The Black Rose Killer
Lorient Montaner
I am accustomed to recalling, in my retentive memory, the diversified cases I have had in my illustrious profession, and several have transcended the mere notion of common logic that is usually applied. There are, therefore, those unexpected cases that defy the fundamental precepts of any preconceived rationalisation and are founded on the elements of unbridled passion alone.
What must be concluded is that, despite the fact that all crimes or murders are perpetuated through a discernible pattern of deviance and malice, the criminals, on the other hand, are vulpine in nature, employing multitudinous forms of duplicity. I know of momentous occasions when the notorious murderer tends to supersede the fame of the criminal act committed, acquiring recognition willingly yet remaining brash in a surreptitious recidivism. This particular case, which was dubbed 'The Black Rose Widow Killer', was one of those aforementioned instances.
My name, you wonder, is Jack Cauvain, a punctilious chief inspector, and this case would take me to the farthest corner of the British Empire. It would require the highest form of acute perception and sapience, that could be construed as supererogatory. It was an early midday in the spring of the year 1896 when I arrived at the city of Melbourne, Australia. Melbourne was located in the south-eastern part of mainland Australia, within the area of Victoria.
I had arrived at Southern Cross Railway Station on Spencer Street, between Collins and La Trobe, on the western edge of the central business districts, which were plentiful. The country was affected by the economic depression of the 1890s and the banking crisis of 1893.
I was in Australia to assist in the development of the local police force of Sydney, when I was informed by one of the constables of my immediate participation in solving an ongoing case of murders that had remained insoluble in Melbourne. I had been in Australia for a week and had not seen much of the country, except for a few casual and transient glimpses of the picturesque countryside, with its broad and colourful landscape.
After my arrival, I was taken in a hansom cab to the Victoria Police Headquarters on Mackenzie Street to meet a certain Captain James Clapperton and my fellow assistant, Officer Malcolm Brunswick. Once at the Police Headquarters, I was promptly apprised of the significant details of the case.
‘It is admirable to see the outstanding sedulity of the Victoria Police of Melbourne in person, and I do not doubt the diligence demonstrated. I shall gladly offer my expertise and experience to the case and display my absolute resolution in solving the murders that are disconcerting the inhabitants of the city and elsewhere’, I said.
‘Inspector Cauvain, it is a pleasure and honour to have your involvement in this case, and we of the Victoria Police of Melbourne are prepared to facilitate you in whatever manner feasible, sir. I can attest that Officer Brunswick will be effective in assisting you to apprehend the murderer’, Captain Clapperton responded.
‘Good. Now, Captain Clapperton, what is important is that we head towards the recent crime scene, so that we can attempt to calculate with a measure of accuracy the succession of events, not intimating a mere supposition’.
‘Of course!’
We departed the Police Station and went to the crime scene, which was not the typical crime scene I was familiar with from my prior investigations. The murder, as with the other three murders I was told of, had occurred on a train. At first, I had thought that the murders had been committed at the train station or near the railway, but much to my amazement they had been perpetrated aboard the train, and the bodies had been disposed of discreetly on the railway tracks.
The murder had occurred at Flinders Street Railway Station, on the corner of Flinders and Swanston Street, which extended to Queen Street. From what I was told, the railway line was originally used for freight trains until 1894, when passengers were finally allowed, and the first platform was completed for suburban trains from Essendon and Williamstown. In that year, the active inhabitants of the city began to use the railway consistently.
Along the way to the train station, I contemplated the fascinating details of the case and the ambiguity surrounding the criminal’s profile. This was a matter of vital importance, something I shared with the officers, particularly Officer Brunswick. Once there, the circumstantial evidence was discussed, as were hypothetical contingencies.
‘From what I comprehend of the informative details you have expounded, Brunswick, the body of the victim was discovered by the tracks of the railway, but the murder was supposedly committed aboard the train. Is that not so?’
‘That is true. The murder, as with the previous murders, occurred inside the train, not outside’, Brunswick responded.
‘Thence, we are to conclude, based on this inference, that the murderer had chosen this method of murder for the implementation of its cause and effect’.
‘I would concur with that analogy, but there is one thing that puzzles me. Why leave behind a black thorny rose?’
‘Yes, I almost forgot that singular object, and I must confess that it baffled me in the beginning. But through my intuitive and reliable disposition and experience, I have deduced efficaciously the signification of this black thorny rose. You see, I have dealt before with elaborate cases such as this one, where the murderer has the irrepressible inclination to leave behind a token of their dastardly deed. What I have determined is that these visible objects serve as ghastly reminders of the maniacal purpose of their concentrative objective’.
‘If I may enquire, what is the reason for this particular usage of a black rose, since it is synonymous with death?’ Brunswick asked with intrigue.
