Remember

Mister Sorrows

Elisabeth's sore feet hurt from walking so much. She lived in the same neighborhood where she was born, the East End, a place full of beggars, whores and drunkards. However, she did not belong to any of those categories, and that is why every morning she had to walk several kilometers towards the center of the city where she served as a maid, although she had been educated to be much more ... but no, she should not think about that, so she decided to keep those self-destructive memories back in the indifferent oblivion drawer. She stretched and massaged the back of her neck. She had to go back to the present. Either she hurried or they would fire her. And, as everyone knew, there were only two exits for a poor and unemployed woman, and she didn't like any of them.

She hurried up the street to Hyde Park, where she worked. She crossed, continued to the right and crossed again. She just had to turn in the next corner, and then ... then nothing. Because there was no way to get through the tumult that whispered in front of her. The most distinguished ladies and gentlemen in England stretched their necks like ostriches trying to distinguish what was happening there. Elisabeth, on the other hand, despite being curious by nature, had other priorities. She began to push the ladies and gentlemen who stood in her way, sticking her elbows if necessary, praying that their indignation would blind them. It would be terrible if they later recognized her at some party. At last she reached the end, and felt, relieved, how the group spit her forward.

She didn't get very far though. A young man, who might have been handsome if it wasn't for his dog's face, pushed her aside without any delicacy and barked at her not to interfere. Interfere in what? the girl wondered, until the agent who had stopped her pulled away. And then she saw it: A bloody hand on the floor, broken nails, torn fists ... and a corpse that matched it. It was not necessary to be a detective to know that who or those who had murdered the poor wretch kept a burning hatred: they had beaten a wild beating, they had torn his vest tailored to take off the viscera and stabbed him where it hurt, if he was still alive for that moment. Elisabeth hoped he had passed out earlier because of the loss of blood. While she got up to recover sprinting lost time, she allowed herself to take a look at the man's face. After all, he was wearing quality clothes, she might have seen him at some party ... or at all she noticed right away. Because the deceased was nothing more and nothing less than Sir Anthony Sorrows, the most popular aristocrat of the moment.