The Gentleman Killer, Parts III and IV — a Halloween Serial
Welcome to the second installment of “The Gentleman Killer.” If you haven’t finished the first installment (Parts I and II), you’ll want to do that first.
Previously:
After reading, please sound off in the comments to let me know how it’s going. And without further typing, enjoy this week’s installment of “The Gentleman Killer.”
Rated R: Violence, child abuse, sexism.
-
Copyright © 2024 by Nat Weaver.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted by Artificial Intelligence (AI) or used in the training of AI, for either commercial or non-commercial purposes. For permission requests, write to the author, with subject “The Gentleman Killer” at the following email address: nat@weaver.wtf.
“The Gentleman Killer”
A Short Story By Nat Weaver
III.
Cara McClanahan Meets Niamh.
Cara McClanahan walked into Kincaid’s Orphan Asylum for Girls moments after Mrs. Bloch unlocked the front doors. Mrs. Bloch looked her up and down, she was dressed in a green velvet skirt and jacket with large, black buttons up her torso. Her long neck stretched out the top of white collars from a blouse beneath it. Her skin was pale and her face was covered with the most freckles Mrs. Bloch had ever seen on a person. Her red hair was so bright it was almost orange and it was under a tall, black hat except for a French braid running down her back. Cara looked unamused at having to wait outside for the doors to be opened.
“I’ve been here for some time waiting in the rain,” Cara said as she took a few steps into the orphanage.
“My apologies, madam,” Mrs. Bloch said. “We’ve had an odd turn of events and are running a bit behind our normal operations.”
“That’s none of my business,” Cara said as she removed two black gloves. “What is my business is that I need a young girl. And not just any young girl.”
Mrs. Bloch closed the doors and walked with Cara towards the cafeteria where the girls were still having breakfast. “What kind of girl are you looking for, madam?” She asked.
“I’ll knew her when I see her,” Cara said.
“The first thing you have to understand is that I don’t normally handle these affairs,” Mrs. Bloch explained. “Mr. Kincaid is unfortunately detained.”
“Detained?”
“In all honesty, we don’t know where he is at present,” Mrs. Bloch said. “He’s normally very punctual. But this morning he seems to have gone missing. No one has heard from him since he left the orphanage last night, it seems. The police are out searching for him as we speak. It’s troubling business what with The Gentleman Killer on the loose.”
Cara stopped and looked Mrs. Bloch in the eyes, and plainly asked, “Was Mr. Kincaid a gentleman?” Mrs. Bloch bit her lip. “Then surely he has nothing to worry about from such nonsense. The girls? Where are the girls?”
The noise in the cafeteria was louder than usual, a sign that the girls had become aware of the absence of Kincaid. The men staff were greatly outnumbered in the cafeteria and were struggling to manage them all. Kincaid could usually yell out all manner of threats and curse words, which would silence the young girls. If it didn’t, someone would be made an example of in front of them all. Kincaid was a stern believer in humiliation.
Mrs. Bloch and Cara stood in the entry for a moment surveying the chaos. Girls laughing, yelling, two girls pushed each other around, a bowl of porridge crashed on the floor and the girl who owned it cried. One of the men staff, perhaps only eighteen or nineteen years old, grabbed a girl by the arm and began to forcefully remove her from her table. The girl got loose, ran back to her table, and grabbed her slice of bread. She rolled it up into a ball with both of her hands and threw it at the young man’s face as he charged her. He slipped and fell to the floor as he dodged the bread.
Cara caught the rolled up bread with one hand before it hit her in the face.
“Girls!” Mrs. Bloch screeched. “Attention!”
All of the girls ran to Mrs. Bloch and formed a single line in front of her and Cara. The girl who had thrown her bread put herself front and center to Cara. She held her head high and puffed up her chest as it beat up and down from the adrenaline.
Mrs. Bloch started to introduce a girl at one end of the line, but Cara walked up to the girl with the puffed up chest. “This is yours,” Cara said as she handed her the rolled up bread. The girl took it and held it behind her back without a word. “What’s your name girl?” Cara asked.
“Niamh.”
“Excellent,” Cara said.
Mrs. Bloch walked towards Cara, “Madam, you will find—”
Cara held up her hand to silence her. Mrs. Bloch stopped in her tracks, shocked. “Do you like it here, Niamh?” Cara asked.
“No.” Niamh said coldly. “This place is shit.”
The young man from before ran at Niamh who dug her heels into the floor, prepared to stand her ground again.
Cara put up an arm and blocked the young man. “You lay a finger on her again, and I’ll have your testicles cut of,” Cara said to him. “Do you know what testicles are, or do I need to explain it to you?”
The young man stood with his mouth agape.
Cara turned back to Mrs. Bloch, “I’ll have little Niamh.”
Inside Kincaid’s office, Mrs. Bloch rummaged through his desk drawers looking for something. Cara looked back at Niamh who was standing by the door and winked at her. Cara stepped up to the desk and pulled a large some of paper money from out of her jacket pocket.
“This should cover any and all costs,” Cara said and dropped it on the desk between her and Mrs. Bloch.
“Will your husband not be joining us, madam?”
“You keep calling me madam,” Cara explained, “You can stop that. My money is good enough as any man’s, is it not?”
“I suppose,” Mrs. Bloch said. “It’s just that normally these transactions are handled by the husbands.”
