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Chapter 22

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Bernard felt an unusual lightness in his step as he went about the morning routine, preparing tea for his wife. But the air of contentment was shattered by her weak call from the other room.

“Bernard!” she called out, her voice tinged with urgency.

Hurrying to her side, he asked, “Yes, my dear, what is it? I’ll bring your tea right away.” His grin was wide, almost foolishly so.

She sat up, a puzzled look on her face. “Why are you grinning like that?” she asked suspiciously.

“I had a stroke of luck last night,” he explained eagerly. “But you were so cross that I didn’t dare mention it.”

“Well, tell me now,” she demanded in a low voice.

“I was given a sovereign by the young lady at the party. It was her birthday, you see, and she came into some money, so she gave each of us waiters a sovereign.”

Mrs. Bernard made no immediate comment, instead closing her eyes wearily.

“When is Daisy expected?” she asked, her voice a mix of exhaustion and curiosity. “You didn’t say when Jerry was supposed to bring her over yesterday.”

“Did I forget? Well, they should be here for dinner,” Bernard replied.

“I wonder how long her old aunt expects us to keep her,” mused Mrs. Bernard. The cheer from Bernard’s face faded as he felt her mood shift.

“Daisy will stay as long as she needs to,” he said curtly. “It’s unfair of you, Ellen, to talk like that. She helps us both and lifts our spirits. Besides, it would be cruel to take her away now, just as she’s getting along with that young man. Surely you can see that!”

But Mrs. Bernard remained silent, lost in her own thoughts.

Bernard retreated to the sitting room, feeling a pang of guilt and self-reproach. Why had he entertained such horrible thoughts? It was just a little blood. Maybe Mr. Basset had a nosebleed. But then again, he had mentioned brushing against a dead animal.

As he tried to shake off the unsettling thoughts, a sharp knock at the door shattered the uneasy calm. Ellen rushed past him to answer it.

“I’ll get it,” she exclaimed, her breathless voice breaking the silence.

Surprised by her sudden energy, Bernard followed her into the hall. She took the telegram from the delivery boy, her hands shaking slightly.

“It’s only from Jerry Chandler,” she said with relief. “He can’t fetch Daisy this morning. You’ll have to go.”

Back in the sitting room, Bernard read the message. “On duty this morning. Cannot fetch Miss Daisy as arranged.—CHANDLER.”

“I wonder why he’s on duty,” Bernard mused aloud, feeling uneasy. “Jerry’s hours are usually like clockwork. But I suppose I’ll go around twelve. It might have stopped snowing by then.”

“You’ll start at twelve,” Ellen said quickly. “That’ll give you plenty of time.”

The morning passed without incident. Bernard received a letter from Aunt Daisy, demanding Daisy’s return next Monday. Mr. Basset remained silent in his room, and the house felt strangely peaceful.

Bernard and Ellen found themselves in a rare moment of cheerfulness. They chatted amiably before Bernard left to fetch Daisy.

“Daisy will be surprised to see you,” Ellen remarked with a hint of amusement. “And perhaps a bit disappointed. But it’ll be a pleasant surprise, won’t it?”

As Bernard prepared to leave, his wife accompanied him to the door. The snowfall had lessened, leaving the street quiet with only a few passing cabs and carts trudging through the slush.

Still in the kitchen, Mrs. Bernard heard a familiar ring and knock at the door. “Jerry thinks Daisy's home by now!” she murmured with a smile.

Before she could open the door fully, Jerry's voice reached her ears. “Don’t be scared this time, Mrs. Bernard!” But despite her attempts to remain calm, a gasp escaped her lips as she saw Jerry transformed into a public-house loafer, complete with ragged hair, shabby clothes, and a worn-out hat.

“I haven’t much time,” he explained hurriedly. “But I had to check if Miss Daisy got home safely. Did you receive my telegram? I couldn’t send any other message.”

“She's not back yet. Her father just left to fetch her,” Mrs. Bernard replied, noticing a look of concern in Jerry's eyes. “What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice tinged with suspense and worry.

Stepping into the sitting room and closing the door behind him, Jerry spoke in a hushed tone. “There’s been another one,” he whispered. “But it's all hush-hush for now. The Yard thinks we’ve got a solid lead this time.”

“Where and how?” Mrs. Bernard asked, her face draining of color.

“A body was found dead on Primrose Hill,” Jerry explained. “Our man stumbled upon it, and we're keeping it under wraps. The clue leads us to ‘The Hammer and Tongs’ pub. The Rose Killer might have been there.”

Mrs. Bernard sank into a chair, her mind racing with questions. “What about the clue?” she asked anxiously.

“I'm not entirely sure,” Jerry admitted. “But it's linked to a peculiar gentleman at the pub near closing time.”

“A gentleman?” Mrs. Bernard repeated, her voice trembling. “Why would they think that?”

“Because this man paid for a glass of milk with a sovereign, a rather generous act,” Jerry revealed. “But the barmaid is reluctant to speak. We don’t want to alarm anyone yet. That’s why it’s not in the news.”