‘Exactly! The black rose is fairly well known for its lethal connotation. The inducement may appear obvious in its composition, but there are several intimations to the black rose. It can signify that we are dealing with a sophisticated murderer, who could be either a woman or a man in physiognomy, or a calculative murderer attempting to confound us deliberately’, I admitted.
The black rose was perhaps an implicative indicator of the killer's scheme or tactic, and it was highly reminiscent of other noticeable cases that bore haunting vestiges of the murderer’s intention and presence. The lingering thought in my mind was the association of the victims with the uninhibited murderer.
Unfortunately, there was not much evidence to denote any probable link to the murderer with the recent deaths, except some unidentified footprints imprinted by the soles of the culprit’s shoes. Therefore, the only credible information was the deposition of Mr Donnellan, a witness who had seen a suspicious person descending the train shortly after the murder was committed. Mr Donnellan was the ticket collector working at that hour of the night, and he mentioned the stranger disembarking the train mysteriously.
After conversing with him, I realised that the description he provided was extremely vague and lacking in detail to be of substantial pertinence. Thus, it was inconclusive and insufficient to form a concrete surmisal, but it did offer me a constructive reflection to contemplate at length the meaning of the thorny black rose.
I had Officer Brunswick escort me to the Federal Coffee Palace, a grand hotel where I would lodge during my sojourn in Melbourne, whilst Captain Clapperton remained behind at the crime scene. After registering at the hotel, we left for headquarters to discuss the case in privacy. There was much to analyse and we needed to form a coherent assumption that was more than a mere theoretical meditation. We had to find an effective method to prevent another murder and to apprehend the murderer as soon as possible.
Consequently, we increased vigilance around the various train stations in the city, knowing that the murders had been committed within that vicinity. It was also crucial that we had several officers on board the trains, for precautionary purposes. We could not be stupefied by the growing apprehension that was beginning to consume the public.
Captain Clapperton and Officer Brunswick were sanguine that my proposition to catch the criminal would ultimately lead to an arrest, but I was still left in something of a dilemma, wondering about the profile of the murderer and the black thorny rose. I had one of the officers enquire at the local flower shops for any possible purchases of these particular roses, and whether they were abundantly sold in the city. Much to my amazement, I learnt after speaking to one of these officers that the black rose had become a fascination for widows of fallen husbands.
When I asked the officer for clarification, he explained that many Victorian women of lofty status in Melbourne society had started to purchase these black roses as an honourable dedication to their deceased beloved husbands. I had heard of strange attachments to cult activities many times before in England, but there was something indeed very equivocal about this oddity that bore a patent distinction in nature.
Regardless of that curious detail, I needed the facts to be accrued enough to permit me to proceed with logical and remediable assurance. I asked one of the officers who had visited the local flower shops to compile a list of the recent purchasers of such black thorny roses, like those used by the murderer.
The fact that the murders had taken place on a train was disturbing, but I remembered a similar case in New York several decades ago. The murderer in that specific case was apprehended afterwards and found incompetent to stand trial for his atrocious crimes.
The method of the murders in that case was analogous to the current case in Australia. It was a stark comparison of ironic similitude, and one I pondered considerably—except that the murderer in New York was far more brutal in the execution of his crimes.
One of the officers I had instructed to bring me a list of the daily stops of the trains from the city’s stations returned, and I was able to peruse the names of every stop. The trajectory of the train from the last murder at Southern Cross Railway Station continued on to Lilydale, Belgrave, Cranbourne, Alamein, Glen Waverley, Sandringham, East Richmond, amongst other places.
After further deliberation, I suggested that we place several officers aboard the train, disguised in ordinary attire to appear inconspicuous. My immediate concern was whether the murderer would suspect our tactics and avoid taking the train. The other concern was preventing the murderer from escaping once aboard. At the train station we began to prepare ourselves for the night ahead.
‘If my calculations are proven unerring, then we shall be face to face with our murderer soon', I said.
‘What if the culprit is evasive enough to elude our capture, Inspector?’ Brunswick asked.
‘Then we shall have to be more efficient in our application of introspection, Brunswick’.
‘I understand, and I wanted to inform you that the officers outside the train and on board are fully prepared and in position’.
‘Good, then let us put our plan into effect. I shall be in position near the train entrance, whilst you wait at the point of departure’.
‘Of course! I shall notify Baumgardner and Yarbrough, who are aboard the train, to begin the process of vigilance at once.’
That night the murderer would prove to be superiorly evasive, and the situation would embrangle me in ways I would not fully recognise without a consectary purview of my efforts. It would become a more inextricable predicament to resolve, and the case would require empirical evidence to support my argument on the pattern of the murders.
The night was considerably eerie and dark, as the first individuals boarded the train. I noticed that the number of passengers was fewer than usual, which I suspected was naturally attributed to the developing murders.
