MURDER BY CANDLELIGHT

The idea of it jolted me off my pillow. I swung my feet and slammed them on the hardwood floor, creating a thunk louder than carriage wheels on cobblestone. I listened for my bedchamber darkness to spring into opposition and reassured myself of my decision-to murder the infamous three this very night.

     With the stillness unbroken, I reached for a match on my nightstand, struck one, and lit a candle. The odor of animal fat tallow filled my nose as I glanced round. My solitude intact, I rose in spite of a constant pounding in my chest, lifted the candle by its holder, and tiptoed to my bureau.

     My chest muscles stiffened, and they forced me to pound a fist into my breast to rekindle the air flow. Palpitations shook my heart-a heart I once thought incapable of performing such a foul deed; but now cried out to commit its first murder.

     In the pale light, I stared down at my left wrist, and I swore I saw a large vain throb above its clammy skin. My heart prepared to commit itself to Satan's hand. Why not every other part of my being?

     I opened the middle dresser drawer and dug beneath my nightclothes grasping a cold metal object. I yanked it from the sea of cloth and held it up to the candle. Its icy touch burnt my palm with the passion to murder.

     A pistol. Yes, that is how I ought to dispose of the wickedest cads ever to curse the streets of London. Boring a neat hole in each of their foreheads ought to exact any long overdue revenge.

     The infamous Wimpole brothers created much civil unrest in our troubled times of 1842. However, change hung heavy in the air; for tonight, I managed to take lodging in the same ill-famed inn as they-and with one black-hearted purpose: to dispose of their miserable lives so the people of London could be free from their prankish tortures forever.

     Deciding that shooting was too quick an end, I reburied the pistol and withdrew instead an authentic Indian tomahawk from the American West. That seemed a better way to murder someone-or three someones.

     Splitting each of their skulls ought to serve quite well at revenging the agony they inflicted over the years. If paybacks were indeed hell, then the tomahawk would deliver purgatory, Hades, and Hell all rolled into one.

     A monumental thought struck me-if I did them in with an Indian artifact, people would think the murders were committed by Indians; and I would not receive the well-earned credit that could turn me into a folk hero. No, that would never do.

     Returning the tomahawk, I removed an eighteenth century Russian Cossack dagger. I thrust a quick jab into the imaginary guts of Fenimore Wimpole, the eldest and most notorious of the brothers. Then I slashed at the air pretending the edge sliced open the throat of John, the middle brother; and as young Shelley would undoubtedly run like the coward he was, I practiced a throwing motion by the blade point. I watched in my imagination as it sunk deep between the shoulder blades of the youngest rogue. Yes, the dagger would do nicely.

     Toting it and the candle to my bedchamber door, I flipped up the latch, eased it open towards me, and peered into the largest room of the inn. On the far side, the door of notoriety loomed ominous: the infamous door harboring the three treacherous brothers-but harboring them for but one night longer, because on the rise of the yellow ball on the morrow, a free England will celebrate long into the night.

     My heart crashed against my chest wall, and it forced my dagger hand to press inward to keep it from exploding into the frosty night air. Caution seeped into my brain, and the charging flood of doubt nearly persuaded me to drop the dagger, dash for my bed, and dive beneath the covers.

     Did I have the courage to commit murder? I had never committed one before. What made me think I could commit three tonight? Was I so driven by revenge and justice that it could empower me to take life? I shut it all out and thrust my purpose to the forefront. Tiptoeing across the room, I melted my back into the far wall becoming one with it.

     Spent coal fumes from a hearth fire extinguished hours since weighed down the air. It smoldered with a modicum of smoke and glistened with a minimum of ambers pulsating in a wide array of crimson hues. The warmth had long since vacated the room, and I could discern a faint mist of breath as it wisped past my lips and floated out of sight above the feeble candlelight.

     On reaching their door, I found it ajar, and so pushed it open with caution. One tiny creak-then another-and lastly a 'snap' as the hinge belched its final resistance to my invasion. I paused, my breathing almost as loud as the clacking of a passing carriage just outside their bedchamber window: 'clop, clop, clopity-clop' cloaking my tortured panting breath-'Clop, clop, clopity-clop' masking the subtle snort from my petrified nostrils-'Clop, clop, clopity-clop. Clop, clop, clopity-clop'. Having eclipsed the street lamp, the carriage shadow flickered past the window, and then its sound faded--'Clop, clop, clopity-clop. Clop, clop, clopity-clop'. Again out of earshot, all fell back beneath the sheerness of a darker silence.

     The smell of an extinguished paraffin lamp hit my nose betraying the evil three's recent retirement. Perhaps they were not yet asleep. If that were so, and I crept in now, they could leap up and overpower me before I could exact my demonic revenge. I shook the possibility from my brain and continued by thrusting one leg inside the doorframe.

     I blew out my candle and stared towards the one large bed, a winter-cooled force inside me pushing the hairs on my neck straight up. I realized they were standing at the bedside with their backs towards me-lined up as though they expected an execution.

     Did they somehow know I lodged here at early candlelight the day before? Was there someone hiding in the darkness waiting to foil my plan to liberate the city? My mind swooned with anxiety as the pit of my stomach filled with a nervous nausea. I realized I might be cheated out of delivering justice to the scandalous three.

     Fenimore, the brother on the far right, reached towards the nightstand and lit a candle. Befuddled at understanding his reasoning, I knew the moment for action had arrived. If there were another body waiting to pounce on me, I would have to race it to complete my dastardly deed.

     Darting forward and dropping my candleholder, I sprang towards the bed.

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