Chapter One

Chapter One

Miss Jessamina Elizabeth Delaney’s desire to become an assassin first arose on her seventeenth birthday, which was in fact the night of her father’s brutal murder. She had not a predilection for murderous impulses in general, nor was there any history of mental illness or violence on even the obscurest branch of her family tree. Nonetheless, when those five police officers came to her door on the night of April 16th, 1880, the first thought that came into her head was “I will find the people who did this, and kill them.”

She did not, as most young girls would do in a situation of this magnitude, cry her pretty little eyes out, nor did she collapse into a heap at her mother’s feet, begging to God to bring her dear father back.

No, she merely thought, “I will find the people who did this, and kill them.”

And she thought this singular thought so often that it consumed her entire being. It was her only thought that would lull her to sleep, the only words she dreamed about, and the first thing she remembered in the morning. Food had lost all taste, music had lost all meaning, and even the books that she had previously been so fond of had blurred into pages of darkness.

Months passed before Jessamina was able a live a seemingly normal life again. She continued to harbor this need for vengeance, but coupled it with a need to seem sane, lest she be locked away in some sort of institution for “hysteria” (a word that Jessamina greatly despised).

Three years after the unfortunate incident, Jessamina sat in her family’s carriage on the way to a funeral, wearing the same dress and veil she wore to her father’s service. And while Jessamina was trying to forget how eerily similar this situation wass, her mother, the widowed Mrs. Eleanora Delaney, did nothing but talk of it.

“To think, Jessamina, that your father’s best friend and most loyal companion, Mr. Wiloughby should be laid to rest three years to the day that your father was!” Mrs. Delaney cried as she elegantly dabbed the corner of her eyes with a silk handkerchief (even when distressed, Eleanora was the epitome of elegance).

“Yes, fancy that.” Jessamina replied.

“What a shame! Indeed, what a shame! After your father died, Mr. Wiloughby was the first -- do you remember that?”

“Yes --”

“The very first to send his condolences! And not by card or carrier, but in person! Not hours after we had received the news ourselves! And since then, every week he has called on our family and sat down with us for Sunday supper. Why, having him in the room nearly made me feel as though I had Charles back! For, having someone so close to your father in both manners and sensibility -- though no one could replace your father, Jessamina -- but having him for dinner made my Sundays feel less... devoid of Charles. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mother, he has been a great comfort to you in your mourning --”

“Yes, he has! You know, Jessamina, I feel as though you are not really listening to me!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your father’s dearest friend has just died! Charles and Mr. Wiloughby were classmates at Oxford! Even when your father went on to become a physician, they were inseparable! Your father was as well-liked as they come, my dear, and he could have had his choice of friends. In fact, I was often quite disappointed that your father did not choose to associate himself with those of a higher caliber -- especially when marriage prospects for you seemed so dismal -- but your father refused to cut that old friendship! Does that have any meaning for you, Jessamina? For Mr. Wiloughby to die of heart failure -- and at such a young age, for he was only a year older than your father -- and yet I feel as though you care nothing about how dreadful this situation is for me! And exactly three years after Charles! How terribly, utterly, dreadful!”

When Jessamina did not respond to her mother’s outburst of pent-up frustration, Mrs. Delaney collapsed into a hysterical fit of sobs that lasted for ten minutes. After that time, she hiccuped occasionally, but mostly remained in a catatonic state, allowing Jessamina to enjoy (as much as one can, of course, enjoy a bumpy carriage ride to a funeral one does not care about) in silence.

For while Jessamina did care about the fact that her mother’s only solace was now deceased, she did not care enough to have not killed him.

*************************
Once Jessamina was certain of Mr. Wiloughby’s involvement in her father’s murder, putting together a plan was quite simple. She merely replaced the contents of his sleeping tonic with a heavy concentration of ipecac syrup, and flavored it heavily with anise and fennel so he would not be able to tell the difference. After a few days of his headaches and vomiting, his family members and servants would not go near him for fear of Cholera, and by Sunday, they left him alone so that they might go to church and pray for his recovery. It was this absence that Jessamina took advantage of, and she easily slipped inside the house and up the stairs into the sick room. She burst into his room and stood over Mr. Wiloughby’s bed.

