"It's hard to believe that whoever is responsible for this has yet to be caught," Mr Manston said, flinging the newspaper onto her desk. "Six men and they cannot even offer a description of the perpetrator."

"Whoever it is, they know how to blend in. Someone would have seen them by now." Mr Wentworth, her father's business partner, snatched up the paper. His eyes roamed over the typed words, taking in the information.

Leah stood in the doorway to her father's study. She leaned against the doorframe and watched the conversation between the men. The newspaper that morning had confirmed their worst fears. The body, discovered just a few days before, had fallen victim to the same killer that had been haunting the streets of London for several weeks.

Like the others, the victim had been a member of London's high society. He had been a factory owner with money in his pocket to spare, the owner of a match factory in the city's heart. His death, like all the others, had become a talking point amongst the men who owned similar factories. Men like Leah's father, who had dreaded the newspaper each morning.

Leah tried not to think about her father being a target. He wasn't like the other men. The men who had fallen victim to the vicious killer had been men who ruled their factories with iron fists. They lorded over those they considered beneath them, paid their workers a pittance for hours of labour, and failed to compensate those who could no longer work. Her father wasn't like them.

"If they only strike at night, it is unlikely anyone sober is going to see them."

"Do you think they will find them, Father?" Leah asked, stepping into the room.

Mr Manston looked at his daughter, his eyebrows drawn together in thought. "I hope so, my sweet."

Ezra Wentworth stood up from his chair at the far end of the room. "If the police can't get him, I will." He pretended to throw a punch, almost losing his balance. "I've been told I have a mean left hook."

"You'll be keeping your distance, my boy," Mr Wentworth said. "Let the police figure it out."

"If they ever manage to find any evidence."

Mr Manston ran a hand through his hair and tugged on his bottom lip, a nervous action Leah had rarely witnessed him do. She had seen the tension rise in him since the discovery of the body and the confirmation in that morning's newspaper had sent it to the surface. He was scared. Fear seemed to lurk around every corner of London's streets. It crouched in doorways, travelled in the wind, and tucked itself into the darker corners of the city.

Fear was inescapable.

Leah left her father alone and crept down the stairs, watching for the creak on the bottom step. She crossed the hallway and entered the living room, where her needlepoint lay abandoned on the settee. When Mr Wentworth and his son had arrived, she had left her sampler to listen to the men's conversation. Her father did not think that such a topic was befitting of a young girl, but she had stood her ground.

It surprised her that the officers were no closer to finding out the truth than they had been when the first man had been struck several months before. No one had seen the killer, no one who spoke any sense at any rate, and whoever it was had slipped in and out of alleyways unnoticed. How many people would die before they were caught?

Returning to her sampler, Leah couldn't stop her mind from returning to the day they had found the sixth body. The scream haunted her at night. It invaded her dreams and weaved itself into everything she did. She remembered how the officers came running. They reminded her of pigeons once crumbs had been scattered on the uneven ground, a swarm that could be dissipated with another whistle blow.

"I still think I could take the killer down," Ezra Wentworth said.

Leah looked up, stabbing herself in the thumb with the point of the needle. She examined the small prick of her finger, the small bead of blood. "You couldn't fight your way out of a paper bag."

"Well, if the professionals can't do it, who is to say that I can't?"

"Me, your father, and the professionals." She dabbed the bead of blood with a handkerchief from her pocket. "What are you doing here, Mr Wentworth? You know it is improper for us to be alone together."

"Polite as ever, Miss Manston. I do not think any of your servants are likely to speak of such a minor discretion. Besides, I have a proposition for you."

"But they might, and I am not interested in whatever proposition you offer. It is hardly appropriate." Leah stood up and tucked her sampler under her arm. "I think I shall finish this in my bedroom." She crossed the room, brushing past Ezra as she passed.

"Wait!"

Ezra reached out and grabbed her arm, bringing her to a stop. He wrapped his fingers around her upper arm but did not tighten his grip. A flash of anger surged through Leah and she tugged herself from Ezra's grip. His eyes widened in shock as his arm fell limply by his side. Leah glared at him.

"Never grab me again."

"I'm sorry." He looked at the floor. "I just thought that we could work together to find out who is killing these men. You are smart and I have connections through Father. We might be able to find something else the men had in common that might lead us to the killer."

"The professionals cannot find the killer. What makes you think we would be able to?"

"A fresh pair of eyes, a different perspective." He shrugged. "Just think about it. The longer this man is loose on the streets, the more likely our fathers will fall victim to the killer's swing."

"I shall think about it."

Leah turned on her heel and marched up the stairs, her trembling fingers gripping onto her sampler. At the top of the stairs, she turned and looked back at Ezra, who hadn't moved a muscle. Why he thought he could catch the killer himself, she didn't know. She shook her head and walked the length of the hall to her bedroom, pushing the insane notion of catching the murderer out of her mind.

~~~

First Published - February 2nd, 2023