Several hours elapsed before the last hour for passengers to board a train out of Melbourne. I was becoming impatient by the hour, and there were no tidings of the murderer nor any reported incident yet. It appeared that the strict vigilance we had enforced had dissuaded or intimidated the killer from committing another heinous act of death. But that would not be the case, and another murder would soon occur, causing us to focus our total attention on resolving the matter forthwith. At around 10 o’clock or so, the murderer struck again, and the unfortunate victim was a local clerk from the city.
Apparently, from the facts that were gleaned, the murder had occurred during the trip, and the victim was found, as with the prior victims, with his throat slashed. It appeared that the killer had meticulously chosen this victim because of the area in which the man was seated. I divulge this suspicion because it was a place of indistinct light, where the officers were impeded by the obstruction of visibility.
What was not obvious to me was the reason for the selection of this man, but I knew that this could be disclosed with more investigative effort. The apposable facts, which were extremely apposite to the case, would corroborate that opinion and feasibility. It was a daring but ineffective vigilance, since the murderer had killed again and was not apprehended as I had initially planned. In the end, the only retrievable clue was the familiar thorny black rose that was left behind by the ingenuous murderer at first, until I began to examine the crime scene. There was much to consider from the horrendous murder, and the generality of our procedure dictated the definite course of the investigation.
As was my wont, I had always carried in my waistcoat the fob of my pocket watch, to base the hour of my inspection. My thoughts had begun to deduce a certain pattern that was manifest and reinforced by the gradual process of time. We were inside the eerie compartment where the crime had happened and began to discuss the murder.
‘It is clear that we are dealing with more than a crafty criminal, but a determined individual, whose mind may seem maniacal in nature. To me, this individual demonstrates the manipulative pattern of a murderer, with one exception, Brunswick’, I stated.
‘What is that exception, inspector, if I may query?’ Brunswick had asked me.
‘The most elemental of all: the murderer was not precipitous in the escape. You see, there is a repetitive need to kill, always, in murderers, and this appetency for adventure and justification compels them to avoid detection. Of course, there are always those criminals who seek attention and publicity in their devious acts, but I do not believe this peculiar killer is seeking to be caught so easily’.
‘How do you know that?’
‘In the modus operandi, and I shall not be exaggerative in my exposition. I thought at first, if we could only find a soupçon of probative proof to connect the consecution of events unfolding, then the narrative of the crime would cease to be haunted by a subtle aperçu that would no longer remain inexplicable and monitory, such as the thorny black rose. I believe I have found that remarkable soupçon. Look at this torn piece of a black velvet dress that is hanging out of the seat of the victim who was murdered, and you will see that the bloodstain is fresh, and another thing that is more important’, I said, before Brunswick interrupted me.
‘A torn piece of a black velvet dress, you say?’
‘The piece of the garment appears to be a dress of a woman, if I am not mistaken in my analysis. It was torn as the murderer escaped, but what you did not allow me to finish or demonstrate was a strand of long dark hair hanging from the seat that denotes the texture of a woman's hair, if you touch it as I have done with a pair of gloves. Now, this can only mean two possibilities: the strand of long black hair pertained to the man who was killed, or, as I suspect, the actual killer, who is probably a female. I shall not refute the full extent of the facts of the case with mere sophistry, unless there is further proof to convince me otherwise of my assumption; moreover, the pattern of the murders is not incompossible to the succession of the events progressing. The solubility is no longer in the exactitude of the precise hour of the murder, but the involution lies in the predicative pretension of the incident itself’.
‘Then if I understand you, inspector, you are speaking of the connivance of the murderer?’
‘Indeed, my good man’.
We left Southern Cross Railway Station, where once more the murder was committed, not before we learnt the destination and name of the victim who was murdered. His name was Joseph Beale, a well-established tailor originally from Sydney, and his destination was Sandringham. I was still not absolutely certain why he was chosen as the victim, nor of this appersonation of the killer that had led to an imposition that lacked any plausible accordance with the profile of the image of the culprit I had before. All I knew was based on mere conjectures of induction, and that poor Mr Beale had a regrettable encounter with the murderer.
There was another piece of evidence that would dispute any possible paralogism to the truth of the facts, and that was something I had not heeded previously, despite its quintessential implication. The murderer had made the distinction of being considerate or deliberate in the execution of every murder. I was so occupied with the thorny black rose that I had missed that important detail in my oversight.
Even though the murder was heinous in the manner it was accomplished, the killer did not exceed the necessary force to murder. This involuted experience of capturing with noesis the intention of the murderer, who presently had not divagated much from the final intention of the agenda that was sought, had not substantively allowed me to improvise in my duties.
The following morning, whilst at the headquarters of Victoria Police, a woman by the name of Mrs Holmwood entered the building to offer us what would be, at that moment, the most notable clue that we had. Apparently, Mrs Holmwood had been at the train station shortly before the crime was committed and had seen a particular woman dressed in complete black, with a veil covering her face.
