Trails of Intertwined Stars: Chapter 74 {Part 1}

~Chapter 133: Carpet Stain~

I returned back to the manor after the whole thing, after all, Julian and I had come up with a new 'treatment' for Leora. By treatment, I mean poison. It had toxins in it that would slowly drain her, and would keep her bedridden. That was my plan. Once a few weeks had passed, I decided to return to Whitechapel, sensing no issue in being present. After all, my wife was returning from her trip, and I had to act slightly excited to see her return.

Before going to my home, I stopped by the surgery, to run a few checks on my files, once I was content with that, I decided to leave. I was rather unimpressed to recognise a man, snooping and shuffling around the alleys outside of the surgery.
"Mr Holmes!" I called out, trying my best to sound polite despite my growing frustration at the man's stubborness," Are you looking for something?"
He regarded me with a calm look, despite the fact he had clearly been loitering through the surgery's rubbish, and peeking through the windows.
"Clues, I suppose," He murmured, unashamed to confess that he still found me suspicious.
"I'm rather insulted you think me to be the murderer," I made an effort to look forlorn by it all," Though, I can respect that business is business. Snoop all you like, my plate is clean, you shall find nothing. Just don't disrupt my work, or else I may have to call Scotland Yard to remove you."
"Of course, I would hate to intrude."
He fiddled with his coat for a moment, before deciding to attempt small talk.
"Your sister, how is she fairing?" Mr Holmes asked," With tuberculosis and everything."
"She's improving," I lied, as many nobility like myself do to save face.

"Splendid," Mr Holmes smiled," Well, I hope she has an easy recovery."
"As do I," I lied, as many nobility like myself do.
We stood in silence for a while, listening to the distance bark of a dog in a nearby alley, and the murmur of people. It was rather awkward. Neither of us seemed to truly like each other. It was Sherlock who broke the silence first, saving us from the dreadful idea of spending a moment longer with each other.
Mr Holmes gave me a forced smile, and a weak nod," Well then, I shall continue my search."
I watched as he rounded the back of the alley to search more. I turned, to retire back to my home. Mr Sherlock Holmes was an incredibly foolish man. Obviously there was no evidence at the surgery, or in my vicinity, I left it on the streets or locked up tightly in my own home. I felt my frustration growing with this man who seemed so adamant to end me. I wasn't worried, just annoyed.
That emotion came home with me. When I arrived, Rosie took me to the sitting room, where my wife greeted me. I made an effort to seem glad to see her, and we sat and had some tea together in the comfort of the hearth. At nine o'clock exactly, Rosie left to return home, as her shift had ended and she was meeting family for a meal. My wife and I spent those late hours, still in the sitting room. I made myself busy with a book regarding the human psyche and my wife left to fetch some embroidery from upstairs she had started.

She returned much later, with no embroidery, rather a book; reading it intently with a look of deep discomfort. The book was a novel called The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, so I immediately found it rather strange she looked so...unsettled by it.
"What are you reading, dear?" I smiled, glancing up.
My wife was dreadful with containing her emotions. She looked at me, with a dreadful expression, pale as if she'd seen a ghost; collapsing onto the armchair.
"I... I'm reading Jane Eyre..."
I found that even more peculiar, for the book in her hands was not Jane Eyre. Not to mention my wife was a woman who was never short with answers, and always spoke too much. I watched as she went back to reading, with a horrified intent, and I could not help but peer over discretely. There was a small piece of paper in the book, that did not belong there, that she was actually reading. I could recognise my own handwriting from a mile away. She was reading my notes on the valuable information of organs I had harvested on Miss Annie Chapman. Of course. Rosie had never seen as she had no business to enter my personal drawers, however my wife did, and it was likely the drawer with her crotchet inside. She knew who I was. And I couldn't let her live with that information. My frustration with Mr Holmes resurfaced, and I found a gnawing frustration at the presence of this woman in my living room.

I set my book down, without saying anything, and stood up. I watched as my wife recoiled slightly at my movement, watching me with a haunted expression. I played the fool, and gave her a small smile.
"Tea?"
With trembling hands she picked up her tea cup and saucer, and offered them to me. I took them, and made my way to the kitchen, where Rosie had left the tea pot. Though, once I was there, I set the tea cup down, and instead, conveniently found my way to the drawer where Rosie kept the kitchen knives. My hand lingered on the handle, a cold fury setting upon my gaze, before I stalked back to the kitchen.

I made a personal drop off that night to Dutfield's Yard, off Berner Street, before returning home. There was a rather horrid stain on the carpet, that felt impossible to remove, so I called Julian over to help me. After all, he had told me he'd learnt of a few chemicals that were rather good for removing things like that. The stain was removed, but my sitting room smelled rather oppressively of chemicals, to the point I kept my windows open the next day. Scotland Yard appeared the next morning, and told me the tragic news that my wife had unfortunately passed from a dreadful cause. I dressed in black that day, to mourn her like any husband would, and attended her funeral the next. As I sat in the pews, listening to the dreary sermon, I found myself casting my gaze back, bored. The familiar faces of crying people seemed to surround me, but there was one face at the very back that took me a little by surprise. Sherlock Holmes sat at a pew, with his knees to his chest, scribbling notes eagerly as the ceremony dragged on. He glanced up for a moment, and met my gaze. He nodded his head slightly towards me, in condolence, and I did so back. Though, when I turned back around, one thing was for certain; it was not a nod of condolence on our parts, but a declaration of war. Sherly was not giving up on me so easily.