Living in Mrs. Beasley's house provides wonderful opportunities. The other guests stay to themselves mostly. Except Marx. He is a snotty little man with big world ideas. I don't agree with any of them. I don't believe in a class war. It would interfere with my own activities. He is a very nosy individual. Every time I open my door he seems to be standing in the halls, listening. At the dinner table he is almost always writing in his little book.
Mrs. Beasley seems very much in awe of this ridiculous little man. She laughs at his dense jokes. Interested in every word he utters.
I'm sorry Mrs. Beasley, I can not have competition for your affections.
Mrs. Beasley would be upset if she knew what I did. I let myself into Marx room. That's the very reason I keep mine locked. It was cold and smelled of soiled linen. His room was littered with books, none of which were on a shelf. Books are a waste of time, unless you read Sherlock Holmes. Murder is always entertaining. What I saw next made me go red.
Marx had his own little hole to Mrs. Beasley's room.
Oh, yes. It was time for him to make his exit.
I waited until nine, which is when Marx goes out to the pub. I donned my costume of black pork pie hat, black scarf wrapped around the lower part of my face; and of course my black goat hair coat. I didn't want anyone to recognize me. I slipped my pearl handled knife in my coat pocket. I was ready for the newspapers to print their next BLACK RIPPER story.
I followed Marx down a street past the banks and shops. It seemed we traveled far to reach a pub. That was when I realized he was leading me on a wild goose chase. We ended up at a bridge. He stopped, looked over, dropped a few books over the edge into the river below.
What was his game?
“Oh, Mrs. Beasley....you'll never know how much I love you....”
Then the bugger jumped!
I turned to make sure no one heard his screams as he leaped to his death. I was dumbfounded. What the hell? I heard police whistles. Heels on the cobblestone. I did the only thing I could do. I ran.
I ran all the way to Mrs. Beasley’s home. I went to my room and stayed to myself the rest of the night. I heard Mrs. Beasley rummaging in her room. I couldn't resist. I removed the painting of Queen Victoria. Through my little hole I watched Mrs. Beasley dress for bed.
Just ripe for the picking.
There was a knock on her door. She opened it and let a large brutish man inside. I believe he fixes things around the house. They kissed. She took him by the hand to her bed.
“It worked,” The man said. “Those love letters to Marx....then the kiss off letter.”
“He gave me the envelope of the rest of his money he earned from the publishers. I found it slipped under my door earlier. The fool!”
I couldn't resist watching them. I hate him, the large man. But Mrs. Beasley . What luck. A woman after my own heart, the murderous bitch.