'Terror on the streets! Serial killer's latest victim discovered!'
That is what they call me now-a serial killer, mused Lascelles with a scoff at The Times' melodramatic front page. He slowly raised the bone china teacup to his lips, and continued to read through the article.
A smile spread across his lips at The Time's somewhat bland description of his 'victim', reported as being 'stabbed to death'. No mention of the mutilations that he had so artfully crafted, the drag of silver against flesh, blood as dark as sin that dribbled onto the cobbles...
His breath had caught in his chest at the recollection, his own blood ringing in his ears. The craving was palpable, and when he glanced down at the tightly clutched butter knife in his hand, Lascelles saw only a bloodied tip. But he couldn't think of such things; not over breakfast.
In an attempt to distract himself, he took a bite of croissant, leaning back in his chair to observe out of window. Dense rain sombrely descended, though London was still much alive. Top hats and umbrellas were just discernible, illuminated by the glow of gas lamps amidst the fog.
All the minute people, going about their lives, with their insufferable concerns over agreeable marriages, the latest fashions and who was to be hosting the next party.
It was all so dull.
No wonder they got so swept into a frenzy. If anything, his little...murders were providing some excitement to the society of London.
As he pondered, Lascelles found his gaze had been drawn back to the neglected newspaper. He could not resist finishing his dedicated article, but was rather disappointed to find that the latter part was focused upon those bow street runners and their pitiful attempts at locating him. It was blatant that they knew little of the killer, deciding that after a third homicide some detective was required.
Expecting this to be of little concern, Lascelles frowned at a sense of recognition of the detective's name; he could not recall where he had heard it. Finishing the croissant, Lascelles brushed the fine flakes from his fingers and rose from his seat. Still the insistent tug of John Childermass toyed in his thoughts.
It was only once he left the parlour room that the memory surfaced: he'd been at a soirée, Mrs Godestone's perhaps. Someone, a bow street runner themselves, he believed, had been discussing private detectives. The policeman had mentioned John Childermass, this fellow Yorkshireman who was infamous for solving a locked room case, amongst others. Quite the reputable detective.
Clambering the staircase, Lascelles felt that craving creep over him again. Yet it was inexplicably distorted into a piqued interest of this detective. Not that Lascelles was by any means unnerved, for the most glorious aspect of it all was how untraceable a killer he was.
After all, who could suspect that a gentlemen such as Lascelles to commit such acts?