, there’s nothing like walking in cold weather to make one warm, as you seem to have found, sir.”
Bernard noticed that Mr. Basset kept his distance in a peculiar way, walking at the edge of the pavement, leaving the wall side to his landlord.
“I lost my way,” Mr. Basset said abruptly. “I’ve been over Primrose Hill to see a friend of mine, a man I studied with as a lad, and coming back, I lost my way.”
They reached the little gate that opened onto the shabby, paved court in front of the house. Mr. Basset pushed forward, eager to escape the biting cold. Bernard, stepping aside with a courteous “By your leave, sir,” slipped in front of his lodger to open the front door.
As Bernard passed Mr. Basset, the back of his bare left hand brushed lightly against the lodger’s long Inverness cape. To Bernard’s surprise, the cloth wasn’t just damp from the falling snow—it was wet and sticky. He thrust his left hand into his pocket, his mind racing, while he used his other hand to unlock the door.
The two men stepped into the dark, silent house. Compared to the faint glow from the street, the hall seemed black as pitch. As Bernard groped forward, followed closely by Mr. Basset, a sudden wave of mortal terror washed over him. It was a primal, gut-wrenching fear, an instinctive awareness of immediate danger.
In that moment, a voiceless whisper, the voice of his first wife—long dead and rarely thought of—breathed in his ear, “Take care!”
Before Bernard could react, Mr. Basset spoke, his voice harsh and grating, though not loud.
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Bernard wiped the sweat from his brow, his heart pounding like a drum. The dark street seemed to close in around them, and the silence was only broken by the sound of his own ragged breathing.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Bernard,” Mr. Basset began, his voice calm but unsettling, “that you must have felt something dirty, foul, on my coat? It’s too long a story to tell you now, but I brushed up against a dead animal, a creature to whose misery some thoughtful soul had put an end, lying across a bench on Primrose Hill.”
Bernard’s mind raced. His fingers still tingled with the sensation of the wet, sticky substance he’d touched. But the words came out almost against his will. “No, sir, no. I didn’t notice nothing. I scarcely touched you, sir.”
It felt as if a dark force compelled him to lie. “And now, sir, I’ll be saying goodnight to you,” he added, pressing himself against the wall, allowing Mr. Basset to pass.
“Goodnight,” Mr. Basset replied, his voice hollow and echoing in the narrow hallway.
Bernard waited until he heard the creak of the stairs and the soft click of the bedroom door. Only then did he draw his left hand from his pocket, staring at it in the dim light. Flecks and streaks of pale, reddish blood marred his skin, confirming his worst fears.
Barefoot and silent, he crept into the room where his wife lay sleeping. He moved stealthily across to the washstand and dipped his hand into the water jug, hoping to wash away the evidence.
“What are you doing?” Ellen’s voice cut through the silence, making him jump. “What on earth are you doing?”
“I’m just washing my hands,” he stammered, guilt sharpening his tone.
“Indeed, you’re doing nothing of the sort! I never heard of such a thing—putting your hand into the water in which I was going to wash my face tomorrow morning!”
“I’m very sorry, Ellen,” he said meekly. “I meant to throw it away. You don’t suppose I would have let you wash in dirty water, do you?”
She said no more, but her eyes followed him as he undressed, making him feel even more uncomfortable than before. He finally slipped into bed, the oppressive silence weighing heavily on him. He wanted to tell her about the sovereign the young lady had given him, but that now seemed as worthless as a farthing.
Ellen’s voice broke the silence again, causing him to start. “I suppose you don’t know that you’ve left the light burning in the hall, wasting our good money?” she said tartly.
With a sigh, he got up, opened the door, and extinguished the light. The gaslight flickered and died, casting the house back into darkness. He groped his way back to bed, and without another word, they lay awake until dawn.
The next morning, Bernard woke with a start, his limbs heavy and eyes tired. He drew his watch from under his pillow. Seven o’clock. Without waking Ellen, he pulled the blind aside. Snow was falling heavily, blanketing the city in an eerie silence.
After dressing, he went into the passage and found the newspaper lying on the mat. It was probably the sound of it being pushed through the letterbox that had woken him. He picked it up and went into the sitting room, carefully spreading the newspaper on the table.
As he bent over the paper, scanning it intently, his heart hammered in his chest. Finally, he looked up, a wave of relief washing over his face. The news item he had dreaded, the story he was certain would be splashed across the front page, was nowhere to be found.