In the autumn of 1827, I hired a room for twenty-one nights at a lodging house in Edinburgh’s Tanner’s Close. It was a dodgy place with six rooms for hire, each of which was occupied by an odd character, myself included.
I had recently fled Paris in haste and was in search of a discrete lodging space in order to evade the authorities after murdering my husband, Thomas. Now please, continue reading before placing judgement on my desperate need for him to be dead.
I abandoned my name, Emily Baker, cut my hair short, wrapped my bosom tight, lowered my voice when speaking, and took on a new identity as Edward Bloom. While Emily Baker was a sheepish woman with no future, Edward Bloom was nothing of the sort. Edward was confident, powerful, and took what he wanted when he wanted it. Edward Bloom murdered Thomas Baker, and then he killed off Emily in order to hide.
The Hare lodging house was extremely filthy and had gone to rack and ruin. From the quick glances I took in the hall whilst being shown to my room, I saw of my fellow lodgers that each one was just as skint as the next, and even the owner of the establishment himself looked beggarly in a tatty coat and hat. The house was not pleasant at all, but it was perfect. It was the last place that anyone would have thought that the extremely wealthy Emily Baker would willingly stay. Edward Bloom on the other hand gave not a care in the world to a bit of dust or rat.
On the first night of my stay, around half past three, I was quietly sorting through the small number of possessions I still had when I heard a faint whimpering on the other side of the wall. I pressed my ear to listen more closely and heard what sounded like a bit of a struggle, a stifled plea, and then a thud on the floor. Then there were two voices whispering, a dragging sound, and then the click of the door’s latch being opened.
I quickly blew out my lamplight and then ever so slightly opened my door to peer out at the hall. The moonlight shone through the small glass window at the end of the hall, illuminating just enough to see the silhouettes of two men carrying a third man out of the room. Even in the darkness, it was obvious the third man in tow was not drunk, he was dead.
The men fumbled down the hall with the body, accidentally lightly bumping its foot on this wall and its head on that one. As they finally made their way down the stairs, I rolled my eyes and closed the door.
They’re doing it all wrong, I thought.
The House of Figs 