January 2, 1888, was a chilly early morning. Snow was falling from the sky and blanketing the ground in a white blanket on this peaceful, chilly early morning. Its chilly grip shrouds another body.

Another innocent person died at the hands of another murderer. There have been a lot of murders in London recently. That person's identity eludes the detectives, though. The victims vary in age and appearance, with no discernible pattern or motivation. A total enigma.

Like the others, this body is unsolvable.

________________________________

Another serene London winter's day. Noel Auclair is painting without fuss with yet another person. His silver hair was blowing in the wind, his teal eyes were fixed on the canvas, his brown coat was stained with paint, and he had a newsboy cap resting atop his head. Women think he is pretty. Unfortunately, he has little interest in them and comes from an impoverished background.

"When are you going to start pursuing me, Mr. Auclair?" The subject of his artwork inquired. All he could do was smile and chuckle slightly. "Mrs. Claire, do you not already have a husband? Why do you think I should be your lover?" He was accustomed to her asking him to be her lover and his constant refusal. He merely is not attracted to women; it is not because he despises them. Thus, he will never become their lover.

She only sulks, saying, "That man is uninteresting and devoid of any talent." You are an artist, gorgeous for a man, affable, and skilled at making a woman feel beautiful just by sketching her." That was her thinking. "You certainly have courage in suggesting that we have an affair. I would end up six feet underneath, and your spouse would be really unhappy." Noel had to crack a joke.  

She smiles and crosses one leg over the other. "No matter how many times I ask, you will always decline. I want you to know that even if you had an intriguing upbringing and grew up in poverty, it does not matter to me. Mr. Auclair, I genuinely believe you to be a pleasant man." She informs him, smiling, but in a serious way. After drawing the woman to completion, Noel handed her a canvas. "Mrs. Claire, I appreciate your nice sentiments." Getting up from his seat, he told her.

"Are you certain you do not want to get paid by me? Mrs. Claire told him as she opened her tiny pocketbook and was ready to give him money, "Your drawings are always so precise and lovely; it would feel like a waste if I did not pay you suitably."

"No need, Mrs. Claire," Noel shook his head and raised his hand to stop her. I do not paint for pay; you are the best person to know this. Consider it a little pastime of mine to while away the hours," Mrs. Claire merely shook her head and shut her handbag. "Well, Mr. Auclair, it was good to meet you again. I will leave you alone because I know you are a busy man. You know where to find me if you decide to change your mind about pursuing me." She then turned and vanished into the crowd.

With a broad smile, Noel bid farewell with a wave. He stopped smiling, began to pack away his art equipment, and left the area. 'Saying I am a good man. I am anything but good," he thought to himself, his visage emotionless and lifeless. The winter cold made his nose turn red as he strolled along the street. He was about to turn around and head for an alleyway when he noticed some police officers encircling the area.

As they watched the cops examine the now-frozen body, a witness exclaimed, "Not another one." "It is only the beginning of the year, and the murderer is still at large." Noel grinned and moved past the onlookers when he heard a low voice murmur, "Paint?" Noel froze in place, his eyes going wild. "What did you say, Felix?" a second officer said. Breaking the brief silence, Felix says, "It is nothing."

With a pounding heart, Noel decided to head back to his apartment. He finally arrived at his apartment and entered after around twenty minutes. He is breathing so deeply into the chilly air that his head is pounding and his fingertips are red and numb from the cold. Anxiety is plaguing Noel Auclair. Was there anything by chance that he left behind? And what if they discovered it was him? He always checks to make sure he is not being tailed! If they identify him as the murderer, what will he do?

He convinces himself, "It is okay, I will be alright." He said that almost as a ploy to get himself to stop fretting. He left his painting supplies on the floor beside the wall and went to the bathroom to splash some water on his face. "I will not be found by them. There is nothing in me to lead them to believe that I am the murderer. And if they inquire about my means of support if I am not paid for my paintings, I will inform them about my profession without going into further detail."

They will not be aware of Noel Auclair. He is just your average painter, with little money to his name and an awful apartment. After using a rag to wipe his face, he left the restroom. He removed his coat and newsboy cap, placing them on a chair next to a desk. Then he removed his shoes and lay on the bed, gazing up at the historic ceiling.

Noel will just sleep for the time being. Already fatigued, he was further depleted by the prior confrontation by the alleyway. All he will do is sleep, pick up his paintbrush again in the morning, and pray he does not pick up any detectives. His eyelids closed, and he fell asleep.