London, 1815

Arthur

“I know you are the one.”

The detective places one hand firmly on the table and one on the chair between us as if he was sensing a fight in the near future. His fingers rhythmically tap the burnished top of the wooden chair; his simple, traditional wedding ring making an aggravating clinking sound. 

“You are the one, aren’t you,” he spits out. I shrug lightly. His face wrinkles into an expression that was a combination of anger and hatred. I slide back down into my seat slightly, but immediately regret it because I am showing signs of fear which gives him all the satisfaction.

Something about him strikes me as odd though; something seems vaguely familiar about him. I study his facial features and each time I look over him, something keeps nagging me in the back of my brain as if trying to make me remember where I have seen him before because I know I have.

I lean back in my chair and elude his gaze. I don’t dare look up; instead, my gaze falls down onto my lap. I’m wearing simple, beige trousers and an oversized, white shirt that is torn in some places. “Peasant clothing,” I think to myself.

Ever since the detective found me, I have been forced to wear this prisoner clothing. My hands are covering in cuts and are shackled together in front of me. My hands, however, are not in as bad condition as the rest of me. My face has an abounding amount of gashes, bruises and scars and my dark brown, messy hair falls into my face, hiding my anguished, light green eyes.

My gaze shifts to my surroundings. I am in a cramped room with chipping white paint on the walls. Besides a few holes, there is absolutely nothing on the walls. The polished wood door is on the opposite end of the room. The detective stands between me and the door and there are no windows; there is no chance of an escape.

 “Look at me boy!” he says roughly; his thick British accent fills the room. Silence dawns on us again. I look up and meet his deathly stare. His breathing is heavy and a bead of sweat forms on his brow. “Answer me,” he commanded, “Are you the one?”

“The one who what sir?” I say in a barely audible voice. He leans in closer over the table and makes sure he’s looking me dead in the eye. I stare back in the same manner as him. His teeth are clenched together and his expression turns from mad to pure fury. Tension fills the room.

“The one who murdered my wife,” he says slowly; each syllable rolls off of his tongue and hits me like a dagger. I am taken aback by that statement. The one who murdered his wife. I repeat those words in my head a few times. A wave of realization hits me and a name suddenly pops into my mind.

“Beth,” I whisper; now remembering his wife’s name. The man nods his head. “A-a-and you’re Laurence Ray; London’s best detective.” I manage to choke out. He eyes me and a satisfied look flashes in his eye. I just dug myself a deeper hole than I was in before.

Suddenly a memory surges. I can still smell the rusty scent of blood; still can see the crimson liquid drip from the dagger. The image of a pale, bloody corpse of a woman’s body flashes before my eyes. I feel alone once again. I remember the dark alleys, the cold, long, sleepless nights, the everlasting fear.

Ray’s voice snapped me out of my memory.

“I knew you were the one,” he straightens his spine and looks down at me. “I knew I had caught the filthy criminal who heartlessly murdered my wife.” I remain silent; he does too. Moments that seems like years pass. I finally break the silence.

“I didn’t do it,” I mutter. He turns his head my way and raises an eyebrow. He leans in once again, his resentful expression returns and I turn my head to avoid his glare again.

“What do you mean, you didn’t do it,” He says incredulously; moving closer with each syllable. I lean back and turn away. I feel guilt wash over me. I can feel his glare on me; burning a hole in me. The one who murdered my wife. His voice echoes inside my head again. My breathing grows heavier. The room seems to be getting warmer by the second. I feel like I might just snap when I am saved by a knock at the door. Ray and I both turn towards the noise.

A small, bald man pops his head into the room; his eyes just peering around the door. Ray glares at the man as he is obviously irritated at him for accidentally interrupting. The man looks from Ray to me and a look of realization that he had just interrupted an interrogation crosses his face. The detective sighs motions for the man to enter and he does so.

“May I help you Wesley,” he says to the man.

“Your daughter’s here sir.” The detective sighs and places his hand to his forehead and looks down. He looks back and forth from the door to me for a few moments before he lets out an sigh of exasperation. He snaps his head towards me.

“I’ll deal with you later,” he says coldly, “However, for now, back to your cell. Wesley, please escort…” He pauses. He’s looking at me with a puzzled look. “What is your name?” he says bitterly.

“Arthur,” I say, “Arthur…” I hesitate. Ray narrows his eyes.

“Arthur…” Detective Ray motions for me to continue, but I shake my head.

“It’s just Arthur,” I state plainly. Ray gives me a suspicious look. He stares at me for what it seems like forever; not blinking nor moving. After he gives up and realizes I'm not going to state my last name, he turns to his co-worker.

“Please escort Arthur to his cell,” he says as he makes his way to the door. He places on hand on the doorknob, but turns around. “And make sure he doesn’t get away.” He surprisingly looks at me while saying this. He’s almost telling me that I should not even attempt to escape for if I do, there’s no telling what he will do. With that, he opens the door slightly and slips through disappearing around the corner.

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I would just like to say a big thanks to Miss_Massie_Alyse for helping me choose the cast for my characters :) THANK YOU MASSIE :D I hope y'all like this story :)