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The tardiness of his luncheon seemed to have done nothing to dampen Mr. Basset's appetite. He partook of his steamed sole with a vigor that was absent from Mrs. Bernard's distracted nibbling at her roast pork below.

Upon serving him, Mrs. Bernard had mustered a semblance of concern. "I hope you're feeling somewhat better, sir," she ventured.

Mr. Basset's reply was laced with weariness. "No, Mrs. Bernard, I can't say I am. I'm exhausted. And the cacophony of cries and shouts from the street has been rather unsettling. I trust our neighborhood isn’t descending into disarray?"

"We're quite secluded here, sir," she assured him, her voice a thread attempting to sew normalcy into the fabric of this strange day.

As she lingered, Mrs. Bernard found herself unable to broach the true cause of those noises. Instead, she offered unsolicited advice. "Perhaps you should remain indoors today, sir. The streets are teeming with unsavory sorts," she said, her tone unintentionally tinged with a desperate plea.

Mr. Basset's eyes, those pools of uncharted grey, flickered with a skittish light. "I shall consider your counsel. I find solace in scripture, Mrs. Bernard. It will be my companion for the day."

"Then your eyes are not troubling you?" Mrs. Bernard inquired, her curiosity piqued. In his presence, the pervasive dread that clung to her seemed to dissipate, replaced by a peculiar sense of calm. How could this gentle, bookish man be anything but benign?

He was indeed an oddity, but Mrs. Bernard had come to find comfort in his peculiar gentleness. She spoke with a revived cheer in her voice. "I'll return later to clear up, sir. And please, do consider staying in today. It's a foul day out, and either Bernard or I can fetch anything you might need."

Around four, as the Bernard's and Daisy sat discussing the minutiae of domestic life, the doorbell rang, an unexpected chime in the afternoon's stillness.

Bernard, puzzled, wondered aloud at the visitor's identity. Mrs. Bernard, propelled by a sudden urgency, declared, "I'll see to it. We can't have strangers intruding now."

As she approached the door, her thoughts raced. "A clue? What clue?" But upon opening it, her tension evaporated, replaced with a surge of relief. "Jerry! We didn't expect you this early, but you're a sight for sore eyes. Come in."

Chandler entered, his youthful face flushed with a mix of eagerness and restraint. "I thought Mr. Bernard might want to hear—"

Mrs. Bernard cut him off, her eyes darting towards the ceiling where Mr. Basset rested. "Not so loud," she chastised, "the lodger's under the weather. He's caught a chill and hasn't been out lately. Let's keep it down, shall we?"

Chandler nodded, his expression shifting as he took in Mrs. Bernard's pallor, the undercurrent of anxiety in her voice. The lodger's illness was news, but the unspoken tensions of the household seemed to press upon the walls, squeezing the air from the room as they all moved to the parlor, a haven of whispered secrets and half-truths.

Mrs. Bernard's heart was a cacophony of drumbeats, each one echoing her betrayal of self. This lie was a stain upon her character, a deliberate deviation from her rigid code of truth-telling. For a woman like her, who saw the world in stark contrasts, the lie was more than a simple untruth—it was a chasm that had opened beneath her feet.

Chandler was preoccupied with his own concerns. "Has Miss Daisy arrived yet?" he inquired, his voice subdued.

A nod from Mrs. Bernard was all the affirmation he needed before he moved into the room where father and daughter sat in anticipatory silence.

"Well, Jerry? What's this about a clue? Have they caught the fiend?" Bernard's eagerness was palpable.

Chandler shook his head, a rueful twist to his mouth. "No such luck. But they're distributing a description. They've found what they think could be his weapon."

Bernard was on his feet now, his voice tingling with excitement. "His weapon? Are they certain it’s his?"

"It's likely," Chandler said, hedging his bets.

Mrs. Bernard, a silent specter at the door, felt a wave of relief that they were all too engrossed to notice her. She could eavesdrop on their conversation without having to partake in the hysteria.

Stolen novel; please report.

"Listen up," Jerry announced with a flourish. "This isn't for the public, but we got it first thing this morning." He recited from the description, painting the image of a man, dark and slight, clothed in respectability, his deadly nature disguised by the mundane detail of a newspaper parcel.

As the description ended, Mrs. Bernard stepped forward, her entire being sighing with relief. That man bore no resemblance to their lodger.

Jerry, buoyed by the thought of the manhunt, turned to Daisy with a jest. "If you know any young gent who fits the bill, just point him out and you could be five hundred pounds richer."

"Five hundred pounds!" Daisy and her father echoed, their voices a blend of shock and awe.

