The Met Herald

Bloody Murder

The knife felt little resistance as it slid across the throat, and rubies of blood fell from it. Yet another job done. He laughed, and the world began to fade away.

Francis Tumblety woke up, and sighed. Such a good dream… a pity it ended, he thought as he got out of bed. No one would have ever picked him out to be a serial killer. He was a plain man, whose only distinguishing feature was his overly-large moustache. Dressing, he decided that tonight would be the night. He had waited long enough. It had been nearly a month since his last murder, and just over two weeks since his failed attempt upon that drunken whore’s life. He would not make the same mistake twice.

The day progressed as any other. He bought the newspaper, and read it on the way to his practice. He had no appointments scheduled, so he prepared for a long day at his office alone. The day passed unremarkably normally. At twelve-fifteen, he left his office and went out for lunch. He ate a sandwich from a street vendor, and went back to his office to find a young woman sitting down, waiting for him.

“May I help you, madam?” he politely inquired, thinking God, why would you make me suffer another woman?

“Yes you may, sir,” she said coyly “but I would prefer that we speak in private”

“Of course Miss…,” He drifted off.

“Stride,” she answered. “Elizabeth Stride.”

“Of course, Miss Stride,” he said, helping her up. “Follow me,” he added, walking towards his office. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Well, sir…,” she trailed off, suddenly bashful. “I must confess, I am a prostitute.”

“Within these walls, my dear, that is no crime” Francis assured her. I understand now Lord. Thank you. After all, he thought, I never said anything about outside the walls.

“Thank you for your kindness, sir” she said. “But because of my profession, I am with child.” She squeamishly looked down.

“Oh.” The wheels of Francis’s mind had begun to turn. Plots were being formed. Plans for the night had begun. “When was your last…,” he faltered as he always did at this point, “moon blood?” he queried.

She blushed. “It should have been two weeks ago, sir.”

“Very well.” He said, thrown by her timidity. “I shall need some time, but I should be able to make a medicine to… remove your risks, shall we say?”

“Thank you, doctor. How much will it cost?”

“I shall know when the ingredients are gathered, madam. Return in two weeks.”

“Sir? Could you not get them sooner? Say, tonight?”

“I could, but my office closes at sunset.”

“Then we could… meet somewhere.” She moved towards him.

“Indeed we could. Shall we say, the junction of Berner Street and Faircloud Street?”⁷

“Of course. What time will you have the medicine?”

“Oh, I think I will be able to get it ready by twelve forty-five. Will you be there?”

“Of course.” She primly replied.

“Good. I shall see you then.” He said, leading her to the door. She thanked him and left. “Yes, I think it will work. Maybe the Number Six surgical knife, yes I think that will do nicely… for the sixth cleansing” he laughed to himself as he returned to his office.