The Bloomsbury Murder

It was dark when Elizabeth Thackeray stepped into Gordon Square. The sound of wind-whipped trees swiftly replaced the noise of Bloomsbury’s traffic. As a gust surged through the branches, Elizabeth was reminded of waves crashing onto the shore. Above her, clouds scurried across the full moon.

The path was a pale ribbon ahead of her. Bare rosebushes and leafless shrubs lay hidden in the darkness, biding their time until spring arrived. Elizabeth liked to sit and sketch here during the summer months, inhaling the sweet scent of sun-warmed flowers, but the winter months were no less pleasurable. She enjoyed the wildness of the square, with the fearsome wind tugging at her breath and the moon sporadically lighting her way like the revolving beam of a lighthouse.

It wasn’t yet six o’clock but the weather seemed to be urging Elizabeth home to her comfortable room and a supper of warm soup and bread.

Lights flickered in the windows overlooking the square, reminding her she wasn’t out in the wilderness but in the middle of London. That was why she loved Bloomsbury. Its green squares provided her with solace and respite from the bustle of the city until she was ready to return to it again.

Elizabeth was halfway through the square when she felt a chill at the nape of her neck. 

Is there someone close by? 

She turned to look behind her but saw only dark foliage and pale-grey grass. Turning back to her route, Elizabeth reluctantly quickened her step. She didn’t want to walk any faster – she wanted to savour this place before she found herself back out on the street again – but something was making her hurry. Perhaps it was her overactive imagination. Or perhaps it was something else.

The exit from the square was about twenty yards ahead of her. Elizabeth paid less attention to the wind and the moon as she moved, and instead focused on the gate in the railings.

The moment she felt a hand on her shoulder, her breath left her. Instinctively, she tried to run but she was knocked off balance. Her bag fell from her shoulder and her spectacles slipped. 

A shadowy figure loomed to her right.

“Get away!” she cried. She was still stumbling, but hadn’t yet fallen to the ground. Another push came and she tumbled onto the grass.

This is my last chance to get away. 

Elizabeth had no idea where her strength or impulse came from, but she sprung to her feet just as the figure lunged at her, then ran as fast as she could. Her bag, which contained her precious books and sketchbook, was left behind.

Her legs pounding, she fled to the gate at a pace she had never imagined possible. She had no breath left to scream or shout; all she could do was get herself to safety.