“Mr. Wiloughby,” Jessamina said with the air of a practiced professional, “I do not have much time, so listen to me very carefully. You are incredibly sick and will likely die in a few days if not cured. I, fortunately for you, have the cure, and will administer the dose to you if you tell me the truth about my father’s death--”

At these words, Mr. Wiloughby began to gag violently. Jessamina paused and politely waited for him to finish his retching into a conveniently placed chamberpot. When he collapsed back onto the bed in exhaustion, Jessamina cleared her throat, shook a tiny vial of liquid in his face, and began again.

“Mr. Wiloughby, I understand how weak and terribly frightened you are right now, considering the fact that I hold, quite literally, your life in my hands, but I need you to concentrate right now on the matter at hand --”

“I do not understand... how you even know... what will cure me.”

“Because I am what ails you. You see, I replaced your sleeping tonics, the same ones you have been getting, for free, might I add, from my father’s office with a concentrated dose of ipecac --”

“That’s impossible. Surely a young lady would not be intelligent --”

“Intelligent enough to poison a worthless drunkard like yourself? Mr. Wiloughby, I am disappointed in you. Even if hadn’t been trained by my father to make tonics since I was twelve, you severely underestimate the capacity of women to perform ill deeds. You see, women hold as many secrets to the universe as men do, and we have the added benefit of no one believing that we do. At any rate, this ipecac makes you unable to keep any food or water down. And seeing as I have had you on these pills for two weeks now, your approaching starvation and dehydration will lead to a most unpleasant death, unless you tell me what I need to know.”

“I do not even know what you want from me --”

“Do not try and play coy with me, Mr. Wiloughby. Do you honestly think I am unaware about your involvement in the Blue Pigeon society? About how they wanted to create a poison that would be untraceable by any blood test, and you so graciously volunteered my father for the task? And when my father refused to create it for them, your friends decided he was far too much of a liability? You knew about the plot against my father, and yet did nothing to stop it!”

“But I didn’t kill him --”

“YOU JUST AS WELL DID! You stood back and let it happen. That, in my book, makes you just as responsible as Mr. Faunley, Mr. Ullman, Mr. Williams, Mr. Woon--”

“You? You are the one who --” Mr. Wiloughby gasped. Jessamina gave a small smile. He let out a small groan and retched once more into the chamberpot.

“Yes, it is quite frightening is not it? To think that a young, stupid girl such as myself could have caused so much damage to your little society. To think that Faunley, Ullman, Williams, Woon, and Mr. Effingston, all of whom were involved in the planning, died at my slender, delicate, womanly hands. Did you really think you could be guilt free from all this? My father’s blood is just as much on your hands as any of those men, and if they had to die, then so do you.”

“Your father was my dearest friend, Jessamina!”

“A friend that you had no problem leaving to be torn apart by vile savages! My mother may be naive enough to accept your weekly condolences over dinner, but I see right through your disguise. Your frequent visits were not to comfort my mother, they were meant to make yourself feel like less of a traitor!”

“Please, have mercy! They would have killed my family!”

“Ha! Mercy? That word to me leaves the same bad taste in my mouth as compassion! Mr. Wiloughby, I lost all ability for mercy and compassion the night you tortured my father and threw his body into the street. And your family, Mr. Wiloughby? When have you ever cared for them? I see the welts on your little Elizabeth’s arms, and I know where they come from. I see how skittish your wife is when she is startled by any loud noise or sudden movement, and I know who made her that way. Be reasonable, Mr. Wiloughby: they would be better off without your abusive, alcoholic self to harm them anymore.”

Mr. Wilougbhy began to cry weakly into his pillow. After a few minutes of hearing his feeble whimpers (If there is anything Jessamina hates, it is the sound of crying) she sighed and kneeled by his bed.

“Perhaps I underestimated you. Perhaps you do regret what you did three years ago,” Jessamina murmured in a convincing show of mock sympathy. “Perhaps you wish you could take it all back, and once again hold your dear friend in your arms. I understand, for I, too, wish every day I could have back what was so wrongfully taken from me. Mr. Wiloughby, I am giving you an opportunity to feel, in some small way, like less of an absolute and utter failure. Help me avenge my father’s death. Tell me everything you know about the plot to kill my father, and I will take away this pain from you. I promise.”

