November third of 1927. The night was cold, and the middle aged Louis Fletcher was hurrying back home in his worn out trench coat.
Coventry, England, was a very intricate city, so Louis relied on his memory and his eight years here to navigate his way. His wife was a Coventry local, and he was from London.
He moved here to Coventry after their wedding, and he had liked this place ever since, being more quiet compared to the bustling life in London.
He reached into his coat pocket and took out his pocket watch to check the time. "10:47? Mabel would probably be mad," he muttered bitterly and placed the pocket watch back.
He had to work overtime at the factory, so as he clocked out, the streetcars had already left. He was in no position to rent a taxi or a carriage; that was the luxury of the rich. With the factory being six to seven kilometers away from home, he decided to spend time walking rather than money.
He then turned into a dark alleyway, the sign which meant he was a kilometer away from home. His clogs hit the cobblestone road, clattering. As he was nearing the end of the alleyway, he heard clattering.
It was not his clogs; he heard it from a few feet behind him. The sound seemed like the person was running. As he turned around to identify the person, he felt a sharp pain in his abdomen.
He subconsciously touched his abdomen and felt something wet, and a sharp object embedded. He looked up, and saw a person wearing a duster coat and a wide brimmed hat, which covered his face.
"Wh...who are you?" Louis asked through the excruciating pain. The weak light from the streetlamp flickered, and the person raised his head.
With the wide brimmed hat no longer covering his face, Louis was able to see the other person's face. It was a male, aged twenty to thirty, and was handsome.
But currently, the man had a extremely evil smile on his face, and as Louis looked down at his abdomen, he barely saw a knife through the weak light.
"You are about to die, Louis. Why ask who I am?" The man laughed coldly, and pulled the knife out of Louis's abdomen. Before he could react, the man stabbed him again.
Just as he was about to shout in pain, he felt the man's hands on his mouth, and a muffled sound escaped. Then, another hand grabbed onto his collar, and pulled him deeper back into the alleyway.
It seemed like a long time to Louis, but he was sure it was just a few seconds. The pain was excruciating; he also started feeling weak. As he looked at the path where the man dragged him, he saw a trail of blood.
Then, the man stopped, and released both his hands from his mouth and collar. Louis immediately shouted in fear, "Why are you doing this?! I...I did not do any wrong to you!"
The man chuckled, and responded, "Keep shouting. But sorry, nobody will hear you." Louis shuddered. He did not know what this man had against him, so he had only one option.
"Spare...spare me, please!" he pleaded, and struggled to crawl towards the man. As he crawled, he saw the man take out a easel from the darkness of the alleyway and a canvas.
Louis was baffled, but he still did not stop with his pleading. He also saw the man take out brushes from a box, and after placing the easel in front of Louis, he sat on the box, and Louis immediately knew that this man was about to paint.
'What twisted mind does this man have?!' he thought in despair. The man finally spoke again, saying, "This...is beautiful." He sighed, and took out the knife again.
Louis, seeing the knife, shuddered, and pleaded again, "No...no, please! Spare me! I have a famil..." his words were cut off as the man slit his throat in one clean move.
"I do not fucking care." The man smiled terrifyingly, and went to the box and took out a paint jar and a palette. Then, he approached the dead Louis and filled the jar with blood.
Then, he placed drops of blood onto the palette. He was using blood as paint! Then, he begun painting the dead Louis. 'The dead body is a beautiful piece of art.'
...
6 hours later.
The Caldwell Manor, Earlsdon, Coventry.
Julian opened his eyes to see he was seated in his study, his body aching all over.
Knock! Knock! "Young Master, are you inside?" the voice of the family butler, Edmund Thatcher, said behind the door.
"You may enter," Julian replied, and stretched. Edmund entered with a tray and a teacup, and said respectfully, "Young Master, your morning tea."
"Thanks, Edmund. You may leave," Julian smiled in reply, and Edmund bowed slightly before leaving.
Just as he was about to exit the study, Julian asked abruptly, "Edmund. Did I leave last night?" The butler was taken aback, before responding, "No, Young Master. Should I ask the guards?"
Julian shook his head before waving Edmund away. Edmund bowed again and left. "Why do I feel like something happened last night?"
...
Meanwhile.
"Who's the victim?" A bearded face detective asked. "Louis Fletcher, forty six years of age. He was stabbed two times, and he probably died from the cut on his throat." A constable replied seriously.
"It should have been a normal murder, but..." the constable continued then paused, and pointed towards one of the alley walls which was behind the detective.
The detective looked behind him, and his eyes trembled in shock. "What the hell is that?" It was a exquisite painting of the dead body, every detail painted on the canvas.
What was even horrifying was that it was painted in blood! On the bottom left side there was a mark painted in blood: a circle with a crooked line running through it, like it was broken.
A young man appeared on the scene, panting heavily. "Milton. Late on your first case?" The bearded detective berated. "Sorry sergeant Bishop...I missed the streetcar." Milton Hughes responded between breaths.
The sergeant, Davies Bishop, scoffed. The constable, seeing the young man, laughed. "My, a rookie with a murder case on his hands?"
Davies laughed as well. "Coventry Yard lacks detectives nowadays. I have a few cases on my hand, and since this rook has nothing else to do, he might as well take this." He sighed. Investigative work wasn't that appealing to people at all.
The constable understood as well. Despite being in a different division from them, they were still from Coventry Yard. And what Davies said was true; Coventry Yard lacked people.
"Employing the help of private detectives might happen soon." Davies said in resignation. Private detectives were the bane of their existence. But with the lack of manpower, the government might employ them soon.
Milton did not pay any attention to his sergeant's chatter and was investigating the scene closely. Seeing the painting, he was stunned.
If it was not painted in blood, this painting would have been an excellent masterpiece.