Chandler confirmed the bounty, lamenting that the police were ineligible. "All the risk and none of the reward," he quipped.

Bernard, ever practical, asked for the description. "I want to read it over myself."

After a brief perusal, he returned the paper. "It's clear as day."

"But it could be anyone," Chandler retorted with sarcasm. "Carrying a newspaper parcel will soon be out of fashion."

Daisy’s laughter tinkled through the room, finding humor in Chandler's observation.

Bernard’s question cut through the mirth. "Why didn't anyone try to catch him?"

Mrs. Bernard, her voice a hushed undertone, joined in. "Yes, Jerry, that does seem peculiar."

Chandler cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "Well, the description is pieced together from various witnesses. No one saw the whole thing. The murders likely happened around two in the morning. Foggy nights, few people about." He explained that the description was a composite, based on multiple accounts, including those of previous murders.

Mrs. Bernard listened, the tumblers of her mind clicking into place. Each piece of information was a lifeline, pulling her further from the abyss of suspicion that had nearly swallowed her whole. In her heart, a flicker of hope ignited, a desperate wish that the true Rose Killer would be found, and the shadow of doubt cast over her home would be lifted once and for all.

Bernard's voice was tinged with a mix of hope and disillusionment. "So, The Rose Killer could be someone entirely different from the man described?"

Chandler's response was hesitant, betraying his own uncertainty. "It's possible, but I still believe the description is probably accurate."

Bernard prodded further, a gleam of curiosity in his eyes. "And this weapon they believe they've found...?"

Mrs. Bernard, who had been silently wrestling with her conscience, now stood among them, her presence a solid thing as she regained her composure.

Chandler nodded gravely. "Yes, they found a knife—a wickedly sharp one, close to that dark passage. It's got the Yard buzzing. They're combing through every shop in the East End now, hoping to trace it back to its owner."

Daisy's innocent query broke the tension. "But why all the fuss over a knife?"

Chandler's tone took on a darker hue as he explained, "They want to see if the knife was spotted before, who had it, who saw it. They're keeping it hush-hush for now—they don't want to scare him off before they have a solid lead."

"And if they find out it was sold to a certain customer, then what?" Mrs. Bernard's voice was a thin thread, pulled taut with anxiety.

Chandler's reply was measured. "If they trace it back to a buyer, they'll keep it out of the papers entirely."

The room was silent, heavy with the implications of his words, until Daisy, caught up in the grim fascination, declared, "I'd give anything to see that knife."

Mrs. Bernard recoiled as if struck, her voice rising in a sharp rebuke. "You wicked girl! To crave such a ghastly sight!"

Bernard and Daisy turned to her, startled by the sudden vehemence.

Bernard chastised her gently. "Ellen, that's enough."

Mrs. Bernard stood her ground, her eyes dark with emotion. "It's vile to even think of trading a man's life for money."

Daisy, stung by the accusation, defended herself. "I never mentioned the reward. I was simply curious about the knife."

Chandler, seeking to ease the tension, offered a compromise. "Perhaps one day you'll see it, Daisy. If we catch him and you come to the Black Museum at Scotland Yard, it'll be there."

Daisy's curiosity was piqued. "The Black Museum? What on earth is that?"

Laughter broke out, the absurdity of Daisy's ignorance a brief respite from the grim subject.

Bernard, his fondness for Daisy clear, explained the existence of many museums in London, remarking on their courting days when they would seek shelter in such places.

Chandler seized the moment to extend an invitation. "Our museum's the most interesting of them all—a true Chamber of Horrors."

Bernard's enthusiasm was palpable. "Really, Jerry? I'd like to see that. Not just the knives, but everything."

A silent exchange passed between Daisy and Chandler, a shared understanding that Bernard's presence would be an imposition on their plans.

Yet, Daisy's silent reply was accepting, even welcoming of her father's company.

Chandler set the date. "How about the day after tomorrow? I'll collect you both and we'll head to the Yard."

Turning to Mrs. Bernard, he offered the invitation to her, but she was resolute in her refusal.

"It would sicken me," she said with an intensity that filled the room. "To see the remnants of such cruelty—no, I'll stay home."

Bernard's attempt at levity fell flat, his jest about the lodger only serving to darken Mrs. Bernard's mood.

"I will not have Mr. Basset made light of," she stated firmly, the weight of her words heavy in the room.

But none of them, caught up in their own intrigue and excitement, noticed the deep undercurrent of fear that had momentarily crossed Mrs. Bernard's face at the mention of knives. It was a fear that spoke of unvoiced suspicions and secrets held too close—a fear that would keep her rooted at home while the others ventured into the macabre world of the Black Museum.