“No more pain?”

“Nothing at all, Mr. Wiloughby. You have my word.”

There was silence in that dark, foul room for quite some time.

“Mr. Wiloughby?” She pressed.

“There is, in the Blue Pigeon society, a man they call ‘The Enforcer’.”

“The man who killed my father,” she whispered.

“You are quite right, dear girl. And if someone revokes a promise, or makes The Committee angry, the enforcer is called upon to... handle the situation. He is a dangerous man, well trained in weapons, and untraceable, for knows his craft well.”

“Is he a police officer?”

“No, but he is a very rich man, and well connected with those in The Scotland Yard. He knows how investigations are conducted, and therefore knows the loopholes in which he will not be detected. I have never met this man, Jessamina, and he is only referred to as “The Enforcer” in all situations, for we all have codenames--”

“Do you think I am a child, Mr. Wiloughby? Obviously I know about your little pet names for each other, or I would not have gotten this far. You are rambling, Mr. Wiloughby, and I am getting impatient--”

“No, no! Listen! He is only known as ‘The Enforcer’ by most, but there are some who know his true identity. And a few months ago, at a tavern, one of them let slip his name.”

Jessamina’s heart began to race. Could this be it? Could her searching for all those years have finally led to this?

Composing herself, she asked, “His name, Mr. Wiloughby?”

“Jessamina--”

“HIS NAME!”

“Vincent Blackhorne. His name is Vincent Blackhorne.”

Jessamina closed her eyes and breathed in his name: Vincent Blackhorne. How deliciously appropriate for a man whose pure evil had killed her father and many other innocents.

“Jessamina? I have told you what I know--”

“Yes, you have.” She opened her eyes and smiled. “You have helped me a great deal in punishing the criminal who killed a man of great importance to both of us.”

“Jessamina, he is incredibly dangerous! Surely you can not think of singlehandedly--”

“I am sure I can manage him, Mr. Wiloughby. But I appreciate your concern, albeit misguided.”

“And the serum?”

“Yes, of course. I am a woman of my word.” She reached under her thick skirt and petticoat, and pulled out the brass contraption she kept strapped to the outside of her thigh with an old corset. She placed the vial into a small chamber on the side of the contraption and with the press of a button, the thing began to create a loud whirring noise.
“Steam-inoculator. My father’s greatest invention.” she answered Mr. Wiloughby’s silent question. “Using high-pressured steam, it compresses any liquid and pushes it into the skin, without leaving any sign of injection. Completely untraceable, much like your dear Mr. Blackhorne. This way, when the police find your lifeless body later, they will think it was simply a heart failure.”

“When they find my body?”

“Mr. Wiloughby, you didn’t really think I was going to let you live, did you? How silly! And have you ruin all my plans? No, see, that wouldn’t be fair, seeing as I had to kill all the others. But death really is the end all to all pain, is it not? And my father’s poison really is quite efficient.”

He, just like all the others she had poisoned, was far too weak to put up any resistance. She wrapped her arm around his chest, pressed the steam-inoculator to his neck, and pulled the trigger. He struggled for a few seconds, but when his body ceased to move, she lay him gently down on his pillow.


“I truly thank you for all your help, Mr. Wiloughby.” She strapped the steam-inoculator to her thigh once more. “And if there is a heaven, which I highly doubt, I hope St. Peter takes pity on your soul.” And with that, she closed the door behind her.

*************************

After a tumultuous journey, the carriage arrived at St. Agnes’ grounds with an unceremonious jolt. Jessamina helped her grieving mother out of the carriage, shivering as the bracing cold . St. Agnes’ was not a very inviting place to begin with, but the dull, rainy weather certainly didn’t help the atmosphere.