When I asked her if she could describe her features, she told me that she was of average height and of average constitution. Perhaps that was not the empirical evidence that was needed, but it did offer me a valid point of a corollary upon which I could investigate.
There was another odd but possible lead: a card that was left behind by this mysterious woman. It was most likely dropped by the woman, and had the name of a flower shop in Melbourne. The name of the flower shop was ‘Buslingthorpe Blossoms,’ and I could only imagine the potential significance of this intimation.
The approach of Brunswick was peirastic, but I was more logical and had a provisory doubt that required more substantial evidence. There was not much more that Mrs Holmwood could give me in the way of proof, and I thanked her for the informative disclosure of the card and the description of the strange woman dressed in mournful attire. If, with this lead, I discovered a piece of evidence that connoted the identity of the murderer, naturally it would be more reflective of my consuetudes as much as my prospections willingly.
After speaking to Mrs Holmwood, I proceeded to head towards the flower shop mentioned on the card. I met a distinguished aristocratic woman by the name of Lady Helen Buslingthorpe, who was the proprietor of the flower shop. She was an amiable woman in her propriety, and her appearance I shall attempt to describe as accurately as possible. She was average in height and weight, and her hair was fair, as was her complexion. She was perhaps in her mid-thirties and seemed to be from a prominent background. I have met many women before of couth and wit, but Lady Buslingthorpe would be a woman like no other. I presented myself to her with the utmost courtesy.
‘Good afternoon, Lady Buslingthorpe. I am Chief Inspector Jack Cauvain. I hope I am not disturbing you—I wished to converse with you about a private matter’.
‘Good day, Inspector. How may I be of service to you, sir?’ She asked.
‘I was wondering if you might answer several questions. I assure you, I shall be as prompt and direct as possible’,
‘Questions, you say? What sort of questions?’ She pressed.
‘Well, to be frank—’
‘Lady Buslingthorpe’, she interrupted firmly. ‘Although I am a widow, I much prefer to be addressed as Lady Buslingthorpe rather than “my lady'.
‘I must say, I am something of a lover of surnames, and yours is quite uncommon. I have seldom encountered it in England. But as I was saying, Lady Buslingthorpe, I came here to enquire whether your shop has recently sold a significant quantity of black thorny roses, and whether it is usual for such roses to be sold and seen so frequently across the city’.
‘Your language is rather uncommon in these parts,’ she noted. ‘As for the black thorny rose, it evokes sentiments of mystery, peril, or some darker emotion—melancholy, or perhaps compulsive love. Though to me, compulsive love is better described as tainted love.’ She hesitated before continuing. ‘I am certain even an Englishman such as yourself, inspector, is aware of the growing phenomenon known as the Victorian cult of mourning’.
‘The Victorian cult of mourning, you say?’ I admitted. ‘I confess I am only acquainted with the rudimentary meaning of this... curious cult. Might you enlighten me further?’
She replied calmly, ‘Unfortunately, I am no expert on the matter, and I should not wish to appear an ultracrepidarian. But if I may be of further service, I suggest you visit the Melbourne Museum, located within the city block bordered by La Trobe, Swanston, Little Lonsdale and Russell Streets. There you will find all the pertinent information on the Victorian cult of mourning’.
‘I shall keep that in mind. But now, I must take my leave’.
‘Do return!’ She said warmly. ‘It is not often I meet a man of your distinction. Your classic bowler hat and long sideburns mark your unmistakable style. Might you have time tonight to join me as my guest at the theatre? The theatres and museums here offer a remarkable mix of art. I was told you enjoy the theatre—do you not, inspector?’
‘I must confess, I was unaware my private inclinations were so widely known in these parts’, I said with a faint smile.
‘Your reputation precedes you, inspector. But you have not answered my question’, she persisted.
‘In all honesty, I am afraid that at present, I cannot afford to indulge in any leisure that might distract me from the case I am working on’.
‘You must have had an interesting childhood’, she mused.
‘My childhood was perhaps no different than others. I was born in the Bailiwick of Jersey—or Baillage de Jèrri—in the Channel Islands, where my father was also born. My given name was Jacques Cauvain, but upon moving to London as a boy, it was shortened to Jack. My beloved mother hailed from Andalusia in Spain, and she raised and educated me with great devotion’.
‘That is a fascinating history’, she remarked.
‘I wish I had time to speak more of it, Lady Buslingthorpe, but I must take my leave now’.
She understood, though I caught a powerful, lingering gaze in her eyes—a look that seemed to exert a persuasive and feminine command over men, and it held me momentarily spellbound. She was indeed a striking sight, her features arresting and singular. Once I had shaken off that momentary trance, I made my way to the Melbourne Museum to investigate the mysterious cult of mourning.
