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The days unfurled with an ease and monotony that Mrs. Bernard had almost forgotten could exist. Tending to Mr. Basset's needs felt like a dance she had quickly mastered, each step familiar and unburdening. The man's desire for a singular caretaker—her, and only her—was flattering in its own peculiar way.
Indeed, Mr. Basset was not your garden-variety lodger. His quirks cast a spell over the mundane, providing Mrs. Bernard a diversion from the humdrum of everyday life. He was an oddity, yes, but one devoid of the usual vexations that plague those who rent their rooms to strangers. For one, he was not an early riser, a trait that aligned perfectly with the Bernard household's newfound luxury of leisurely mornings.
Mr. Basset's eccentricity was undeniable. The second night of his stay, he arrived with a tome under his arm—the bizarrely titled Cruden's Concordance—which, along with the Bible, seemed to consume all his attention. Hours would he spend, lost in the ancient texts, after breakfast-cum-lunch, weaving through the labyrinthine passages of the Old Testament and its accompanying index.
As for the matter of payment, Mr. Basset was as generous as he was trusting. A veritable fortune in sovereigns lay scattered carelessly upon his dressing table, wrapped in grimy swathes of newspaper. Mrs. Bernard, ever the conscientious host, had warned him of the folly, only to be met with a jarring laugh and his assurance of his instinctual trust in people, particularly in her.
It wasn't long before Mrs. Bernard noted Mr. Basset's distinct aversion to women. As she cleaned, his voice would drift down, reciting biblical verses that were far from flattering to her sex. Yet, she never took offense. In fact, when it came to lodgers, such an aversion could be seen as a virtue.
Why fret over the man's peculiarities? Mr. Basset was clearly touched by a certain madness. If not, he would be living a life befitting his status, surrounded by kin and equals, not isolated in a rented room in their home.
But there was a shadow that skirted the edges of Mrs. Bernard's consciousness—something odd about Mr. Basset's nightly habits. She recalled, though she couldn't pinpoint the exact moment, the realization that he would slip out into the dead of night, when the world was draped in slumber, returning just before the first light of dawn.
On one such morning, Mrs. Bernard discovered that one of Mr. Basset's suits had vanished, as completely as if swallowed by the night. It was a detail that would later haunt her, a missing piece in an increasingly sinister puzzle.
How curious, she thought, that the mind can recall with crystal clarity certain extraordinary events, down to the finest detail, yet the exact moment of their occurrence becomes lost to us. Even Mrs. Bernard, with all her pondering, could not decide if it was on the fifth or sixth night of Mr. Basset's residence that she first detected his nocturnal escapades.
The blackest hour of the night clung to the world, a shroud of silence so complete it was as if the earth itself held its breath. It was in this deep stillness that Mrs. Bernard's consciousness clawed its way out of slumber, her nerves tingling with alertness. The familiar yet unsettling sounds of Mr. Basset's descent down the stairs crept through the cracks of the night, his steps so light she was convinced they barely brushed the carpet.
Rest eluded her after that, her body rigid with tension, her ears straining in the darkness. It was only upon Mr. Basset's furtive return, the soft click of the front door signaling his re-entry into the house, that she finally succumbed to a fitful sleep.
The next morning, draped in a fog of exhaustion, Mrs. Bernard was thankful for Bernard's offer to fetch their provisions. Mr. Basset's peculiar dietary preferences had proven a challenge, his aversion to meat necessitating careful meal planning. Today, a fish was to grace his plate, with the remnants destined for his evening sustenance.
As Bernard set out, Mrs. Bernard embraced the slow start to her day. Each task was performed with deliberate calmness, the quietude of the house wrapping around her like a comforting blanket. She was grateful for the reprieve, certain Mr. Basset wouldn't summon her before noon.
However, the sharp ring of the doorbell shattered the peace, its clang echoing through the corridors with an urgency that furrowed her brow. Expecting a peddler or some other unwelcome visitor, she approached the door with reluctance.
Her mood lifted upon seeing Jerry Chandler, his cheeks flushed from the brisk walk and the biting air. "Jerry? What brings you here?" she exclaimed, a mixture of surprise and pleasure lighting her features.
He stepped inside, his breath visible in the cold interior. "Well, you know why, Mrs. Bernard—" he began, but she cut him off with a dawning realization. Of course, Jerry was entangled in the hunt for The Rose Killer, his recent absence a testament to the gravity of the case.
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As they settled into the sitting room, the warmth of the fire Bernard had kindled was a welcome contrast to the dismal chill outside. Jerry slumped into Bernard's chair, the weight of his fatigue evident in the lines of his face.
Mrs. Bernard observed him, his usually robust complexion now drained of color. "You look like you could do with a cup of tea," she said, her tone motherly.
"I'd be grateful," Jerry admitted, his gaze wandering the room before settling back on her. "Mrs. Bernard—" he began again, a hint of hesitancy in his voice that piqued her curiosity. There was something pressing, something urgent behind his eyes, and she braced herself for what he might divulge next.
