Guilt―such a powerful emotion, which can literally rip one apart from the inside out. I should know, I've experienced it enough over the years, which is possibly why I am so surprised that I don't feel a shred of it now. I should―what I've done is unforgivable and the ultimate sin, yet I feel no remorse. Perhaps the guilt will come from my inability to feel any? Yes, that would be typical of me, destroying my mind worrying over something I am unable to do.

I have no regrets. This may be the reason for my calm state. What else could it be? The only other explanation would be that I am a psychopath―dormant for years only to be released in a hurried frenzy of anger and passion. That would be quite something wouldn't it? Boring Mary, she who blends in with the furnishings, turns out to be a cold-hearted killer! It would certainly give the vapid gossips something to feed on.

Of course, this is all fantasy. I have no desire to hurt or kill any living thing, which makes killing Peter all the more bizarre. Did he deserve it? Most certainly, but I doubt that would help one against the prosecution in a court of law. Not that I have any intention of confessing. Only the guilty confess and I think we have established that I do not feel the overwhelming weight of guilt pressing down on me. I may have done the deed, there's no may about it, but nothing in this world would convince me to admit this to the local constabulary.

I doubt very much they would believe me anyway. When I picture myself walking into Crawley Street Station, announcing that I have killed a man, I picture the faces of the officers who would greet me. They would hide mocking chuckles behind their hands and voice, in their annoyingly condescending way, "Have you really, Lady Mary? Let us take you home, where we can have the doctor come and see you."

Is this why I did it? The knowledge that the outcome would most probably be nothing more than prescription pills given to calm those women prone to bouts of hysteria? A short stint in bed whilst the relatives were informed that I was suffering from a particularly bad case of influenza? So little was expected of quiet, mousy, compliant Lady Mary, that I could, quite literally, get away with murder.

The fact I have no body to dispose of is exceptionally convenient. I don't know what I would have done otherwise. The thought of involving anyone else was quite out of the question. There was no-one I could trust. A rather depressing realisation and one I was sure to revisit during one of my increasing periods of melancholy. Yes, I was fortunate that Peter's body was no longer my concern. This may seem harsh, cold even, and I have to admit I'm a little shocked myself, but what's done is done and one must now look to the practicalities of the situation.