Gray clouds loom over London. Chilled winds blow throughout the streets. Behind the Royal Courts of Justice is the execution hall. It is here that criminals are sentenced to their last moment alive. The people decide what is to be done to the sentenced. One room houses the electric chair. The other holds the guillotine. One is agonizing. Intense. Torturous. The other is swift, merciless and painless.

  Due to the betrayal felt by his peers and the public, Corbeld unanimously is sentenced to death by guillotine. The general consensus tends to lead notoriously infamous figures to the electric chair to watch them suffer. While those who were once seen in a positive light and even looked upon but now are pitied will experience a quick end by the blade.

  Corbeld falls to his knees. A hooded man in black robes with a black mask covering all but his eyes places a hand on Corbeld’s head. In the audience stands police captain Walsh. Undertaker Collins. Chairwoman Weston. Various colleagues and friends. Peter and Marianne even. All of these people who are close in some way to Corbeld watch in silence alongside the many public onlookers through the windows.

  “To think it has come to this…” Weston sighs.

  Captain Walsh removes his bowler hat to place against his chest. He closes his eyes. Collins presses his hands together and whispers Biblical scripture quietly in a prayer.

  “How tragic they never found that other fellow involved in that whole ordeal.” Peter comments. “Corbeld should not be facing this punishment alone…”

  “… And yet he is. The poor bastard.” Marianne adds.

  Corbeld doesn’t even look up to the people watching. He stares down into the metal tub beneath him. Inside his mind, he apologizes to his friends. Colleagues. Family. The wooden board clicks down with the cranking of gears, locking down Corbeld’s neck. The executioner looks to the lever then up at the shining steel blade hanging above Corbeld. With the pulling of the lever, the blade comes down. His head cleanly lops off into the tub.

  Some in the audience reel in horror. Sobbing echoes throughout the room. Unruly comments are muttered. Weston winces upon hearing some of what she hears but speaks no more words. Peter and Marianne have nothing to say.

  Headlines in the newspaper and radio reports speak of Corbeld’s execution. The news has even overtaken that of the reports of Crow’s Plague evaporating. One of the city’s zeppelins, the Crown Jewel, floats over the city with banners on the gondola displaying the recent news.

  A majority of the population are at ease now but some remain skeptical of the eradication of Crow’s Plague as well as believing Corbeld’s execution was unjustified. These radical folks are generally ignored until their hassling and loud outbursts force the police to chase them away. Eventually they’ll reunite elsewhere in the public eye to continue their protesting.

  Calls have been made out to allies of Her Majesty and the nation. She’s arranged to meet for a summit of political leaders within the next few days. A much-needed trip to take out of the city after being confined within it’s borders for safety due to the endemic. She’s been able to calm the public’s worries after all that’s happened, resulting in more stability within the city’s population.

  Once the plague has been completely eradicated, a mass funeral is to be held by the Westminster Funeral Parlor to mourn the losses of victims to the plague and vermin outbreaks. This will at the very least bring some closure to all of those who lost friends and family to the tragedies. It will be taking place a week from now. With the victims all having been burned; no burials are to be made but instead a memorial wall is being crafted in its own plot of land within Westminster’s cemetery.

  Father Weldon Read is a renowned high priest in the city. A man of God and beloved by all who owns Westminster Cathedral. He reads from the Bible during the candlelight vigil held during the night of mourning at the newly-constructed memorial wall.

  Peter and Marianne stand amongst the crowd in black funeral garb. Due to the massive losses sustained; The memorial wall does not list individual names but instead is a large stone wall engraved with angels and a string of words;

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  ‘Dedicated to those we’ve lost. You all are God’s children and rest easy in Heaven. Your lives will be remembered forever.’

  This marks the second large stone memorial erected in London with the first being the war memorial constructed in the cemetery near St. Paul’s Cathedral. A light rain pours from the bleak gray skies above the city. The rain cannot hide the tears being shed by many. Peter and Marianne hold hands as they listen to Father Read speak.

  “…The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion—to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor.” Father Read says.

  He finishes speaking and closes the Bible he holds. He then lights the last candle beneath the memorial. A large candle that burns brightly in this gloomy atmosphere. The people begin to disperse. Many either go and pray in front of the memorial or speak to Father Read to share their grievances and have him pray for them.

  Peter and Marianne stay in their place, observing the grim scenery.

  “I hope these people have found closure.” Peter murmurs.

  “And I’m sure those who perished are resting easy now in the skies above.” Marianne speaks.

  “Amen. Shall we… head home then?”

  “Of course.”

  The two keep close as they walk back to their steam carriage. Miss Weston is leaning against their carriage smoking a cigarette. They approach her with surprised looks. She looks directly at them. Her breath in the air mixed with the cigarette smoke.

  “Hello you two.” Weston greets them.

  “H-hello there ma’am.” Marianne stutters. “Did you park next to us? I can’t remember.”

  Weston takes another puff from the cigarette.

  “I know this is a bit of an awkward time to be saying this. But… from the bottom of my heart… thank you.” She says with a smile.

  The couple raise their eyebrows. Her tone of voice is calm and reassuring unlike how she usually speaks.

  “All of our Black Doctors have worked exceptionally well during these troubled times. But you two… uncovered Corbeld’s plot. If not for that then we wouldn’t have convicted him. As far as we would’ve known, he’d never have cracked and told us anything. Your investigation paid off. And for that I have to thank you. Truly. You’ve done well.”

  Peter and Marianne look to each other then back to Weston. They bow politely.

  “Thank you. It’s an honor hearing that from you, ma’am.” Peter says.

  “I’m just happy we were able to put an end to his scheme. ‘Tis a shame they never found that other man mentioned in the documents. Magrath, was it?” Marianne adds.

  Weston nods and puffs once more on the cigarette before tossing it on the ground and stomping on it with her heel.

  “Yeah. Oh well. He must be long gone by now. Real shame Corbeld had to take the brunt of the blame alone. That poor bastard.”

  She speaks then turns heel to head back towards her carriage. Before that, she stops and turns her head slightly to the left.

  “You two have a good evening. Enjoy your weekend. I’ll see you on Monday.”

  With that, miss Weston departs from the scene. Peter and Marianne head for their carriage. They remain silent on the drive home.

  A storm rages on in the countryside. Lightning cracks the black skies. Rain pours in buckets. The steam carriage hits bumps along the rough road. Magrath sits silently in the back passenger seat. He just smokes a cigarette. Neither him nor the masked driver have exchanged a single word since Magrath was picked up over an hour ago. He has not the slightest clue where he’s even headed besides far from London.

  The carriage pulls up to a lone graveyard with rusted fencing, gate and a stone gateway arch. Magrath looks outside then looks to the driver.

  “Sir. Why did we stop? Need a piss break or something?” Magrath asks.

  The masked driver in the black bowler hat reaches beneath the seat and pulls out a flintlock pistol. He turns around and points the barrel at Magrath. His eyes widen as the trigger is pulled. A shot is fired directly at Magrath’s head. He slumps over with blood staining the back of his headrest The driver pulls down the mask and tosses the flintlock next to Magrath’s body.

  “Shame you done killed yourself. That’s what I’ll have to report to them when I get to the parlor.” Scott murmurs. “Looks like your time is up.”

  Thunder booms across the valley as the carriage gets back onto the road and ventures onward towards a small, dimly-lit village several miles ahead.