“Are you heading to the pub now?” she inquired.

“Yes, to get more information,” Jerry confirmed. “But keep this quiet. I may drop by for tea later.”

Mrs. Bernard bid him farewell with a strained smile, her thoughts consumed by fear and uncertainty.

As she returned to her kitchen duties, she tried to push aside the disturbing thoughts. But the uncertainty gnawed at her. She dared not ask Jerry about the suspect's appearance. It was fortunate that her lodger and the curious young man hadn’t crossed paths.

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When Mr. Basset's bell rang, she braced herself and headed upstairs with his breakfast, only to find his sitting room empty.

Mrs. Bernard presumed Mr. Basset was still in his bedroom as she set the cloth on the table. The sound of his footsteps descending the stairs and the faint whir of the gas-stove signaled his intent for an afternoon experiment.

“Still snowing?” Mr. Basset inquired, noting the eerie quietness of a snow-covered London. “Quite a change from the usual noise in the Marylebone Road.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Bernard replied flatly. “It’s unnaturally quiet today—almost too quiet.”

The gate clattered, startling them both. “Is someone coming?” Mr. Basset asked urgently.

“It’s just Bernard and his daughter,” she reassured him.

As they peered out the window, Daisy’s smile brightened the scene. Mr. Basset remarked on her sweetness, quoting Wordsworth and surprising Mrs. Bernard.

“Your breakfast will get cold, sir,” she reminded him, ushering him back to the table.

Later, Bernard arrived, sharing mundane news while Daisy expressed concern for Mr. Chandler’s absence.

“He’s been here,” Mrs. Bernard disclosed, leaving Bernard puzzled.

“There’s been another murder,” she revealed solemnly. “The police are keeping it quiet.”

Bernard’s grip tightened on the mantelpiece, his face reddening. “Where did it happen?” he asked, trying to mask his unease.

She hesitated, wary of Daisy’s presence. “I don’t know,” she deflected. “Let’s not talk about it now.”

Bernard reluctantly agreed, the weight of the unspoken horrors hanging heavy in the room.

“You can set the table, child. I’ll clear the lodger’s breakfast,” Mrs. Bernard instructed without waiting for a response, rushing upstairs.

Mr. Basset had barely touched his lemon sole. “I’m not feeling well today,” he complained. “And, Mrs. Bernard? I’d appreciate it if your husband would lend me that newspaper he had earlier. I don’t usually bother with the news, but I’m curious now.”

She relayed the request to Bernard, who handed over the paper. “I’ve finished with it,” he remarked. “He can keep it.”

Glancing at the paper, Mrs. Bernard saw a chilling headline about The Rose Killer’s footprint. She entered the sitting-room, finding it empty.

“Put the paper on the table,” Mr. Basset’s voice drifted from upstairs.

She complied. “Yes, sir. Bernard doesn’t need it back,” she informed him before leaving the room.

As the snow continued outside, the three of them sat in anticipation—Bernard and his wife unsure of what they awaited, Daisy eagerly awaiting Jerry Chandler’s arrival.

Around four, the expected knock came. Mrs. Bernard opened the door and whispered to Chandler, “We haven’t told Daisy yet. Girls can’t keep secrets.”

Chandler nodded, appearing worn from his disguise. Daisy, amused by his appearance, exclaimed, “You look quite horrid, Mr. Chandler!”

Her comment lightened the mood, especially for Bernard, who had been somber all afternoon.

“It won’t take me long to look respectable again,” Chandler said ruefully.

Despite the pleasant tea, there was an air of discomfort. Bernard, itching for answers, seized the chance when Chandler prepared to leave.

“Where did it happen?” he whispered urgently.

“Primrose Hill,” Chandler replied shortly. “You’ll hear about it in the evening papers.”

“No arrests?” Bernard prodded.

Chandler shook his head, leaving Bernard with more questions than answers.

Chandler shook his head, disheartened. “No,” he admitted, “I think the Yard was off track this time. But one can only do their best. Did Mrs. Bernard mention I had to question a barmaid about a man at closing time? She’s spilled everything she knows, and it’s clear to me that the eccentric old gent she mentioned was just a harmless lunatic. Gave her a sovereign for being a teetotaller!” He chuckled wryly.

Even Bernard found amusement in the situation. “Well, that’s a twist,” he remarked. “A barmaid turning down a drink!”

“She’s the niece of the pub owners,” Chandler explained before bidding them farewell with a cheery “So long!”

Returning to the sitting-room, Bernard noticed Daisy was gone. “Where’s my girl?” he asked irritably.

“She’s taken the tray downstairs,” Mrs. Bernard replied.

He called down to her sharply, “Daisy! Are you down there?”

“Yes, father!” came her eager response.

“Come up from that cold kitchen,” he ordered, returning to his wife. “Is the lodger in? I don’t want Daisy involved with him.”

Mrs. Bernard assured him, “Mr. Basset doesn’t seem well today. I wouldn’t let Daisy near him, especially since she’s never even seen him.”