There, I discovered a trove of volumes detailing this macabre fascination. The contents were indeed disturbing yet profoundly descriptive. Victorian society, it seemed, had enforced a strict protocol for the observance of death-related rituals—a ritual that had taken firm root with Queen Victoria herself, following the death of her beloved husband, Prince Consort Albert, in 1861.
This manner of death was mortalised, by contemporary literature and the arts. Burial and commemoration ceremonies were dire tokens of remembrance of the dead that had included items of jewelry and keepsakes in the tombs. The thistle was a reminder for the Scottish, the shamrock for the Irish, and the rose for the English.
They were clearly the symbols of death, and in respect to the dead, the drapes were drawn and clocks were stopped at the time of death. Mirrors were covered, due to the superstition that the spirit of the deceased could become trapped, within the reflective glass. The draped urns, broken columns, extinguishing torches were used to represent the frailty of human life in bereavement.
In order to understand this process more at length, I made the conscious decision to visit the funeral procession of one of the recent victims of the black rose widow. When I had reached the procession, I saw the horses of the hearse that were fitted with black and silver trappings, and a laurel wreath was placed on top of the hearse as it gradually passed by.
The clergyman had entered a carriage, which headed the procession, and the coffin was placed inside the hearse. Beside the hearse, there were the six bearers with three on each side of the hearse and a carriage following the relatives behind attentively.
The hearse was draped in dark with black plumes, as mourners wore black for the symbolic of spiritual murk. The dresses of the women were made of non-reflective paramatta silk or the inexpensive known bombazine, and they were equally trimmed with a conspicuous crape. The embodiment of this process, were the images that had preceded the memorable dirge.
I had seen enough to convince me that the issue of death was complex in nature, and sadly attached to the evolution of this case. It also had stirred my awareness and resolution that I had pondered the limits of extrapolative extrasensory perception. I had returned to the headquarters of the Victoria Police. There I began to converse with Captain Clapperton and Officer Brunswick, as they had listened.
'Brunswick, you would not believe me, if I told you that death is an expostulatory provocation, within an explicable occurrence. It may confound you, and overcome you with the horror seen, but it is nothing more than a farrago of fact and legend that has been hyperbolic in its abundance', I said.
'I am afraid I don’t understand your point inspector!' Brunswick uttered.
'It is fundamental. You see, we have wanted to grasp the unfolding events and the profile of the killer, but we have failed miserably in that endeavour'.
'I am afraid I still don’t understand!' Brunswick had reiterated.
'I too inspector don’t follow', Captain Clapperton replied.
'I shall expound in the simplest manner. The killer has been attempting to cozen us to believe that the train station is the central factor to these murders, when it is only a fraction of the deception. You see my good fellows the murderer has been deceiving us, from the beginning', I stated.
'What do we do next then?' Brunswick enquired.
'We trap the killer!' I answered.
'How do we exactly do that?' Clapperton had asked.
'By checking every passenger who will board the train or had boarded the train already, at either train station in the city', I explained.
I had instructed Brunswick to keep the stern vigilance at the train station, and Captain Clapperton had enquired about imposing a curfew on the residents of the city. I did not believe that enforcing a curfew on the city was necessary, because the murders were committed aboard the train, and not amongst the random populace.
I had in my hand a list, finally, of the purchasers of the black roses, not only purchased in the store of Lady Buslingthorpe, but from the other stores as well, whilst I had Brunswick peruse the list of the past and present passengers of the train stations within Melbourne. There was not much to be deciphered from the list of the flower shops at that moment, but what I did find curious was the passenger's list.
There was reportedly one particular incident where a passenger had forgotten their train ticket, but was allowed to proceed with the trip by the ticket collector. It was no doubt our killer, and the indicative intimation was that it transpired on the day that Mr Beale had been murdered, when the mysterious card was found by Mrs Holmwood afterwards. Yes, the same card that had the name of Buslingthorpe Blossoms, and that was in itself perhaps more than circumstantial.
Thus, I told Brunswick to send one of the officers to the flower shop of Lady Buslingthorpe, whilst I, along with Brunswick, had left the headquarters at Mackenzie Street and headed towards the train station at Southern Cross Railway Station on Spencer Street. Meanwhile, Captain Clapperton would be at the Flinders Street Railway Station, on the corner of Flinders and Swanston Street. It was extremely important that we encroached on the murderer’s obstinate determination to execute the ghastly deed.
I could not help but ponder in the depth of my mind if this coincidence of the mysterious passenger who was permitted by the ticket collector to proceed did not correspond only to the profile of the killer, but to the pattern used by that killer as well. I was absolutely convinced then that the murderer had deluded us from the very beginning. The identity of the killer had not been resolved, and that was lingering importunately. The notion of a woman being the culprit seemed more possible with each revealing detail.
