The Gentleman Killer, Parts I and II — a Halloween Serial
A few years ago I dabbled with the idea of doing annual Halloween short stories. I ended up co-writing a serialized story called Night Aggressors with co-author Trent Becker. It was so much fun and I love that story which I need to have edited and published proper.
This year I’ve decided to return to this idea of annual Halloween stories. This year it’s a seven part story, but I’ll be releasing two parts per week (on Fridays). The last week will have the exciting conclusion in one part.
I’m calling this one “The Gentleman Killer” and it takes place in Victorian era London. As the title suggests, someone is killing gentlemen. That’s all I really wanna give away on the matter.
Side note: There is a character with the Irish name Niamh which is pronounced Neeve.
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.
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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
I.
A Man of Philanthropy
By all accounts in respectable society, Richard L. Kincaid was a kind soul with a warm and giving spirit. He used his pedigree and heritage to give back to the poor and downtrodden. In his quest to help the needy, he turned to those most vulnerable, the children of Whitechapel. In the year 1870, he purchased Maude’s Orphan Home, promptly fired Ms. Maude, and renamed it Kincaid’s Orphan Asylum for Girls. He sold the boys off to other orphanages or foster parents at a discounted rate where many were used as slaves. He remodeled the exterior of the orphanage and Ms. Maude’s office to his liking — the girls were not so lucky, as their conditions worsened. Leaks in the ceiling, cracks in the wall for wind to blow through at night, and tattered clothes and bedding. They seldom bathed, ate little, and were frequently abused by the new staff, which was made up of young men who chastised them for being unladylike. The only woman on staff was a head mistress named Mrs. Bloch who had no power as Kincaid ran the orphanage with an iron fist. To the outside world, Kincaid had saved the orphanage from Ms. Maude, but to the girls inside it was Hell on earth.
In the evenings, Kincaid would wonder through Whitechapel and find the youngest looking prostitute, take her into a dark alley, beat her, and toss the coinage on the cobblestone. He’d spit on her, curse her, call her whore, and return home to a warm bath.
But by all accounts, Kincaid was a well-liked man. A real man of the people.
One evening in Whitechapel, he found Elizabeth, a woman with blond hair that reminded him of one of the girls at the orphanage. He took her into a side alley with a warm smile. As she began to tell him her rate, he grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against a brick wall.
“Shut your mouth,” he growled, “You miserable whore.”
He pulled back his hand to strike her but felt a swift sting across his wrist. He turned in pain and grabbed at his arm. His hand was no longer attached, in its place was a bloody mess of a stub with a swift, clean cut. He looked up and a dark figure stepped out of the shadows holding a rapier down at its side, blood dripped from the tip.
“Run.” A raspy voice spoke with an Irish accent.
Elizabeth didn’t need to be told twice. She was gone before Kincaid even knew what was happening.
“What have you done?” He said to the dark figure. “Do you know who I am? You will pay for this.”
“Mr. Kincaid, this is a message from all the girls you have terrorized,” the voice said. “Go to hell.” The dark figure plunged the rapier into his stomach and he fell back against the brick wall. The dark figure held him up with the rapier and plunged a dagger into his side repeatedly until he went limp. The dark figure removed the rapier and Kincaid fell to the cobblestone, drenched in blood, and cold as a fish in the market.
II.
Niamh Meets the Good Doctor
Doctor Thaddeus Moody took a sunset stroll through Hyde Park. A habit he’d developed since becoming a surgeon in London. It helped him clear his head from the work of the day and prepare for the evening ahead. He was just stating to relax after a particularly strenuous day at the hospital when he noticed a young woman that seemed out of place. Her clothes were tattered, worn, and mismatched. Her hair was red and up in a bun, but it was disheveled and barely held together. Her face was boney and speckled with freckles. She carried a basket with flowers in them.
“Flowers!” She shouted in what he considered a brazen misuse of the English language, a thick Irish accent.
He began to change direction with his cane in hand when she spotted him.
“Good evening, good sir,” she said, “I can tell you are a man of taste. Look at these flowers, aren’t they beautiful?”
“What use do I have of flowers?” He said.
“Maybe not you, but your missus perhaps?” She continued. “What woman doesn’t love a flower from a gentleman such as yourself?”
“Stop trying to flatter me and take your business elsewhere,” Moody chided and turned away from her.
“Wait!” She shouted at his back. He stopped. “That pin on your jacket, that means you’re a doctor, right?”
“I can’t help you.” He said without turning about and began to step away from her.
She ran around him and grabbed him by his arm, she whispered nervously. “I need to speak to a man of science. It’s a matter of grave importance.”
“Go to a hospital and relieve my arm,” he said.
“It’s about my mother. You see,” she looked around for the all clear, and then whispered into his ear, “she was The Gentleman Killer.”
“What’s that to me?” He asked. “Go tell Scotland Yard.”
“They laughed at me. They didn’t think a woman was capable of such atrocities,” she said. “But you’re a man of science. You will want to hear what I have to say. You could study her brain, find out why she did what she did. All those gruesome murders.”
Moody had to admit that he was intrigued. If she was telling the truth, the opportunity for science to get a look at the brain of such a person would be invaluable.
He took her home and as they entered his library, she dropped her basket of flowers to the floor. “My lord!” She exclaimed. “What a bounty of books you have. I have never seen so many books. Have you read them all?”
“Yes, some more than once,” he said. “Some more times than I can remember.”
“What a way to live,” she said to no one.
A tall, brawny butler in a tuxedo entered with a tray that had two glasses and a wine bottle.
“This is usually when I take my wine in the evening,” Moody started, “Will you join me?”
“Just a little maybe,” Niamh said.
“Sit.” Moody motioned to a chair on the other side of his desk with his hand.
The butler smoothly poured the wine, left the bottle, and exited with the tray. He never spoke a word and Moody only nodded to him when he was finished pouring the wine. Moody watched Niamh for a moment, studying her expression and body language. Could she be telling the truth? Was The Gentleman Killer really a woman? Was that woman really her mother? Time would tell, he supposed. He knew her type could never keep their stories straight when weaving a tale of lies. She looked around the room nervously, she was out of her element. She held so tightly to the wine glass in her hands that her knuckles turned white.
“Tell me about your mother,” he said to her.
“Right,” she turned back to him and took a deep breath. “I first met her when I was at Kincaid’s Orphan Asylum for Girls…”