Despite her irritation, Mrs. Bernard didn’t suspect Bernard’s odd behavior. She had kept her secret so long that sharing it with Bernard seemed impossible.

Daisy, however, noticed her father’s change. “Are you okay, father?” she asked.

He replied, “I’m alright, but it’s cold. Never felt it this bad.”

As the evening progressed, shouts about The Rose Killer filled the air. Daisy, excited, exclaimed, “Listen! Do you hear that? I wish Mr. Chandler was here!”

“Don’t, Daisy,” Bernard warned, clearly troubled.

“I can’t stand this,” he muttered. “I want to get away from London, far away.”

“To John-o’-Groat’s?” Daisy teased.

“Maybe,” he replied, heading out to get a paper.

Outside, he bought a copy of the Sun, annoyed at spending money on news he already knew. But as he read under a lamppost, the cold seemed to seep into his bones, matching the chill of the headlines about The Rose Killer.

The newspaper’s bold headline screamed about The Rose Killer’s ninth murder, this time on the eerie Primrose Hill. Bernard’s eyes scanned the page, absorbing the police’s secrecy and the eerie outline of the killer’s rubber sole, a chilling clue to his identity. Criminals had been nabbed by less, and Bernard’s mind raced to the shoes he cleaned every morning—a row of worn soles that told tales.

His mind churned with dread, envisioning his wife’s boots, his own patched pairs, Mr. Basset’s expensive ones, and Daisy’s dainty, paper-thin soles—a detail that haunted him now. The thinness of Daisy’s shoes seemed to echo in the quiet of the house, a stark reminder of the danger lurking outside.

Returning from the newsstand, every step felt like a march toward doom. The lamp’s light was a cold companion as Bernard stood, trying to delay the inevitable confrontation with his family. Shuffling sounds from the courtyard only heightened his unease, a fear that their home was already under surveillance.

But relief washed over him as Mr. Basset emerged from the shadows, carrying a mysterious parcel. The lodger’s new boots clicked ominously, a sound Bernard couldn’t shake off as he watched from afar.

Once inside, Bernard’s demeanor shifted, his sullenness palpable. “There it is,” he muttered, dropping the paper. “Not much to see.”

His wife’s concern was immediate. “You’re ill,” she declared, alarmed by his demeanor. “You got a chill last night!” Her words hung heavy in the air, mingling with the dread that had settled over the household.

Bernard’s attempt to divert the conversation from the chilling news in the paper fell flat, his mind racing to escape the looming dread. “Jerry Chandler, always out in all weathers,” he muttered, his words a feeble attempt at normalcy.

His wife’s irritation crackled in the air. “Why were you out so long, then?” she demanded, not letting him off the hook. “Just for the paper?”

Bernard’s admission of stopping to read it only added to the tension. Daisy, eager for more details, found the paper lacking. “They don’t say much,” she remarked, disappointment clear in her voice.

Her stepmother’s rebuke was sharp. “Young girls shouldn’t be curious about murders,” she scolded. “Jerry won’t think highly of your interest in such things.”

Daisy’s defiance rose. “What’s surprising?” she challenged, eager for any scrap of information.

Mrs. Bernard seized the opportunity, spinning a tale about Jerry’s secretive visit and his wish to shield Daisy from the grisly news. Bernard, weighed down by the darkness of it all, added, “’Tain’t healthy to speak overmuch about such happenings.”

When Jerry arrived later, the conversation danced around the murder, barely mentioned. Daisy and Jerry found solace in lighter topics, sharing stories that brought laughter to the room. Jerry, in particular, relished the diversion, enjoying Daisy’s tales of Aunt Margaret’s escapades.

Laughter rang in the air, momentarily pushing back the shadows of fear and suspicion that lurked just beyond the doorstep.

Chandler’s tale of catching a clever swindler captivated the room, even drawing Mrs. Bernard’s interest—a rare occurrence given her usual disdain for Jerry’s line of work.

As they basked in the aftermath of Jerry’s story, a bell rang, jolting them back to reality. Bernard’s glance at his wife spoke volumes, prompting her reluctant ascent to investigate the lodger’s request.

Upstairs, Mr. Basset’s demeanor was a stark contrast to his usual aloofness. He appeared unwell, his voice tinged with weakness as he declined supper and expressed regret over asking for the newspaper earlier. Mrs. Bernard’s gaze, unintentionally intense, betrayed her own hidden thoughts as she interacted with him.

Returning downstairs, Mrs. Bernard’s stiffness didn’t escape Daisy’s notice. Her curiosity about the lodger’s well-being was met with terse responses. Jerry, ever light-hearted, tried to lighten the mood, only to be met with a sharp rebuke from Mrs. Bernard. Her sudden change in demeanor caught Jerry off guard, leading him to apologize humbly.

Mrs. Bernard’s cryptic remark about the lodger’s normalcy left a lingering sense of mystery in the room, accentuated by her abrupt departure.