[sylvanSpider]

Miss Emily Barker and Miss Rosamund Mills resumed their places in front of the fire, Barker with her book and Mills with her stitching. Little was said from one to the other, both having taken note of William's change of character this evening. It was true that as per usual Rosamund had had to swat William off of her charge, but the man was pale. Sick. His demeanor had changed completely since visiting Ms. Ward. Other feminine domestics might have done him the not so grand favor of automatically assuming that an affair was in the works of starting, but no. It was not guilt that plagued the young man's face. It was something else entirely. It was fear. Unease.

As she looked up from her stitching long enough to look upon her charge's face, she could see that she saw just as she herself did. Her brow was furrowed replacing the lazy, lackluster grin that she wore reading the same book of poetry from before. No, her mind was also on William. “My dear,” she began, finally breaking the silence between the two of them and pausing long enough for Emily to look up from her book, “What do you say to the both of us catching some shut eye? We can go and visit Mr. Shaw tomorrow to make sure that he is doing alright. The poor man looked as though he was catching ill, but don't fret. My brother went into medicine, he was trained in Paris. If Mr. Shaw is sick, I will send for him. He owes me a favor.”

Emily sighed, shutting the book and placing it neatly on her lap, “I think that may be the best course of action. You don't think Ms. Ward caused whatever this is?”

“Don't be preposterous, dear. Ms. Ward is just a poor widow who has too many rumours flying about her. No, I think Mr. Shaw can be fixed with a good doctor and some good medicine. But come,” Rosamund replied, setting her stitching aside and getting to her feet, holding out her hand to aid her charge up. “Let's get some shut eye. You can ring for me should you need me.”

With that, the women retreated to their own rooms, sleeping, however fitfully, until the morning.

=--=--=

Simon Wegg had seen many morgues set up in this exact fashion with similar but different corpses in front of him. Again, there were a host of onlookers, and in his gloved hands he held a scalpel wishing this host would back up and give him some room. “Now, the autopsy will not take long as I believe I already know what the cause of this is.” There was a murmur through the crowd, which Simon effectively ignored, and he took the corpse's hand moving it so her wrist was up. “All I need to know from this is to be sure that this woman was completely drained of blood.”

As he uttered the last syllable, he drug the blade of the scalpel down the woman's wrist. The skin parted like the Red Sea for the Israelites—minus the red. No blood came up through the surface, only some pink of the wrist's flesh could be seen through the skin's crevice. “As I thought...” There was another murmur in the crowd and one of the men chimed in louder than the rest:

“Is this the work of a serial killer, Wegg?”

Simon shook his head, his eyes staying on the splayed open wrist, “No. No, this is something far more ominous. Do not fear though. I will take care of it. The investigation begins tomorrow morning. I will find the fiend and gain justice for Mr. and Mrs. Thomas.”