Courting Death [Gypsy x Bishop]

[Bishop]

Trembling digits grasped his timepiece, its chain glistening in the pale moonlight of a night in midsummer. It was thirteen minutes past the second hour as the second hand ticked through each passing moment like a trotting mare through the streets of London.

Click.

Click.

Click.

It had been well over an hour. She was overdue. The wind shuffled at his overcoat, an overbearing breeze forcing a wall of rain sideways through the alleyway, drenching him to his undergarments. It was cleansing, washing away the proof of his sins. He peered down the street in trepidation, watching for any signs of movement, any evidence of life or lack thereof. His fingers tapped against the brass pocket watch in frustration, the other hand flexing, only to relax and repeat. His gaze fluttered from the alley entrances to the face of the timepiece, then back again. He had been told by women past that he had the stare of a man possessed, as if the Devil himself would leap from the icy hell that was contained in his irises. There were days that he pondered whether or not this could actually be the truth of things.

Click.

Click.

Click.

“She isn’t coming,” he muttered to himself as he spun on heel. His vigil broken by disappointment and impatience, his attention turned to the object of his previous attention. Her hair fluttered in the breeze, blonde curls swaying to and fro, her sky blue bonnet sitting crooked upon her crown. The moonlight left it the color of the night clouds, spotted with blotches of shimmering blackness. He reached down, thick fingers coaxing her fair hair to slip betwixt his fingers like air itself, leaving streaks of still-wet blood upon his flesh, only to be cleansed again by the purifying downpour.

“Fix yourself up, love. You look dreadful!” He pinched the edge of the bonnet, straightening it upon her head as he crossed her arms upon her lap. He left the body where it lay, sat up as a proper greeting for Death, a wasted effort it seemed.

Grasping the handle of his blade, he plucked it from the woman’s breast. The hefty thwump and slosh of its unsheathing was masked by the plodding of raindrops against the brim of his hat. From the wound, a canyon to the woman’s heart, her life’s essence oozed out in a slow and steady stream, a sharp contrast to the gushing spray from the back of her head an hour prior. He stepped over to the gully, a small rivulet conveniently flowing through a divot in the mud as he knelt to cleanse the knife. “Bloody Death, unreliable as always,” he groaned, slipping the blade into its holster.

“You’d think she’d show a bit more appreciation, wouldn’t you?” he asked the corpse. “I mean, aren’t I making her job a bloody deal easier?” The corpse stared at him blankly.

“Exactly what I was thinking, love! See, I knew it was brilliant to invite you. As insightful as the day I met ya! What’s that? We only met today? Well, that’s proof enough for me!” He rose before the corpse, a wicked smile and a nod given. He lifted his hat from his head, gesturing toward the lady as he gave the most gentlemanly bow he could muster. “Alas, I must bid you adieu,” he remarked, “and make sure she sees that note, whenever she bloody well decides to show up.” Beneath her bonnet, penned in fresh ink in a barely legible scrawl, was written a memoir of his affections.


My beloved bringer of ends
taker of lives
and giver of rests
how my heart sings every time I offer you my love and affection
I hear the myths, the grim reaper and maker come from on high
but I know the truth!
You are no mere myth, but the lifeblood in my veins!
You shall be mine one day, of this I have no doubt.
I humbly offer this token of my obsession
in hopes that this dame’s sacrifice serves you well
I shall call to you again soon
the same time in the coming week
I do hope you grace me with your presence
as surely my love cannot fall upon deaf ears and blind eyes

Till we finally meet,
Entirely yours,
Millard Watkins

He returned his hat to its station upon his head, disappearing into the night.

