Full Detailed Treatment
For a More Streamlined Overview, See the Brief Treatment or Synopsis
Written for the Screen by Daniel Clements
Based upon the Play "Murderer" by Anthony Shaffer
I.
Prologue ~ A Drop of Crimson
A black iron door creaks open on a cast-iron potbelly stove, revealing a roaring inferno. Wood clunks into the flames. Embers swirl. The door slams shut.
In the dim glow, a figure moves. With paint-speckled hands, Norman Cresswell Bartholomew—still unseen—drops the needle on a vinyl record spinning beneath a refurbished gramophone. Static crackles give way to Tchaikovsky’s Valse Sentimentale.
Title Card: Murderer
From a bird’s-eye view, we drift over the Jurassic Coast at sunset. Rolling English countryside. A quaint, sleepy Dorset village. The pastoral calm is broken only by staccato flashes—surgical, intrusive glimpses of Norman’s ominous preparations:
- A blade, honed to perfection.
- A meat thermometer plunging into a raw, bloody roast.
- Pills crushed to dust, dissolved with a swirl into a bottle of scotch.
- A label being torn, marking the poisoned bottle.
- A painting on an easel replaced by a blank canvas, primed for a fresh work of art.
These visual bursts punctuate Norman’s voiceover—a chilling, intimate monologue. He confesses his obsession: not merely to kill, but to be remembered. Immortalised. A master of murder. An artist of infamy. To be counted among the elect few—homicidal, household names.
It’s not the act alone that enthrals him, but the game. The meticulous planning. The chase. The thrill of misleading the authorities with red herrings. And finally, his glorious public reveal—to receive the recognition he deserves. Delusions of grandeur, laid bare.
Following Norman’s opening soliloquy, no more dialogue is spoken until after the doorbell rings—approximately 20 minutes later.
As his narration concludes, so does our aerial descent—settling outside the glowing bay window of Norman’s isolated home. Framed like a proscenium, we peer into his studio-living room, not yet permitted inside. A handsome space: classically furnished, warmly lit. Leather-studded armchairs. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Vintage décor. Charmed—if not for the carefully curated clutter of artistic debris covering every surface of the wood-laden room.
Deep in the space is Millie Sykes. Early twenties. Striking. Very striking. Clad in a negligee, she arches on a lounge chair with languid grace. Posing. Performing. Enticing. At his easel, Norman paints her with his back to us—still unseen, save for the deliberate motion of his brush, defining Millie’s lips in her portrait with crimson. The colour of both passion and violence.
The Dorset sky dims to twilight. The odd flurry falls. Lights twinkling from the distant town reflect in the window as a quiet reminder of our rural solitude. Still peering inside, the Bartholomew estate glows warm and rich—its comfort a seductive deception.
Tchaikovsky fades to silence. The gramophone still spins—only static.
The stage is set.
As they say in both real estate and homicide: location, location, location.
II.
Honeytrap
All sound behind the glass is muffled. We remain voyeurs outside the window. Helpless to intervene. Compelled to bear witness.
The dampened vinyl crackles on a loop. Norman turns toward the gramophone—our first full glimpse: late 30s, handsome, fit, exuding effortless charm. Too effortless. He wears frayed trousers and a worn pullover—his “art attire.” Windowpane warps distort his face—bending it into something more sinister. More fitting.
Millie polishes off her scotch and toasts an empty glass. Eyes glazed. Grin wide. Oblivious. Norman flashes a devilish smirk and collects her glass en route to the bar cart. He pours two drinks: his from a fresh bottle, Millie’s from the bottle with the torn label—the trap is set.
He flips the record and restarts the needle before returning Millie her fresh drink.
Music hums faintly through the glass. Millie, growing bored, shifts, flirts, sips. Norman paints—until her glass slips. It rolls to his feet. He peers over the canvas to watch her collapse.
Unmoved—if anything, elated—Norman signs his canvas. He glances out the window (past us). With ritualistic flair, he smashes her scotch glass. Then waits…
A distant house light ignites in the reflection.
Norman pivots. Lunges. Strangles Millie with her own scarf—silent, methodical, eyes on the clock. Still limp, he checks her pulse.
Slick with power, he towers over her, strips what little clothing she had left, hauls her upstairs, out of view—then returns, dragging the body wrapped in bedsheets. He positions her in full view of the window. A tableau of terror.
Wielding greasy metal tools, he cracks, whacks, pulverises. Each strike turns flesh into palette. The window rattles with the force of his blows—too violent to stay quiet. Direct impact is mercifully obscured by the frame of the pane we peer through—leaving our own fears to conjure horrors far worse than what slips into view.
