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With the dawn's light filtering through the curtains, Mrs. Bernard awoke to a sense of well-being that had long been absent. For a fleeting second, she grasped at the threads of her dreams, trying to recall the source of this newfound lightness. Then, with the clarity of daybreak, it all came back to her—the lodger, Mr. Basset, and the golden sovereigns that had cascaded onto their table.

A lodger who paid two guineas a week was a godsend, and Mrs. Bernard was determined to make him a permanent fixture in their lives. Queerness, after all, was a small price for stability. Yet, as the morning stretched on without a sound from above, a worm of worry began to gnaw at her. It wasn't until noon that the silence was finally broken by the ring of the bell.

Ascending the stairs, Mrs. Bernard's heart pounded with the eagerness to prove their worth to Mr. Basset. The bell's toll had come just in time to rescue them from the precipice of ruin.

The sight that greeted her was Mr. Basset, looking every bit the weary scholar, poring over the Bible. His request for a Concordance, a term foreign to her, was met with a regretful shake of her head.

As he listed off the items he needed—basic essentials she had wrongly assumed he already possessed—Mrs. Bernard felt a surge of purpose. With money in hand and a clear mission, she set out to procure the items, a spring in her step.

Her errand brought her to a barber's shop, a tiny den that reeked of foreign oils and hair tonics. She hastened her purchases, eager to escape the barber's grisly recount of the Rose Killer's latest horrors—tales that threatened to cast a shadow over her spirit.

Returning to Mr. Basset with the goods, she found him grateful but reluctant to allow her into his bedroom for tidying. His insistence on solitude, on the freedom to wander the lamp-lit streets and ponder the profound enigmas of existence, was met with Mrs. Bernard's accommodating nod. Her patience with the peculiarities of men was boundless.

Descending to the sitting room, she stumbled upon a scene that warmed her heart. Bernard and Jerry Chandler, the young detective, were in the midst of a transaction that was more about friendship and relief than the mere return of borrowed money. Jerry's face was alight not with the glee of repayment but with the joy of their shared fortune—the arrival of Mr. Basset, a lodger who promised to turn the tide in their favor.

The morning light crept through the cracks of the curtains, ushering in a new day, and with it, a sense of optimism that had long been a stranger to Mrs. Bernard. She stirred, the weight of dread that often anchored her to the bed was notably absent. A moment's pause to gather her thoughts, and then it struck her—the lodger, Mr. Basset, and the precious reprieve his presence had granted them.

She felt an unfamiliar lightness as she descended the stairs. "Mr. Basset has asked for his room to be tended to only in the evening," she announced, her tone a mix of pride and curiosity. She let herself sink into the chair, allowing the momentary peace to wash over her.

It was a rare luxury to linger in the quiet, knowing that Mr. Basset was content with his breakfast, no demands hanging in the air. Soon, she would prepare their noon meal, and impulsively she invited Jerry Chandler to join. Today, even the presence of a young detective felt like a welcome addition to their modest table.

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

As the trio sat, the conversation, steered by Bernard's morbid fascination, veered towards the chilling subject of the Rose Killer. Mrs. Bernard, usually disinterested in such grisly matters, found herself drawn in by the gruesome details spilling forth.

Bernard's newspaper, now a daily ritual renewed, was rife with speculation and terror, three columns deep with the latest on the Rose Killer's macabre exploits. It was all of London's whispered fears made ink and paper.

"They reckon the police are sitting on a clue, right Jerry?" Bernard asked, leaning in, his voice a mix of hushed reverence and eager anticipation.

Jerry's response was slow, deliberate. "Those who say so are mistaken," he said, his usually calm demeanor shadowed by frustration. "If the Yard had a clue, it'd change everything for me."

Mrs. Bernard interjected with a gentle smile, "And why's that, Jerry?" She was genuinely curious, drawn to the young man's passion for his work.

Jerry's explanation revealed his new role in the chilling saga. "I'm on the case now," he confessed. "The Yard's up in arms, and we're all out to prove ourselves."

The revelation that a policeman had been just yards away from the last murder scene brought a stunned silence. It was a detail Bernard's paper had omitted, one that cast a pall over the room.

Bernard then prodded about the infamous calling cards of the killer—the scraps of grey paper pinned to each victim, a taunting signature in blood-red ink. To Bernard, there was a macabre humor to it, but Mrs. Bernard was quick to chide him. "It's no laughing matter," she said sternly.

Jerry agreed, a shudder visible as he spoke of the grisly tokens. "They give me the horrors," he admitted, his eyes dark with the memory.

As he made to leave, declining Mrs. Bernard's offer of dinner with the excuse of his ever-demanding job, Jerry paused at the door. With a casual air that failed to mask his true interest, he asked after Daisy, Bernard's daughter.

Bernard's face softened at the mention of his child, a rare joy in a life too often shaded by sorrow. "No, Jerry," he said, the warmth of his affection for Daisy clear in his voice, "Old Aunt won't let her out of her sight. She didn't much like her staying with us last time."

As Jerry departed, Mrs. Bernard's gaze lingered on her husband. The brief exchange had reminded them both of the simple joys they had sacrificed to the relentless march of survival—their daughter's laughter, now just an echo in their quiet home.

The door clicked shut behind Jerry, and Bernard, with that hopeful gleam in his eye, turned to his wife. "Jerry's taken a shine to our Daisy, wouldn't you say, Ellen?"

Mrs. Bernard's response was sharp, a dismissive shake of her head betraying her disdain for the notion. She had her reservations about the carefree upbringing Daisy received from her Aunt, a stark contrast to the disciplined structure of the Foundling Home that had raised Mrs. Bernard herself.

"Jerry's got more sense than to be mooning over girls just now," she retorted, her voice carrying the bite of conviction.

Bernard conceded with a nod, a wistful sigh escaping him. "True enough," he mused. "Just a thought I had, is all."

The evening draped the street in shadows as Mr. Basset ventured out, his departure marked by the glow of the lamps. It wasn't long after that two parcels arrived for Mrs. Bernard, carrying within them the faint mustiness of second-hand garments—a peculiar choice indeed for a gentleman of Mr. Basset's standing.

The mystery of Mr. Basset's missing bag gnawed at Mrs. Bernard. It had vanished as completely as if swallowed by the house itself. Despite her thorough search, it remained elusive, leaving her to wonder if perhaps it had been a figment of her imagination.

But no, that couldn't be. Her memories were too vivid, too exact. The image of Mr. Basset, an odd silhouette against her doorstep clutching the bag, was etched into her mind. She could still recall the panic in his voice when he momentarily thought it lost, only to find it by his feet.

As days passed, Mrs. Bernard's mind often circled back to the bag. She was certain it lay hidden behind the locked door of the drawing-room chiffonnier, the key a constant companion to Mr. Basset, never to be seen by her eyes. Both the bag and the key had slipped into the realm of the unseen, secrets kept by the enigmatic lodger who had brought an unsettling undercurrent to their once mundane existence.