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At the toll of noon, a four-wheeler rattled up to the gate, its arrival cutting through the somber mood of the day like a knife. Daisy, vibrant as a spring morning, tumbled out of the cab with the kind of infectious cheer that only the truly innocent can muster.

"Old Aunt insisted I take a cab if the weather turned foul," she announced, her voice bubbling with the thrill of her adventure in the city.

The cab fare became a point of contention, the driver, a shadowy figure with an air of opportunism, demanded an inflated sum, insinuating that he had gone out of his way to bring Daisy safely to her destination. Bernard, caught in a tussle of words and principles, barely noticed Daisy slip away towards the house.

Mrs. Bernard, standing at the door, met Daisy with a reserved embrace, a stark contrast to the joviality emanating from the girl. As their lips touched in a perfunctory kiss, the air was suddenly rent by a harrowing cry. The sound was otherworldly, a mournful howl that seemed to carry with it the weight of the city's darkness.

"What in God's name is that?" Bernard exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and curiosity.

The cabman, leaning in close as if sharing a forbidden secret, hissed, “They're announcing another horror at King's Cross. Not one, but two this time. I didn’t want to worry the young miss, but people have been flocking there all morning, ghoulish as it is."

Bernard's blood ran cold. "Another murder last night?"

“Two,” the cabman corrected with a grim nod. “Both in some forgotten passage. Cold as the grave when they found them. He’s targeting the drunks, they say.”

"Have they caught the devil?" Bernard asked, though the question felt hollow.

The cabman scoffed. "They'll never catch him. Mark my words."

The cries grew louder, the news vendors drawing closer, their voices a macabre chorus. "The Rose Killer strikes again near King's Cross!"

With a sense of urgency, Bernard thrust a penny into the newsboy's hand, grabbing the paper. He felt a personal connection to these tragedies now, a vicarious involvement through his talks with Jerry.

As he stepped back into the hall, Daisy's voice washed over him, a torrent of tales about the fever and misunderstandings of rashes—a stark juxtaposition to the grim news he held in his hands. Bernard hoped Jerry would soon be there to provide the grim details, to make sense of the senseless, and to somehow bridge the gap between the normalcy of Daisy's arrival and the darkness that had enveloped London.

As Bernard nudged the sitting-room door open, the light-hearted chatter was sliced through by Daisy’s alarmed voice. “Ellen, what on earth has happened to you? You’re white as a ghost!”

Mrs. Bernard’s voice was thin, strained. “Open the window—quickly.”

The raucous cries of the newsboys outside clashed with the strained atmosphere within, weaving a tapestry of panic and hysteria. “A clue at last in the King’s Cross horror!” they bellowed with a macabre glee that seemed to mock the safe confines of the Bernard household.

And then, as if a dam had broken inside her, Mrs. Bernard succumbed to a torrent of hysterical laughter. It was a laughter that held no joy, only the release of tension too long held, the sound of it chilling in its mania.

“Father, what’s happening to her?” Daisy’s eyes were wide with fright, her youthful face marred by the intrusion of adult fears.

Bernard was gruff, embarrassed by the unseemly display. “She’s got the hysterics, that’s all. Stay here—I’m fetching the water.”

It was then that the lodger’s bell chimed, a stark reminder of the normalcy they were all pretending to maintain. The sound seemed to ground Mrs. Bernard; she rose, still trembling, but with a semblance of control.

“I’ll see to the lodger,” she croaked, her voice still hoarse from her outburst. “And you, Daisy—get to the kitchen and watch over that pork. Start on those apples.”

Ascending the stairs felt like wading through a bog; her legs were unstable, her grip on the banister desperate. Pausing on the landing to collect what little composure she could muster, she finally tapped on the drawing-room door.

Mr. Basset's response was tinged with illness. “I’ve taken ill,” he called, his voice querulous. “A chill, I believe. Please, leave some tea outside my door.”

“Right away, sir,” she managed to say, her voice a hollow echo.

Back in the safety of her sitting-room, she prepared the tea on the gas-ring, avoiding the kitchen where Daisy hummed a tune, oblivious to the shadows that clung to the corners of the house.

Over dinner, Bernard and Mrs. Bernard discussed sleeping arrangements with a newfound urgency. It was decided—Daisy would sleep with her stepmother, and Bernard would take the room upstairs. They knew little of Mr. Basset, after all, and caution crept into Bernard’s mind, a subtle acknowledgment of the unease that had taken root in their home.

Daisy, always eager to please, offered to take on the washing up, her cheerfulness a stark contrast to the tension between her father and stepmother.

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

Bernard paced, a tiger in a cage, while Mrs. Bernard watched him with a careful eye. “Did you get a paper?” she inquired, breaking the silence.

“Yes, but I’ve put it aside,” he said, his voice uneasy. “Thought you wouldn’t want to see it, not with your nerves.”

A furtive exchange of glances passed between them, a silent dance of understanding and concern.

“I heard the shouting...” Mrs. Bernard’s voice trailed off, a question lingering in the air.

Bernard, caught off guard, hesitated. He had assumed her episode was triggered by the newsboys’ cries, yet her reaction seemed disconnected, deeper. “Don’t you know what they were calling about?” he asked, a tremor of unease creeping into his question.

Mrs. Bernard's gaze met her husband's, a silent conflict playing across her features. She was a woman who held truth like a blade, and in that moment, the desire to shield herself from the grim reality outside their door warred with her innate honesty.

“Yes,” she said, her voice hollow, the syllables heavy with dread. “I heard... snippets. Another murder has occurred, hasn’t it?”

Bernard's reply was grave, each word a stone weight. “Two more murders.”