 

[Gypsy]

Ophelia Cromwell considered herself to be quite an intelligent, if not a touch cynical, young lady. However, as young ladies were wont to be, Ophelia was predisposed to lapses of passion and curiosity which, coincidentally, were traits chaperoned by temerity. Such attributes emerged when she fled the comfort of her warm abode and its slumbering inhabitants and into the arms of her paramour at the stroke of midnight. Thoughts of her parents' wrathful ire and subsequent disappointment, although profound, did not adequately hamper Ophelia from departing, and was promptly cast aside. Her father was especially protective of her, paranoid by the homicides distressing different parts of London. The possible dangers the night could foist upon impetuous maidens such as Ophelia were disregarded in favor of basking in William Brown’s carnal embrace. Fraternizing with a married man of thirty and two was a scandal Ophelia sought to avoid, particularly when she was her family’s firstborn. Moreover, their clandestine rendezvous was an affair which inadvertently heightened their desires. It was an hour fraught with heady and concupiscent lovemaking in the darkness of a locked Brown & Co.’s Furniture Store, an abundance of surfaces sullied with their sweat and essence.

After their coupling culminated, the shop was locked, and the twosome was out in the drizzling path to her street. William’s lingering kiss upon her lips left a lasting smile on her visage as she stepped away from the protection of his umbrella and in to the rain. Ophelia had insisted that he leave her a few blocks away from her house for extra precaution; she was a bright young lass after all, and she deemed it would be less conspicuous if she ventured back to her home in the shadows of the night without him. The streets she knew by heart, at this point in time, were empty and void of any stragglers. It was hardly a journey for an unescorted maiden. No danger would befall her, surely, and his woes were utterly unfounded. Fortunately, for Ophelia, William acquiesced under the belief that his lover was a capable and sensible dame who would not hesitate burying her heel on her offender’s groin as a means to escape. They parted reluctantly after promises of reuniting once more were exchanged and of taking care were proclaimed much to their anguish.

With a palm atop her bonnet to prevent it from being whisked by a tempestuous squall, Ophelia briskly strode through the rain whilst clutching her shawl close to her chest in an attempt to stay dry. There was an alleyway a few steps ahead, one she often took if time was not on her side, that would let her cut through to her area. It was dark and beleaguered with rancid waste, deterring even vagrants from residing in its nooks and crannies. There was no trepidation in her heart as her boots rippled the puddles she splashed into, the fringe of her umberous dress speckling with mud; what had seized her heart was an inherent need to reach home lest she was caught by her parents and by the merciless storm. Yet, with all her intelligence and passion, Ophelia failed to take into account the possibility of being pierced in the head and stabbed in the heart.

It happened swiftly, like a snake, and quietly, like a shadow.

The blonde damsel had no time to react. It was a blur, the clattering shower screaming on behalf of the woman entangled in the grotesque feat. She lost her visual faculties, the moonlight which dimly illuminated her path flickering out as the blade gored the back of her head, dispersing a spray of blood once it was withdrawn. Ophelia’s circumstances deprived her of the opportunity to acknowledge the knife that protruded on her bosom and wounded her heart thereafter. Sanguine tainted her flaxen locks and her alabaster skin, resulting a macabre masterpiece of a remorseless killer. Before she knew it, she was dead with no recognition of who her murderer was.

Perhaps if Ophelia had not tempted fate by refusing sleep in favor of more lubricious activities with her lover or by declining William's wish to escort her to her doorstep she would not befall such a tragedy. Her perpetrator was unhinged and unassociated to her for all intents and purposes; the damsel was merely a victim of his whims and a token of his twisted affection. Arranged primly on the filthy alley floor, poised and proper as the dead can be, she served as naught but a messenger of a love letter to a nonexistent being. The fissure on her chest feebly effused her blood in protest of her fate. Had Ophelia been alive, a slew of profanities would have left her rosaline lips in response to the lunatic who interacted with her corpse conversationally before he absconded.

Fortunately, Death found Ophelia easily.