“Since when have men been known for raising kids?” Cara said. “It’s my decision and mine alone. Are you going to take my money or no?”
Mrs. Bloch picked up the wad of paper and counted it. “This is too much.”
“I’m sure you could find something meaningful to do with some extra money,” Cara said. She turned to leave and motioned for Niamh to join her. Just before they exited Kincaid’s office, Cara said to Mrs. Bloch, “Maybe look at the girl’s sleeping arrangements. I’m sure you could find something money could help with there.”
IV.
A Man of Pleasure.
Swedish born Jesper Larrson was certain he was God’s gift to women, and to that end, he had slept with many. He had wooed virgins, ladies, widows, and left them all alone and disgraced in polite society. His true gift was convincing a woman she was different, that he truly loved her, and that all other women before her were mistakes, because she was the one. That she had changed him, that he was a new man, that he had renounced his ways. He had left his homeland after wooing the wife of a Swedish ambassador as he had sworn to kill him for the scandal. Larrson had suspected a small vacation to London was just what he needed for the ambassador to get over him impregnating his wife. A woman he had determined was hardly worth the drama. He couldn’t help but laugh at reading in his father’s last letter that the man had tossed out the pregnant wife and was already courting another woman.
London had proven lucrative for his favorite past time. Between his charm and an accent many Londoners had never heard, he fascinated many women with made up tales of his homeland and travels. It was too easy, he had become bored.
He sat with a pint of ale at a tavern in Whitechapel. He had wondered into Whitechapel after hearing stories of its poverty and debauchery. He walked its streets until sunset, and then stepped into the tavern. He was on his second pint and bored. Whitechapel was not interesting to him in the least. He yawned and wondered if perhaps it was time to return home.
A small girl walked by him and headed over to a piano in the corner near a small stage. Behind her was a woman in a long, green coat. The girl sat at the piano with her back to him. The woman took off a tall, black hat and placed it upside down atop the upright piano. She stepped up onto the stage and nodded to the girl just before turning her back to the busy crowd. Larrson looked about the room, only he had noticed them.
The girl began to play Jacques Offenbach’s “Can-Can” at rapid speed. The woman tore open her long coat and spun around. What she wore under the coat was a black corset and short green drawers over black stockings. The outfit left little to the imagination and Larrson had plenty. The loud roar of talking in the tavern quickly dissipated as she performed a quick, alluring, and at times comical dance. Near the end, she spun in a circle and took off her coat as she did so, and then she threw it down on the stage with a splat. She jumped all over it to the music and laughing audience, and culminated in a hefty kick of the coat that sent it flying into Larrson’s face. It covered his head and knocked over his pint. He removed the coat and watched her fall over in melodramatic fashion to the final notes of the song, exhausted. Every man was up and cheering. Even Larrson jumped up and clapped feverishly with her coat over his arm.
The men crowded the piano, dropped coins into her hat, and fawned over the woman to an embarrassing degree. They showered her with praise. Larrson waited for the crowd to disperse before moving in and giving her coat back.
“Hey, jackass!” The woman yelled. The crowed of men parted like the Red Sea and she stood there with one eyebrow up and both hands on her hips. “Can I have my coat back now?”
Larrson had been walking and talking with Cara for hours, so enamored by her personality and beauty that he was completely unaware that Niamh, who played the piano, had been following them all night. Halfway across a bridge and under the dimming gaslight, Larrson placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in tight.
“I’m bored,” she sighed.
“There’s a remedy for that,” Larrson said with a warm smile.
“Yes,” she said. She pulled away from his embrace and circled about in the middle of the bridge. She scanned around with squinted eyes in the dark.
Curious what she was looking for, Larrson looked about as well. He didn’t see or hear anyone. Not footfalls, no horse and carriage scampering about the streets, no voices. Nothing but the gentle movement of the river beneath them in the pitch black.
“This’ll do,” Cara said and walked up to him, she started to unbutton her coat.
“Here?” He asked, shocked at the audacity, but aroused nonetheless. He had never taken a woman on a bridge in the middle of the night.
When she reached him, she pushed him back to the railing of the bridge. He felt a sharp pain in the middle of his back when he slammed against it. She smiled and he lost himself in her eyes. He couldn’t hear the river anymore and he couldn’t feel the pain in his back either. There in the darkness the two of them were all that was left in the world. Everyone else had died and it would have been a huge tragedy if not for the fact that he had just met the most interesting woman in the world.
That’s when he felt the knife press against his trousers and tear through them. The pain was unbearable and he grabbed and tugged at her arms, but he wasn’t sure what he was doing and his knees were buckling from the pain. She pulled her arms apart and stepped back from him. She grinned from ear to ear.
He looked down at himself while not sure of what to expect, but what he saw was the hilt of a dagger sticking out of his crotch. She had pushed it in so far you couldn’t see the blade at all. He looked up at her.
“Why?” He asked.
“This is for all the women whose lives you ruined to get your cock wet,” Cara said. “It’s wet now, yeah?”
He felt woozy and fell over. He reached up to the railing and tried to pull himself up, but the strain it put on him was excruciating. He heard someone coming in the dark. He looked up from the bottom of the railing and saw a small shadow approaching from the darkness.
“Help…” he called out in a whimper.
Niamh walked into the glow of the gaslight and stopped. She stared at him.
He begged her again for help, but she didn’t move. He kept begging even after he couldn’t see her anymore. He begged until he couldn’t beg anymore.