Norman pulls teeth with pliers, one by one, dropping them into a sizzling jar of acid. Then he stops—looks toward the window. As if he knows he’s being watched.
The coast appears clear.
Our point of view now oscillates—shifting between both sides of the glass. We jump between a first-hand interior account, as if Norman’s silent accomplice, and our original exterior vantage: a prying bystander catching fractured glimpses of evil through the rear window.
Norman dips a brush into the blood bubbling from her mouth to touch up the lips in her portrait.
His masterpiece takes shape.
He wraps the body and tools with the blood-drenched sheets. Hoists all. Ascends the stairs to the bathroom.
A single drop escapes—marking his passage on the banister.
III.
Incinerator
Perspective: the graphic mutilations to follow are implied through residual impact—seen through skewed reflections in polished chrome fixtures, glimpses of brutality whipping past the narrow sliver in the bathroom door, or merely heard beyond it. Suggestive, not exploitative. Framed with taste and mystique.
Norman elbows on the bathroom light. White porcelain tiles. He drops the bundle into the tub. Thud! Caved-in face. Contorted limbs. Identity lost beneath splattered, dark fluids. He retrieves a meat hook, drives it in, hoists the body, and slits her throat. Blood drains. He ties the hook to the shower fixture, suspends her, and wipes his brow.
He descends to the enormous potbelly stove in the main layout, arms full of bloodied sheets. He incinerates them along with his clothes. Down to his smalls, he crosses to the kitchen, dons a butcher’s apron over his underwear, and collects tools. The kitchen’s swinging door rocks like a pendulum. Through the gaps: cleaver, saw, knife… a sandwich made from a rare oven roast.
Back in the living room: tools arranged. Down to the cellar. Back up with potato sacks. Headlights sweep across the walls. A pause. A breath. A drink. A cigarette. A bite of bloody roast beef.
Upstairs again. The knife slashes twine. The body drops into the tub. Norman hacks, saws, cleaves—bone crunching, blood spurting. Limbs torn. Digits clipped. Jewellery stripped. Severed parts are packed into potato sacks—between bites of beef. The sandwich, dropped in the struggle to bag the torso, is kicked beneath the clawfoot tub—left to sponge blood into its white bread folds.
The sacks descend, one by one, to feed the potbelly fire. Grey chimney smoke fades to black. Evidence escapes into the ether.
He melts her jewellery, brushing molten gold onto her painting’s adornments. The final insult.
The letterbox clinks. He freezes. The evening paper slides in. Relief. False alarm. He reads the headline: TORSO FOUND IN TEA CHEST. A grin spreads. He fantasises about being the press-drenched culprit, surrounded by ravenous paparazzi.
A shrill phone rings, snapping him out of the fantasy. He ignores it, sets down the paper—now smudged with bloody fingerprints—and resumes the disposal.
Back upstairs. The final piece: her head. Bagged. Hauled. Tossed into the fire. Engulfed.
He scrubs the bathroom. Bleaches every inch. Out, damned spot. The tools are returned to their respective slots. He hangs the apron on the banister. Drops trow. Burns his underwear. Struts to the bathroom, naked as the recently departed.
Norman showers—a smeared, sweaty mess—as an overlooked ring circles the drain. Millie’s. A missed detail? A trophy? He sets it on the soap dish. For now—her ring sits like a temporary shrine.
IV.
Concerning Parties
Clean, composed, cool, calm, collected—and fresh from the shower—Norman steps into a moment of false triumph. He sings down the hall, out of view.
Ding-dong!
The melody shatters.
Knock-knock-knock!
Panic. He scrambles—pulling on clothes, hiding evidence. The nearly-forgotten apron flies into the potbelly. Whoosh!
Bang-bang-bang! Ding-Dong!
At the door: Sergeant Stenning. Wry. Imposing. Unreadable. Yet somehow clearly in possession of more than he should know.
Their exchange is clipped, formal. The very first on-screen dialogue—tense, forced, crackling with pressure. Norman invites him in.
Inside, Stenning surveys the living room. Something’s off. Way off. Norman rambles—smarmy, evasive—as Stenning’s eyes roam.
Mrs Ramage, his nearest neighbour, claims to have seen him drug and quarter a naked woman. Stenning relays this. Norman doesn’t deny it. Instead, he deflects—launching into a spree of infamous murder trivia: Christie, Crippen, George Joseph Smith’s infamous “Brides in the Bath Murders.”