The abyss of night had wrapped its inky tendrils tightly around the house when Mrs. Bernard, deep in the well of her dreamless sleep, was jolted awake. The stillness was fractured by a sequence of sounds—deliberate, hushed—the unmistakable echo of Mr. Basset's descent. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that he was tiptoeing past her chamber, a ghostly visitor in his own residence, and then the soft click of the door whispered his departure into the night.
Her heart raced as the silence reclaimed its dominion, leaving her wide-eyed and restless. She lay in the dark, straining for the slightest hint of his return, and only when the front door signaled his re-entry did she allow sleep to reclaim her.
Come morning, the world was bleary and unwelcoming, her body heavy with the remnants of interrupted rest. Bernard, with his usual good cheer, ventured out into the foggy streets, leaving her to face the day's solitude.
Her movements were lethargic, the house an echo chamber to her thoughts until the clamor of the doorbell sliced through the gloom. The visitor was unexpected, but Jerry Chandler's presence on her doorstep was a sudden jolt of reality.
"Why, Jerry?" she queried, her voice laden with a mix of concern and surprise. "You've been absent these past days."
His face was ashen, words catching in his throat. "Mrs. Bernard," he started, the timbre of his voice a harbinger of dark tidings, "there's been another one."
The words hit her like a physical blow, the implication clear—another life claimed by The Rose Killer. But her immediate relief that Bernard was safe twisted into a perverse thrill, the intrigue of the macabre crimes gripping her, much as Bernard had been captivated by the sordid details.
As she prepared tea, Jerry's pallor was stark against the warmth of the room. The mention of relaying the gruesome details caused him to pale further, a man haunted by the horrors he had witnessed.
"I was one of the first on the scene," he confessed, his voice barely a whisper. "I found it—the Rose Killer's signature."
At this revelation, Mrs. Bernard felt a twisted surge of curiosity. "Bernard always believed it was genuine," she said, her voice a mix of eagerness and horror.
Jerry nodded, his demeanor grim. "This time, I found the note while she was still warm." The words seemed to pain him, a burden he was loath to carry.
He recounted his morning—his meeting with a superior in the dim light of dawn, the lack of hospitality he'd been shown. Mrs. Bernard, caught in the swirl of his narrative, barely registered his discomfort.
"Would you like something to eat?" she offered, her tone shifting to one of practical concern.
But Jerry's appetite had vanished, the grisly images seared into his memory eclipsing all other senses. To appease her, he took a bite of the bread she offered, admitting the day ahead would be long and arduous.
"And what did they say of him—of the Rose Killer?" she asked, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush.
Jerry's account was hazy, pieced together from fog-shrouded witnesses who spoke of a tall, thin shadow carrying a bag—a bag that seemed eerily familiar to Mrs. Bernard. A shiver ran through her, an instinctual tremor that spoke of connections yet to be made.
"A bag?" she echoed faintly, her mind racing. "How very strange and peculiar."
The chill of foreboding settled in the pit of her stomach, an ominous sensation that clawed at the edges of her consciousness, whispering that the line between their mundane existence and the shadowy world of The Rose Killer might be terrifyingly thin.
The air between them was thick with the unsaid, the words hanging like a specter in the room. Mrs. Bernard's voice was distant, her thoughts adrift. "Odd? No, not at all. The Rose Killer needs a vessel for his instruments of death, doesn't he? They usually discard their weapons, so I've heard," Jerry explained with a weary resignation.
"Indeed?" Mrs. Bernard's response was distracted. Her mind spun, weaving through possibilities about Mr. Basset's missing bag. Could a gentleman so scatterbrained have simply misplaced it during his strolls in Regent's Park? It seemed plausible, yet a gnawing doubt lingered.
Jerry continued, his voice holding a faint glimmer of optimism. "They'll be sending out his description soon. Everyone's eager to catch him. I should be on my way, though."
Mrs. Bernard hesitated, a silent plea in her eyes. "Won't you stay for Bernard?"
But duty called, and Jerry declined, promising to return with updates. "Your tea revived me," he said, standing to leave. "What I've seen... it could shake any man."
Bernard arrived shortly after Jerry's departure, his entrance stirring a rare discord between the couple. He was frustrated, almost angry, that Mrs. Bernard hadn't extracted more gruesome details from their visitor.
Ellen held her ground, her voice sharp as she defended Jerry's shaken state. "He was barely able to speak, Bernard. The details he could share were more than enough."
Bernard's retort was cut short by the cacophony outside—newsboys heralding the latest horror wrought by The Rose Killer. He rushed out to purchase a paper, leaving Mrs. Bernard to carry the provisions down to the kitchen.
The commotion had roused Mr. Bassot, his bell summoning her before she had even warmed the stove. With a sigh, Mrs. Bernard prepared herself to face whatever new eccentricities the day might bring from their peculiar lodger.