First, there was the illustrative black veil and dress, then there was the haunting thorny black rose that was discovered at every murder committed. The daunting image of the darkled rose had begun to occupy my thoughts, and for a brief interval of time, I had connected the face of the murderer with the beautiful Lady Buslingthorpe. There was not sufficient evidence to suggest concretely that conclusion, and the suspect was at large.
The case had evolved to the point where it would require my careful perception and action to confirm my postulate. I knew that it would be too noticeable and a risky manoeuvre if I had continued to question forthright Lady Buslingthorpe in person.
Therefore, I waited for the officer that I had instructed to speak to her, to divulge me of any applicable evidence. The gender of the killer was still considered a mystery, and any descriptive appearance stated on paper was merely suppositional. In order to propound my theory, I had to concoct a plan to prove or disprove any discernible affirmation of Lady Buslingthorpe's possible involvement in the murders. I had remembered her gracious invitation to the theatre, and I sensed that this would be the opportunity for me to efface any vacillating doubt I had of her.
When the officer had returned, I scrutinised the names on that list and had the officers assembled to investigate these individuals in surveillance, whilst I visited Lady Buslingthorpe at her home. Her residence was a palatial mansion, amongst the luxurious terrace houses in Melbourne that had luxuriant foliage in the garden nearby. She was surprised to see me at her house, but was pleased with my visit.
When she enquired if my visit was of official business or of leisure time, I made known my intentions. I told her that I had accepted her kind invitation to the theatre. Then she asked me why I had changed my opinion. I told her that I could not let the opportunity pass, as an Englishman, of not seeing Shakespeare's play 'King Lear', which was playing at the Princess Theatre on the East End Theatre District of Spring Street. She was delighted and had agreed to join me that night at the theatre. I did not suspect that she was suspicious of my devisement, but she was indeed a very perceptible woman, who could not be so easily deceived, with a combination of inscrutable events.
That night, whilst I was at the theatre with Lady Buslingthorpe, the captain and the other officers were executing the plan we had originated, for the capture of the black rose widow killer. Once at the theatre, we sat down in our seats and waited for the play to commence. During the whole time at the theatre, not once did she react in an unconventional manner. Instead, she was immovable and entertained. I, on the other hand, was more concentrative and observant, although I had tried to maintain my observance of her discreetly.
The reason I had accompanied her to the theatre was not only to prove or disprove my theory of her being the likely black rose widow killer, but it would allow me to determine the time period of the night. This was extremely important because if she was with me, then that meant she was not the killer. Even if there was no murder on that night, then she was still a suspect of great interest.
I was aware of the strong depiction of the gradual descent into madness of the main character in the play, but I did not truly perceive her to be taciturn and morose completely about the play. On the contrary, I thought she was more adamant and talkative about the fripperies of the play when the performance had finished afterwards. The night would only begin to intensify in absolute suspense, as Brunswick had located me and informed me that there was another murder committed. I excused myself from Lady Buslingthorpe to speak to Brunswick. This time, the murder had occurred at the Flinders Street Viaduct, a railway bridge.
‘The Flinders Street Viaduct, you say, Brunswick? Is that not a railway bridge?’ I asked him.
‘Yes, inspector. That is correct!’ Brunswick replied.
‘Good God, then am I to assume that the killer has escaped?’
‘No, the murderer is dead!’ He affirmed.
‘Dead? How?’
‘Apparently, the man, who was dressed in a black dress and black veil, leapt out of the train, and somehow the garment became entangled with the exit door. As we attempted to seize him, he fell under the train, and his torso was immediately severed’, Brunswick stated.
‘A man, you said? He was dressed in a black dress and black veil? Then what you are affirming is of a very serious nature’.
‘Yes, I know that, inspector, but we believe that our killer was this man. Yes, it is true that it was thought the killer was a woman, but the man’s slight frailty matches the description given by the witnesses’.
‘Then let us go to the train station at once, but not before I excuse myself from Lady Buslingthorpe’.
I had noticed that when I spoke to her, she was keenly attentive to my conversation with Brunswick and commented, ‘You seem a bit odd since the play ended, Inspector. Your pensive look suggests your mind is elsewhere. I do hope I was not interfering with your duties in the case!’
‘Not at all, my lady. If you will excuse me, I’m afraid I shall not be escorting you to your mansion. I shall have one of the officers accompany you home,’ I told her.
When I arrived at the crime scene, the bloodied walls were heavy with the pungency of death. The evidence of the murder was smeared in the sable shade of night, tainted with blood. It was a gruesome image of death, and the victim, covered with a blanket, appeared to have been badly beaten with a cudgel.
I noticed this and was confounded, but at the same time convinced that this murder was not the work of the Black Rose Widow killer. The modus operandi did not match in either pattern or cruelty. I did not wish to undermine Brunswick’s investigative efforts, but it was my duty to inform him of the stark contrast in method.
