Page 1

Walter Shrewsbury had never cared for music; he did not see the point in it.

Women always ruined perfectly good dinner parties with the grating tones of the harp.

Ladies were meant to create background noise, not claim center stage with experimental nonsense.

One would be enjoying a dish, until a shrill glissando interrupted the precious moment between man and stewed cucumber.

Tonight, Mr. Shrewsbury simply could not bear it, so he retreated to the lounge and slammed the door to muffle the melody emanating from the dining room.

Lately, the ladies of London seemed emboldened by some unwelcome muse.

They played songs of their own selection, instead of what their husbands requested.

These were full of disgustingly dulcet tones that might be called heartfelt, if one were prone to movement by music.

The women wore bizarre fashions, with more regard for comfort than a gentleman’s preference.

Worst of all, at tonight’s dinner, he had heard a woman venture a joke— at his expense .

Walter had excused himself the moment it was explained to him.

Now he sank into an armchair, pining for the vegetables he had left behind, lost in troubled thought.

He was not na?ve; he understood the danger of art, of this ridiculous concept of “expression.” It was the root of all these terrible developments.

It gave any random person a voice, making them believe they had the power to effect change.

As a wealthy gentleman, Walter Shrewsbury had no need for change.

It would benefit him as much as a well-composed symphony: which was to say, not at all.

He put his hand into his pocket and withdrew a letter. It had been delivered weeks ago, a nasty little note that had compounded his growing unease of late. He unfolded it and stared at the words on the page:

Confess, or die. You decide.

In case the meaning wasn’t clear, the unknown sender had drawn a sketch below the words: a moth, with a pin stabbed through its thorax.

Walter crumpled up the paper and flung it across the room.

He had made up his mind. He would not be threatened.

He would not be laughed at. He would not be forced to listen to music that brought up emotions and memories and unrequited loves and made his upper lip tremble when he had specifically vowed to keep it stiff.

Whatever change was happening, he would stop it the way he had once stopped a too-long orchestra performance: with threats, yelling, and smashing violins when necessary.

The study door creaked open, and Walter whirled around.

“Can’t I have just five minutes to myself—” he began, and then broke off. “Oh. It’s you. We should talk. Fetch the port….”

He rose to his feet but fell back as the intruder delivered the first blow. Walter Shrewsbury put a hand to his nose, stemming a sudden flow of blood.

“What are you doing ?” he sputtered. But before he could comprehend what was happening, the intruder hit him again, and again, finally producing a knife and plunging it into Walter Shrewsbury’s chest.

The last sound Walter heard before taking his final breath was the distant, taunting trill of the harp as the door opened and the intruder slipped away.

He would never hear another sound, not even the scream some time later when a maid discovered his body splayed out on the armchair in a pool of blood.

“Murder!” she cried out. “Murder at the Rose!”