The church itself was more surprisingly more dismal than the grounds. Even in the summer months, when roses, peonies, violets, and petunias bloomed around the circumference of the cemetery, the church maintained a singularly haunting and ominous appearance. An old stone relic from the medieval ages, many of the boulders had been badly burned during a fire a few years back, and the ivy had died long ago. Jessamina had been told that this church had once been considered one of the most beautiful places in England, but as hard as she tried, she could not imagine

Crossing into the interior was slightly better, for although old, it was at least clean and polished. Jessamina and her mother sat (at Eleanora’s insisting) in the very first pew, across from Mrs. Wiloughby and her four small children, the youngest of which was only three years old. The pews were peppered with a few dozen attendees, but much like Jessamina expected, the only one who seemed saddened by the whole situation was Mrs. Delaney.

The Priest at the front of the hall cleared his throat loudly. “Friends and family members, if you will please take your seats.” Jessamina found this to be a pointless statement, considering that no one was standing up, but her mother’s sobs brought her focus back to the matter at hand.
“Friends and family: we are gathered here today to mourn the passing of one of London’s most respectable businessmen: Mr. Harold Henry Wiloughby.”

“Most respectable?” Jessamina thought. “He spent his family’s sole income on alcohol!”

“Born into innocence, and raised by two wonderful parents who taught him ideals such as modesty, chastity, and honesty.”

“It never ceases to surprise me how little the clergy know of their own subjects. Why, even those on the fringes of society knew of Mr. Wiloughby’s vices, and these so called holy men are keen to lie to our very faces!”

“His dear friends knew him to be a humble man, and his family knew him to be a kind and caring husband and father.”

“Is he even looking at the Widow Wiloughby? Her eyes show very little sorrow at her husband’s passing! It is clear as day to see that her sorrow has long been overcome with relief that she will not have to fear for her children’s safety.”

“Let us take a moment of silent prayer to remember this great man.”

Jessamina bowed her head in silence, but the voice in her head was screaming. “This great man? How could no one have seen through that filthy man’s flimsy excuse for life?He had no place on this earth other that the destroyer of my happiness, his own family’s, and no doubt the happiness of countless others. I remain completely unchanged: he deserved to die.”

A restlessness had spread across the room, and the Priest motioned for the pallbearers to take Mr. Wiloughby to his final resting place. Each mourner was given a handful of flowers and told to say some last words. When it was Jessamina’s turn, she took a step forward and kneeled to lay them in the grave, but the littlest Wiloughby, Madeline, jumped onto her shoulder and began to cry. Jessamina had no experience with small children, nor did she enjoy their company, but with the warm hands and sticky cheeks affixed to her neck, a little part of Jessamina felt almost sorry or what she had done. The Widow Wiloughby pulled little Madeline off of Jessamina, and apologized for the outburst, but Jessamina could only nod in response. At last the moment had come for Jessamina to admire her work. She stood over the coffin, and was shocked at what she saw.

He looked so peaceful, with his black suit and tie and silk lined coffin. So peaceful, in fact, that Jessamina was even a little bit disappointed. How could a man as evil as Mr. Wiloughby be allowed to look angelic on his deathbed, when her wonderful father’s own face was hardly recognizable? She closed her eyes and dropped the flowers into his grave. She had lost all faith in god the moment her father died -- for how could any being who claims to have her wellbeing in mind have killed the one thing that was important to her?-- but she did have one thing to say to Him.

“God, if indeed you are out there... please let Mrs. Wiloughby and her children not suffer. Let them have enough money to live a comfortable life. Let the littlest one not remember the abuse her father put her through, and let those too old to forget understand what I have done.

Seeing that her mother was at the very end of the line of grieving, she decided to take a trip to her father’s grave; something she had not done since her father’s death. She wandered among the rows of little graves, but the markers were so identical that she could not locate it for some time.

“How curious that all these lives are condensed to a few lines of a gravestone,” she thought.

Finally, she finally found what she was searching for underneath a giant oak tree.

Here lies Mr. Charles Delaney. The best of Fathers and Husbands. May He Rest in Peace.

She knelt by his grave and ran her fingers over the rough etchings of his name.

“Father,” she whispered. “I have not forgotten my promise to you. Know that I will kill Mr. Blackhorne and avenge your death. I will always and forever be your servant.” She removed from her sleeves the handful of flowers she stole from Mr. Wiloughby’s funeral, and laid them gently on his tomb.

“I love you.”

And the giant oak tree rustled in response, the wind playing with her long burgundy tresses and caressing her face.

“I love you.”