The color drained from her face, leaving it a ghastly shade. Bernard, alarmed by the sudden pallor, issued a cautionary plea. “Ellen, you mustn't let this consume you. We can... we don't have to dwell on it so—”

But her voice broke through, shrill and desperate. “I need to talk about it, Bernard!”

They were like duelists at a standoff, each on opposite sides of the table. Bernard, with his sturdy back to the comforting warmth of the hearth, and Mrs. Bernard, her form a shadow against the door, her hands white-knuckled as they clung to the table's edge.

She seemed diminished, her normally composed self unraveling before him. Bernard's thoughts churned with worry. “What if she falls ill now?” he fretted internally. “Not now, when things are so precarious.”

“Tell me,” she insisted in a whisper that was both a command and a plea. “I can’t bear the waiting. Tell me, Bernard!”

He hesitated, the words catching in his throat. “There's not much the paper offers. The cabman, he mentioned...” His voice trailed off, dreading the impact of his words.

“Yes?” she urged, a note of terror in her voice.

“It wasn’t the usual spot. It was closer... near King's Cross. They were found in an old, unused passage,” he explained, his eyes darting about, seeking to avoid the fear in hers. But seeing her gaze fog over, he quickly tried to steer the conversation away from its morbid course. “Jerry will fill us in, no doubt. He’s bound to stop by later.”

Her next words were slow, deliberate. “So all those constables... they were of no use?”

“No use,” Bernard confirmed tersely, his frustration apparent. “But—wait.” He reached for the newspaper again, his eyes scanning for some hopeful news. “It says here there's a clue.”

“A clue, Bernard?” Her voice was faint now, a mere wisp of sound, and she hunched over, gripping the table for dear life.

Bernard, absorbed in the print, was oblivious to his wife's distress—until it was too late. With a soft, pained gasp, Mrs. Bernard crumpled to the floor, pulling the tablecloth and an array of domestic normalcy down with her.

Bernard, his heart hammering in panic, rounded the table to find his wife prone, still as death itself. “Daisy! Daisy!” he shouted, his voice shrill with terror. “Ellen’s taken ill again!”

And as Daisy's footsteps thundered in response, Bernard felt the precarious balance of their world tilting, the dark undercurrent of The Rose Killer's menace seeping into the very fabric of their home, a toxin from which there seemed no escape.

The urgency of the moment brought forth an unexpected clarity in Daisy, and her father couldn't help but marvel at the efficiency with which she took command. "Fetch a wet sponge, Dad—move!" she ordered, her voice sharp with authority. "And brandy, if we have it. Leave her to me."

After Bernard had scurried to fulfill the request, Daisy pondered aloud, her puzzlement evident. "Ellen was fine just before—all ears to my story. Then—well, you saw. It's not like her, is it?"

Bernard's reply was a whisper, laced with concern. "We've been through the mill, Daisy. More than you know. It's hitting her now."

As Mrs. Bernard's eyes fluttered open, she instinctively reached up to check her hair, a vestige of composure in her disheveled state. Her consciousness hadn't fully left her—it would have been a mercy if it had. Instead, she was trapped in her own collapsing body, overwhelmed by a sensation of imminent doom.

Bernard's words, though, struck a chord deep within her. She hadn't realized he saw her struggle, the weeks of hunger and silent endurance. Tears pooled in her eyes, a rare show of vulnerability.

Brushing aside any display of sentiment as foolishness, she regained her voice. "Don't fuss. I just felt a bit odd. I never lost consciousness, Daisy."

She rebuffed the brandy with a sharp gesture. "I wouldn't touch that poison. Not even at death's door," she spat, her voice tinged with distaste.

With assistance from the table, she heaved herself upright, still unsteady. "Daisy, back to the kitchen with you," she said, her voice cracking despite her attempt at firmness.

Bernard, observing her closely, had an epiphany. "Ellen, you've not been eating right. You've been neglecting yourself, trying to live on nothing." His voice was tinged with both realization and rebuke.

Daisy, caught between them, fretted. "If I had known how tough things had gotten... I could've helped."

Her stepmother interjected, eager to skirt around the edges of their recent despair. "No need for Old Aunt's charity," she snapped, her pride wounded. "The hardship is past, thanks to Mr. Basset."

Bernard echoed her, but a shadow flickered across Mrs. Bernard's features. "Yes, thanks to Mr. Basset," she repeated, her tone hollow, distant.

She moved to a chair and collapsed into it. "Just a bit shaky," she murmured.

Daisy's concerned whisper reached Mrs. Bernard's ears. "Shouldn't Ellen see a doctor, father?"

A surge of defiance rose within Mrs. Bernard. "No doctors," she declared vehemently. "They're useless. Didn't save my last mistress, did they? Just hastened her end."

Bernard bristled at the memory of her stubborn loyalty to her former employer, a sore point between them. But Mrs. Bernard was softening, a rare tenderness in her voice. "Let's not quarrel over past choices," she said, dismissing the topic.

Once Daisy had left the room, Bernard mused about his daughter's charm and beauty, to which Mrs. Bernard replied with a reminder of the superficiality of such traits. Yet she agreed, Daisy was a good girl, willing and helpful.

The conversation then turned to the practical matters at hand. Bernard, sensing his wife's lingering weakness, suggested he tend to the lodger's needs.

"I'm perfectly capable of serving Mr. Basset's luncheon," Mrs. Bernard said sharply. There was a subtle irritation in her voice at the mention of the lodger's 'dinner'. To her, it was luncheon, and no matter his eccentricities, she never forgot his status as a gentleman.

"He prefers my service," she added, a hint of pride in her tone. "I'll be fine. Don't you worry about me." There was a long pause before she could muster the strength to say it, but when she did, it was with a firmness that left no room for argument.