It was the most unusual contract she had taken. The girl in Uppsala, obsessed with a serial killer.
Miss Thrope waited in the London fog. The smell was disgusting. Menthol rub inside her nostrils, an old trick, didn’t seem to help at all. She heard the wheels on the cobbles long before the carriage arrived. She held back, in the shadows. Not long ago she had left Uppsala, wearing a beautiful Victorian dress, much admired by her twenty first century friends for its authenticity. She hadn’t admitted she had just bought it a few hours ago in nineteenth century Harvey Nichols & Co.
The gentleman in the top hat watched the carriage leave and turned towards his club, to be confronted by a beautiful lady with sparkling eyes. Usually an admirer of young women, he was taken by her flawless complexion, and yet, dancing lines at the corner of her eyes.
“Enchanting,” he said, as he bowed.
His heart suddenly started hammering. It was so loud, he thought, they’d hear it in the club.
The lady’s delicate manicured hand was holding a scalpel, that reason told him, was in his jacket pocket.
She stepped towards him, as if in embrace, and speaking in a strange accent, English but not of his experience, she murmured, “I hear they call you Jack,” and sighed inwardly as she ruined yet another wonderful dress.
Copyright Jhedron Luckspar ©2017 2018