Once I pointed this out to him, he quickly realised the obvious and undeniable distinction. If this man was not the killer, then I wondered—who was? I quickly told Brunswick not to identify the dead man as the culprit—for it was of great interest to the case that we keep public attention on him and allow rumours to circulate in the local newspapers. Reporters were everywhere, and it was impossible to disperse them, because the supposed murderer of that night lay dead under the bridge, covered in thick pools of blood.
It was then, as I stood before the train, that I saw the lucent glow from the station lights and contemplated that natural illumination. I knew then the true pattern of the killer and immediately instructed Brunswick not to mention anything that would disprove the dead man’s involvement as the Black Rose Widow killer.
When he asked why, I told him that it would not be beneficial to acknowledge that this man was not the true killer, because the real murderer was still at large. Brunswick agreed, and we left the train station, returning to Victoria Police headquarters.
The next morning, one of the officers identified the man from the previous night as Mr Paul Derrington, a local from Melbourne. What was paramount was the fact that he had been mistakenly released from Melbourne Gaol.
The gaol was a bluestone building and courtyard next to the police watch-house and city court. It had a north wing, central hall and chapel, all surrounded by a perimeter wall. There we spoke to the chief warder, Mr Anderson, who informed us that the man had been a prisoner but was mentally incapacitated, suffering from acute madness.
What was interesting was the fact that his wife came by every day to visit him, and oddly enough, our visit coincided with hers. I assumed the widow had come to speak to the warder about her husband’s death. Of the wife of the deceased madman, I can say only that I noticed her repetitive, nonsensical speech, which denoted symptoms of lunacy.
She left, but not before offering a harsh warning that I should beware of the women I associated with. I paid little attention, thinking she was in the throes of grief for her late husband. I was confident enough at that point to dismiss Mr Derrington as the Black Rose Widow killer.
I gathered Captain Clapperton and the others around the table to discuss our newest plan. I did not reveal who the killer was, because I lacked concrete evidence to prove my assumption. What I did tell them was that I was certain this plan would at last lead us to the criminal.
That night, we intended to finally apprehend our elusive quarry. I volunteered to act as bait, and I explained the plan in full detail to the officers involved. The plan was as follows: I would board the train incognito and sit in one of the rear compartment seats, while Officer Brunswick positioned himself in the front compartment, and Captain Clapperton remained in the middle compartments.
We had determined that the murderer tended to strike in the front or rear compartments, where visibility was poor and there were fewer passengers. Officers were stationed at other train stations as well. The murderer also seemed to know precisely when the ticket collector made his rounds. It would be reported in the newspapers that the case was solved and I was returning to England.
Everything went according to plan, and we were all in position. The passengers boarded, and the train departed. The murders, it appeared, were typically committed at the hour when the train was not crowded. At approximately 10.15 p.m., a mysterious woman rose from her seat and walked past me. She was dressed normally, and there was nothing to indicate she was the killer—until I noticed the soles of her shoes, which exactly matched the footprints found at the scene of the first murder I had investigated.
The train had reached a point of poor lighting, and the view was dim and gloomy. As I watched, another woman passed by me, and it was none other than Lady Buslingthorpe. For some intuitive reason, I got up and followed them both. They appeared to be heading towards the ladies’ lavatory.
As I approached, I heard a loud scuffle, and a woman swiftly opened the door and attempted to flee. She was dressed in all black, with a veil covering her face. Her black dress was made of scratchy silk with a peculiar, crimped appearance. I saw another woman lying on the floor in a pool of blood.
It was Lady Buslingthorpe, barely conscious. The woman in black held a long, sharp butcher’s knife, and we grappled until I wrested the knife from her and knocked her to the ground. When she rose to her feet, it was too late—the commotion had alerted the passengers and the others.
When Officer Brunswick and Captain Clapperton arrived, I lifted the woman’s veil and saw that it was Mrs Derrington, the widow. She was the Black Rose Widow killer, and she was arrested and taken into custody. It was by sheer coincidence that Lady Buslingthorpe was attacked that night; the likely reason was that she had seen the murderer. The intended victim was someone else aboard the train, and, fortunately, he was unharmed.
It was finally over, and this incredible case was solved by the Victoria Police of Melbourne—and, naturally, by me, a conscientious inspector from London. As for the facts, I can relate that Mrs Derrington’s murderous spree was driven not only by madness but by a desire for vengeful retribution against the jurors who had condemned her husband. The infamous black thorny rose was used as a distraction, but it had become her signature.
As for Lady Buslingthorpe, she was not seriously injured and recovered well from her minor wounds. She thanked me for saving her life, and once she had recuperated, I invited her to the theatre.
