The Sharpest Jewel | Alfie Solomons |

~ Chapter 4 ~

Camden London 1901.

The months had turned to winter and the previous nights had been colder, but that didn't stop the bitter wind from biting at her legs as she hurried through the streets, her dress hem whipping around her ankles. She was desperate to make it home, back to the one thing she still cherished. Her heels clicked against the cobblestones, the sound echoing through the narrow streets and drawing the attention of the men who lurked in the shadows. She had only stepped out to buy a loaf of bread for her son, who had fallen ill that morning.

"Evening, miss. Out a bit late, aren't you?" a deep, raspy voice slithered out from the darkness. She quickened her pace, praying his words would fade as she put distance between them. "Where you headed, love ?" Another voice called out, this time from the opposite side. She tried to ignore them, but panic was setting in. "Looks like we've got ourselves a runner," one of them chuckled, flicking his cigarette to the ground. She stumbled, colliding with a third man who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He pressed up against her from behind, forcing her to drop the bread. "So, darling," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear, "you gonna make this easy?"

Her heart raced. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. All she could do was scream. But her cries were quickly silenced by a rough hand clamping over her mouth, another blow striking her stomach. She gasped, her muffled sobs spilling into the man's palm. She collapsed to her knees, the cobblestone cold and unforgiving beneath her.

"Now, you gonna behave?" The man crouched down, staring at her with a smirk. Tears spilled from her eyes, pooling on his hand as she nodded weakly. "No, you won't," he sneered. "But that's alright. My friends and I—we know how to keep you quiet." She barely registered his words before another fist smashed into her cheek. The beating lasted for nine brutal minutes. By the time they stopped, she was no longer breathing. Her body lay still, lifeless on the cobblestones.

It wasn't until the next morning, around 5:40 a.m., that her body was discovered. An old man's dog had sniffed her out, the scent of death drawing it to her broken form. The old man reported her to the police, but by then, there was little they could do.

Her son, Ollie, only nine years old, was brought in to identify her, though what could they hope to confirm from the trembling words of a child? He had no parents now, no one left to care for him. His mother's closest friend had hoped to take him in, honoring her dying wishes, but his distant family intervened. They fought for custody and won, taking Ollie upstate to live in a stricter, more religious household. He was allowed to visit Mrs. Warden occasionally, for a week or two if he begged his aunt and uncle.

Mrs. Warden would take him in gladly, her house quieter since it had been just her and her daughter Florence. Florence's mother often mentioned how Ollie would ask about her, clinging to memories that grew fainter each day. But she lied to him, offering comforting falsehoods to soften the harsh truth. As for the men who brutally murdered his mother, they were suspected but never convicted. There was never enough evidence. They remained free, fading into the shadows as if nothing had happened. And soon, they were forgotten by almost everyone.

The house felt heavy, weighed down by grief that seemed to hang in the air like a thick, impenetrable fog. The soft tick of the grandfather clock in the corner punctuated the silence, each second dragging on longer than the last. Mrs. Warden sat slumped in her chair, the strain of recent events etched deeply into her pale, tear-streaked face. She had loved Ollie's mother like a sister and the news of her death had left her heart shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces. The rawness of her sorrow, of knowing she could do nothing to reverse what had happened, sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and unmoving.

Across from her, Mr. Warden gently rubbed her back, his lips brushing against her temple in a rare show of affection. He whispered soft reassurances, though his own eyes were red-rimmed with unshed tears. "We'll find a way to bring Ollie home," he murmured, though the truth of it felt uncertain, like a promise made in desperation rather than confidence. He clenched his jaw, thinking of the family upstate, the ones who had turn their backs on her when she needed them most. How could they now claim rights to her son?

Florence watched it all from the shadows of the stairs, her small frame barely noticeable behind the bannister. She didn't understand everything that was happening, but she felt it—deep in her bones. Her mother had always spoken of Ollie's mother with warmth, often recounting stories from their younger days, when the two women had been inseparable. Now, seeing her mother so broken, so inconsolable, Florence could feel that something important had been lost.

Her green eyes peered out from the wooden bars, following the slow, pained movements of Mrs. Warden as she held her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling. Florence's young mind struggled to reconcile this image with the vibrant woman she'd always known. A part of her wanted to run down the stairs, to throw her arms around her mother and say something—anything—that might lift the darkness from the room. But she stayed frozen in place, unsure of what she could say, if anything at all, that would matter.

Downstairs, Mrs. Warden finally looked up, her tearful gaze falling on the empty spot in the room where Ollie's mother should have been. "She was good, you know," she whispered, her voice hoarse from crying. "She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve any of it." Her sobs started anew, and Mr. Warden only pulled her closer, letting her tears soak his shirt as he rocked her gently, his own voice catching in his throat. "I know, love. I know."

The world outside continued on, indifferent to the heartbreak in that room. Florence could hear the sounds of children playing in the street, their laughter and calls to one another in sharp contrast to the grief inside her home. She wondered if Ollie would ever laugh like that again, or if the weight of what had happened would follow him wherever he went, sinking him into the same despair she saw etched into her mother's face.

As the evening dragged on, Florence slipped away from the stairs and quietly climbed back to her room, where she sat on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest. Her thoughts kept drifting back to Ollie, imagining what it must be like for him, upstate with strangers who had once turned their backs on his mother. He had lost everything in a single night. Florence couldn't understand the depth of his pain, but she knew one thing for certain: she would be there for him, just as her mother had been there for his. Even if the world forgot what had happened, she wouldn't. Neither would her mother. That much, she promised herself.

And somewhere, in the cold and empty streets of the city, where shadows still lingered and unanswered crimes faded into the background of daily life, there remained the echoes of a woman's last moments, drowned out by the indifference of the world. But in one small house, her memory remained, fierce and unyielding. A love lost, but not forgotten.