Death loomed over the fallen blonde, an inky capelet with its hood overhead concealing her countenance and a maroon parasol screening her from the rain. She arrived on the third hour, the dead hour, precisely and scrutinized the victim with a sneer, scorning whoever slain Ophelia Cromwell before she was due. Unforeseen deaths had been occurring frequently in London—an event that Death abhorred—yet this was the first occasion wherein she visited and regarded the scene. “It was not your time.” She groused with a decidedly English diction saturated with accents from lands afar and unknown to men, her gloved digits caressing Ophelia’s lifeless cheek. “You were due at the ripe old age of fifty and nine not twenty and one.” Her musings were inaudible in the pelting rainfall, eliciting an exasperated sigh from the statuesque brunette. The slip of paper beneath Ophelia’s bonnet attracted Death’s attention however, plucking and reading it almost curiously. It was not long before she glowered at the harmless letter. “Fool.” Who in Death’s name is this twit? Was he behind all these deaths? I have no time for these needless theatrics.

Disinterestedly, the missive was crumpled and tossed in the gutter. Humans were fascinating creatures, yet oftentimes she questioned their sanity and capacity to exist, specially this Watkins culprit who seemed rather deranged and eager to meet Death. She hoped the bobbies could apprehend Ophelia’s murderer sooner rather than later lest his fantasies afflict the grand balance of things and prompted her to intervene, a chore Death would prefer not to be saddled with. Nevertheless, Death need not squander her thoughts over mortal tribulations. All she was tasked to perform was to collect the souls of the deceased when their time was up or ended. Interfering otherwise was out of her jurisdiction and quite tedious for the lady. And Death desired, above all else, to keep things simple.

“Ophelia Cromwell,” Death uttered mutedly as she strode away from the cadaver and to the end of the alleyway, her parasol twirling idly in her grasp, “you’re coming with me.”

At the crack of dawn, the rain had diminished to a light drizzle. Ophelia’s next visitor was an old man, a baker with a shop right against the building the incident occurred, who was in the midst of disposing his trash in the alley. After recovering from the horror that seized him, he scuttled away to alert Scotland Yard. Poor man was rattled out of his wits at the sight of a bloodied lady against his shop’s wall. Once the peelers arrived, the alley was cordoned off from the prying public, the area exclusive to the constabulary.

“Bloody hell.” Detective Inspector Margaret Brown mumbled as she crouched before Ophelia, examining the gash on her bosom. Two males stood by her, one a doctor and the other chief inspector. The redhead inspector had been roused from her sleep on an early and dewy Saturday morning by a gofer her husband let in. Suffice to say, she was not a morning person and was less than thrilled to attend to her responsibilities on a weekend. “This is deplorable. Time of death?”

“She died between the hours of midnight and two by a... uh, a stab in the head.” The doctor responded, carefully cupping Ophelia’s chin to display the location of the injury to the inspector. “It was quite swift and clean. And instant so to speak. There were no signs of a struggle, but the killer took the liberty of stabbing her heart even if she was lifeless by the time the knife left her head.”

Margaret pursed her lips as she regarded Ophelia’s pallid and bloody features. The girl was familiar, though she couldn’t quite put a finger on it. “Did the witness recognize her?”

“Aye.” The chief inspector pipped, gesturing to the perplexed baker conversing with a constable nearby. “Said she was one o’ the Cromwell’s down the street: Ophelia Cromwell, their firstborn, he says. She bought bread in his bakeshop every morn since her eighteenth name-day.”

The inspector stood and dusted her frock, a grim expression on her face. These circumstances reminded her of the other unexplained deaths plaguing London whose murderers were still on the loose. While evidences had been assimilated, none exhibited any relevance to one the other aside from arbitrary slaughter. They were men and women, rich and poor, old and young, good and bad; thus why it proved difficult to form a bond, if there even was, between these kills. If there was only one killer, Margaret deduced that they were slaying at random. It was a horrible thought.

“Bring Ms. Cromwell to the morgue for identification and scour the area for other witnesses. I want anyone who may have noticed suspicious activity to be questioned. I need a lead. I want to know why Ms. Cromwell was out and about past bedtime without an escort.” Margaret instructed to a constable she flagged down prior to addressing the doctor and the uniformed inspector. “I detest bringing bad news, gentlemen. Let's pay the Cromwells a visit. I doubt they’re even aware that their daughter isn’t in her bedroom.”​