This time, we saw and enjoyed Macbeth by Shakespeare. I learnt she was a culturally astute woman who spoke her mind freely. Her insightful remarks were always in contrast to her daring persona and hubris as a woman of style. I could attempt to justify her audacity, but I could not deny that, despite her contradictions, she was a remarkable woman.
It was well past midnight, and the room was silent save for the distant hum of the city outside—soft, restrained, like a heartbeat muffled by distance. I sat at the narrow writing desk in my small hotel room, my eyes fixed on the single black rose that lay beside my notes. Its petals, impossibly dark and perfectly shaped, seemed almost unreal in the dim glow of the desk lamp. I traced its outline with my eyes, again and again, as though by sheer will I might unlock some hidden meaning within it.
The case was over. That was what I kept telling myself.
The files were closed, the reports ready to be handed over, and my departure was scheduled for the next morning. I should have felt relief—perhaps even a measure of pride for seeing it through, for bringing clarity where there had been only confusion. But pride eluded me that night, slipping through my fingers like smoke. All I felt, if I was honest, was a hollow quietness, tinged with something close to unease.
The black rose. Her signature. Mrs. Derrington’s final word in a story that had spiraled far deeper than any of us had anticipated. What had begun as a simple investigation—one more case to tuck under my belt—had become something else entirely. It became a study in vengeance, in grief weaponized and made precise. And in the end, even as the facts laid themselves bare before me, I found no comfort in solving it.
There was something unnerving about a case like this—something that unsettled the foundations of what I did. We detectives prided ourselves on peeling back the layers of mystery, exposing the truth beneath. But this truth…this one had felt different. It had felt like peering into a void. Mrs. Derrington’s motives had been clear enough, and her methods, though elaborate, could be traced and understood. But the black rose? That was something else. That was her poetry, her personal flourish of darkness, a symbol loaded with meaning I could only partially grasp.
At first, I had thought it a simple calling card—a mark left behind to tie the threads of her vendetta together. But no, it was more than that. Each time a black rose appeared, it was like a silent confession, a fragment of her broken soul pressed between petals. She hadn’t just wanted revenge; she had wanted those who wronged her to understand the depth of their betrayal, to feel the weight of what they had done. And somehow, that flower said it all in ways no words could.
I found myself haunted by that idea.
I picked it up then, holding it between my fingers, feeling its delicate texture—velvety, fragile, and yet oddly resilient. It was a strange thing, really. Nature didn’t create black roses. Not truly. They were the product of careful cultivation, or sometimes, mere illusion—a deep crimson so dark it appeared black. A trick of light, of perception.
How fitting that was.
Mrs. Derrington herself had been a trick of perception. To the world, she was grace and elegance, a woman of standing and composure. But beneath that polished surface was a storm—silent, focused, and implacable. When her world shattered, she didn’t crumble; she transformed. She became something colder, something sharper, and ultimately, something unstoppable.
I tried to recall her face then—the exact look in her eyes when I had questioned her, the subtle tightening of her jaw when we had neared the truth. There had always been something guarded in her, something just out of reach. I should have seen it sooner, perhaps. But people like her were skilled at hiding their wounds. Skilled at letting the mask become the face.
And now? Now she was gone—beyond my reach, beyond the law’s grasp. Justice, of a sort, had been served, but it felt incomplete, unsatisfying. The case was solved, but the story… the story lingered.
I placed the rose back down gently, as though afraid to bruise its perfection. My eyes flickered over my notes, the names, the dates, the chain of evidence that had led me here. It was all there, neat and orderly, a closed circle. But outside of those pages, something remained open. Something unresolved.
It was a strange thing, to feel the echo of a case after it was done. Usually, once the pieces fit and the facts were laid bare, the weight lifted from my shoulders. I could move on. But this time, the weight lingered, subtle and insistent. Perhaps because this hadn’t just been about crime—it had been about loss, about love turned into something unrecognizable. And maybe that was why the black rose haunted me so. It was not just a mark of death, but of mourning—an emblem of beauty twisted by pain.
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes for a moment, letting the quiet wash over me. Outside, a siren wailed briefly, then faded into nothing. The world kept turning. Life moved forward, indifferent to the dark poetry we left in our wake.
In the morning, I left Australia. I boarded a plane, returning to London, and stepped into the next case, the next mystery. But I knew that somewhere, in the quieter corners of my mind, this one would remain. A black rose, blooming in the dark.
I wondered, not for the first time that night, if that had been her true victory—not just in enacting her revenge, but in planting something inside me too. A seed of doubt, of reflection, that would grow long after the case had ended.
Perhaps that was the real power of a black rose. Not its beauty, nor its rarity, but its ability to linger—to stain the soul in ways we didn’t expect.
I glanced at it one last time before switching off the lamp. In the darkness, it was swallowed whole, vanishing into the void.
And yet, as I settled into bed and closed my eyes, I knew it was still there.
Waiting.
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