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The persistent chime of Mr. Basset's bell cut through the air, a siren call that Mrs. Bernard, for the first time since his arrival, found herself reluctant to heed. But as the second ring, more insistent than the first, echoed through the old house, she steeled herself to respond.
Emerging from the kitchen, she ascended with the weight of the breakfast tray seeming to drag at her very soul. Bernard, nestled in the comfort of their parlor, heard the heavy tread of her steps.
"Wait a minute!" he called, emerging to relieve her of the burden. "I'll help you, Ellen."
She offered no word of thanks, her silence a shadow that hung between them. Upon reaching the landing, Mrs. Bernard halted him with a hushed urgency. "Hand it over," she whispered, a sharp edge to her words. "He won't take kindly to seeing you." Bernard, taken aback by her tone, complied and reached for the door handle at her pointed command.
The door swung open to reveal Mr. Basset, a specter in the morning light, his eyes rising from the sacred text. Mrs. Bernard’s heart, which had been thrumming a frantic rhythm, slowed as the familiar scene unfolded before her. Mr. Basset was unchanged, his smile more congenial than usual as he greeted her.
"I'm glad of that, sir," she replied, her voice barely above a murmur, echoing a sentiment from her past about the healing virtues of rest.
As she arranged the breakfast, Mr. Basset broke the morning stillness, his voice threading through the air with an inquisitive note. "Someone was with you outside the door just now?"
"Yes, sir. Bernard assisted with the tray," she confirmed, feeling the weight of his gaze upon her.
"I fear I am a burden," he ventured, a hint of remorse in his tone.
Swiftly, she countered his concern. "Oh, no, sir! You're the easiest lodger we've ever had, sir," she assured him, though she couldn’t deny the peculiarities that marked his existence within their walls.
His eyes fixed on her, expectant, perhaps for a lie to smooth the edges of truth, but Mrs. Bernard's honesty was as solid as the ground beneath her feet. And so, she remained silent, unwilling to deny the strangeness of his nocturnal habits.
She was about to exit when a thought struck her. "Should I attend to your room when you step out, sir?"
His reaction was sharp, a flint strike in the quiet room. "No, no!" he exclaimed. "I immerse myself in scripture during the day. Today, however, I shall be upstairs conducting an experiment. Should I venture out," he paused, his stare piercing, "it will be under the cover of night."
Regaining his composure, he suggested a time for her to tidy up his quarters. "Five o’clock, if it suits you?"
"That will do nicely, sir," Mrs. Bernard replied, a chill settling over her as she left the room, the door closing on the enigma that was Mr. Basset—and the growing suspicion that the lodger’s peculiarities were more than mere eccentricities.
Mrs. Bernard descended the staircase, her mind a maelstrom of unease and self-reproach. She couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly amiss, though she refused to acknowledge the deeper fears that clawed at her. "I've just got myself worked up," she muttered under her breath, her voice a feeble attempt to dispel the growing dread within her. "A trip to the chemist is in order—that's what I need."
Her own voice barely faded when a harsh knock rattled through the quiet of the house. The post was an infrequent visitor in their home, and the sharp sound made her jump. "It's just nerves," she scolded herself, as she collected the envelope from the floor and recognized the handwriting as Daisy's.
"Bernard!" she called, her tone sharper than she intended. She pushed open the sitting room door to find him, oblivious to her turmoil, lounging with the paper. A wave of irritation surged through her; he was indulging in the gory details of the Rose Killer, no doubt.
Memories rushed in unbidden—her first glimpse of Bernard, so respectable and diligent, a stark contrast to the man who now wasted his days in idle fascination. She sighed, the sound heavy with unvoiced fears and frustrations.
Placing the letter on the table, Mrs. Bernard retreated to the kitchen, her thoughts now a tumultuous sea centered around Bernard. Their fortunes had been salvaged by Mr. Basset's arrival, yet Bernard's idleness gnawed at her. She must act, perhaps seek out a new employment opportunity for him. Idleness was a treacherous path.
Upon returning upstairs, her heart softened at the sight of Bernard's efforts. He had prepared the table for their meal, an act that dulled the edge of her earlier vexation.
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"Ellen!" he exclaimed, a buoyant note in his voice. "Daisy's coming tomorrow! She'll be here for her birthday—eighteen years!"
The news landed like a lead weight in Mrs. Bernard's stomach. "I can't have her here now," she retorted, exhaustion lacing her words. "I'm stretched thin as it is. The lodger takes more of my time than you realize."
Bernard's retort was swift, his mood defiant. "Nonsense! Daisy will stay, and she'll help us both. It's time we had some life in this house again."
As he watched her, any trace of elation faded; Ellen's features were etched with fatigue, her spirit seemingly sapped away. His irritation was replaced by concern, though he masked it with practicality. "Daisy can help with the chores. She'll bring some cheer."
Mrs. Bernard said nothing, her energy sapped as she slumped into her chair. "Show me the letter," she demanded wearily.
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The quietude of the day was a balm to Mrs. Bernard's frayed nerves, but it was a temporary salve. As dusk crept in with its shadows, she heard the lodger ascend to the top floor, signaling her to attend to his room. The orderliness of Mr. Basset's space was a stark contrast to the chaos of her own thoughts. She methodically straightened his belongings, the stillness punctuated by the ticking of the clock and the creak of the floorboards under her weight.
She longed to disturb the order of the drawing-room, to plunge into the dusty corners and pry open the chiffonnier that held its secrets tightly. It stood, an enigmatic sentinel, its closed doors an invitation to the mysteries it contained. But it remained stubbornly silent under her touch, its contents locked away from her prying eyes.
Later, as the clock struck eight, Jerry Chandler returned, his earlier distress replaced by a palpable buzz of anticipation. Mrs. Bernard listened, a silent observer, as he and Bernard exchanged theories and speculations.
"I'm back to form now," Jerry declared, a spark in his eye. "The Yard's on high alert tonight. He's done them in pairs, you see."
Bernard's voice trembled with a mix of fear and fascination. "You reckon he'll strike again tonight?"
Jerry's nod was solemn. "Yes, and tonight might be our best chance at catching him."
The conversation veered into the sheer number of officers on duty, a staggering revelation that left both Bernard's incredulous. "Five thousand," Jerry confirmed, a hint of pride in his voice. "The Boss is determined."
The gravity of the situation was evident as Jerry unfolded the newspaper, reading aloud the public's growing discontent with the police's inability to catch The Rose Killer. Bernard expressed his bewilderment at the force's apparent impotence, to which Jerry responded with a hint of frustration, citing the limitations they faced compared to their French counterparts.
It was then that Mrs. Bernard, who had been a specter of silence, spoke up, her voice a thread of hope. "So, they think it might be more than one person responsible?"
"Some think it's a gang," Jerry admitted. "That no single man could orchestrate such horrors."
Mrs. Bernard pondered this, a faint glimmer of relief washing over her. "And what's your take, Jerry?"
He hesitated, his certainty waning. "I'm at a loss, Mrs. Bernard. The whole thing's got me chasing shadows."
In the dim light of the parlor, with the specter of The Rose Killer looming over them, a chilling thought struck Mrs. Bernard. Could the evil that stalked the streets of London be more widespread than a lone madman? Could it be an unseen network, a collective darkness that fed on the fear of the city? The notion was as terrifying as it was unfathomable, yet it lingered in her mind, a dark seed planted amidst her growing dread.
He rose from his seat with a casual air that belied the tension of the evening. "No need for goodbyes at the door. I can see myself out. Catch you tomorrow, maybe?" Jerry's hand was on the doorknob when he paused, his casual tone masking a keen interest. "Any word on Miss Daisy?"
Bernard nodded, the fatherly concern evident in his voice. "She'll be here tomorrow. Scarlet fever at her aunt's. Best she stays clear."
That night, the house settled into an uneasy silence, and Mrs. Bernard lay in the dark, her mind alive with the ticking of the old church clock, marking time like a heartbeat in the quiet.
As the clock struck one, the expected yet dreaded sound came—Mr. Basset's footfalls, a soft echo in the stillness, as he slid like a shadow down the stairs and out into the night. Mrs. Bernard strained to keep her eyes open, to catch the moment of his return, but exhaustion pulled her under into a deep abyss of sleep.
She awoke with a start, her body rigid with a sense of urgency, an unfamiliar alertness that propelled her from the bed to the door. The newspaper lay there, an oracle in print, and she snatched it up, igniting the gas to chase away the darkness that clung to the corridor.
Trembling, she unfolded the paper, her eyes ravenous for news, for a sign that the night had passed without incident. The headline screamed at her:
“THE ROSE KILLER MURDERS”
A surge of relief washed over her as she read on, learning that no fresh horror had been unleashed upon the city since the previous grisly discovery. The killer, or killers, remained shrouded in mystery, the terror unabated but halted, for now.
"Last night!" The words jolted her before realization dawned; it referred to the night before last. The scene of the crime was now just a spectacle for the morbidly curious, the dread turned into a sideshow.
Carefully, as if handling a sacred text, she refolded the newspaper, laying it back on the mat as though it had never been disturbed. She extinguished the gas and returned to the bed, slipping into the sheets beside her husband, who stirred with a sleepy concern.
"Anything wrong?" Bernard's voice was thick with sleep, a murmur in the quiet room.
"No, nothing, Bernard—nothing at all," she whispered back, the relief in her voice a delicate thread of joy. "Go back to sleep, my dear."
The morning broke with a fresh sense of hope. Bernard's spirits were buoyed by the anticipation of Daisy's arrival, and even Mrs. Bernard found herself warming to the idea of the girl's company and assistance.
Around ten, Bernard set out, returning with treats for Daisy's welcome—a symbol of normalcy in their home shadowed by the presence of Mr. Basset and the specter of The Rose Killer. The mince pies and apples were a touch of sweetness against the backdrop of fear, a respite from the darkness that loomed just outside their door.