As he babbles, Stenning hovers with quiet intent. He clocks the looping record. The jar of teeth, still sizzling. A blood drip on the banister—he notices. Holds. Says nothing. Continues to the kitchen.
Each swing of the pendulum door reveals more: knives. Hatchets. Cleavers… oh my. Blade handles, rimmed red. Still wet.
Feigning disinterest, Norman folds the newspaper inside out—not only pretending to read it, but also hiding the blatant bloody fingerprints he just noticed all over its cover.
A poor performance, thus far.
Stenning returns. His gaze lingers on a portrait of Elizabeth, painted by Norman, hanging over the mantel. He inquires. Norman explains she’s in Birmingham—working.
The survey continues. All the while, Norman laughs too hard at his own glib jokes. Stenning doesn’t even try to smile. Silence tightens. It couldn’t get more awkward—until it does.
Stenning moves toward the stairs. Norman stiffens, frozen at the landing, as the sergeant ascends.
Once out of sight, Norman barely manages to open the stove without its signature iron screech. He slips the newspaper inside. It incinerates. Smoke wafts.
Inside the stove—unnoticed—the charred head rolls into view.
Norman shuts the stove with as much care as he opened it, then darts over to peek through the crack in the bathroom door as Stenning inspects the tub. The sergeant emerges… holding a sandwich. Soaked red.
Desperate to prove it benign, Norman forces a bite—more than he can chew. Stenning yanks it away. Bags the rest as evidence.
Norman swallows. Gags on his own lie.
His face says it all: he’d rather confess than endure that taste again.
Choking back heaves, Norman stalks Stenning downstairs. The sergeant prowls the room—opening chests, sniffing the air.
Something foul.
His nose leads him to the potbelly stove. A wrinkled grimace. A long, squinted look at Norman.
Then—realisation.
Stenning screeches open the stove. Recoils from the stench. He reaches in, sears his hand on the iron roof—yelps.
He sources a pair of tongs. Pulls something out—spherical, blistered. A head.
He drops it. It rolls across the floor, trailing smoke like a ball of incense. Sparks coil and snake through its few remaining strands—like lit fuses.
Nothing from Norman.
Stenning douses the embers, then reaches back in—pulling a burnt partial leg.
Suddenly, Norman blurts out gibberish. Pleads. Sobs about how he had to do it. Drops to his knees—melodramatic agony.
Stenning ignores him. Something about the remains doesn’t add up. He lifts the head by what’s left of its hair.
Norman’s sobs turn off on a dime.
Stenning taps the skull with a palette knife—thop-thop. Something pops loose. A glass eye rolls to his boot. He steps on it—Crunch! Stenning inspects the sole of his boot. Narrows his eyes.
Norman giggles.
It’s fake.
Instantly composed, Norman lets the cat out of the bag: it’s all synthetic. A hyper-realistic, made-to-measure, mail-order sex doll—thermoplastic skin, silicone joints, polystyrene bones—injected to the gills with stage blood by yours truly. An anatomically correct custom job.
Stenning triple-checks the partial leg—melted at the sawed-off poles. He tosses it back into the inferno.
Upstairs, Millie lies naked on the floor beside the bed. Intact. Snoring like a bear in hibernation.
Downstairs, Stenning places the “head” on the desk. Answers are in high demand.
Norman explains: he reenacts famous murders. For a thrill. A lark. To know what it must’ve felt like. To step into the killer’s shoes. This one? Buck Ruxton—the Parsee doctor who dissected his wife and housemaid in 1935. Known as the “Jigsaw Murders” because investigators had to piece together dismembered remains from two separately severed and scattered victims.
Stenning is dumbfounded.
Proud by contrast, Norman walks the sergeant through a laundry list of murders he’s staged. A one-man show of foul play. He revels in the memory of staging each one.
Stenning remains at a loss.
Norman, giddy, pours a drink. Offers one to the sergeant—who could use one, but declines.
His concern now lies more with Norman’s sanity than anything else.
Undeterred, Norman begins to philosophise. About beauty. About art. About murder as a medium.
A challenge to God.
Stenning warns: such fascinations invite darkness. It never ends well. Norman may think he’s in control—he’s dead wrong. These aren’t mere games. Echoing the old maxim “play with matches and you’ll get burned,” Stenning stresses his jaundiced theory, forged by experience: more often than not, victims unwittingly find their killers—not the other way around—usually by failing to heed warnings such as this. Do not tempt fate.
If you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.
Norman turns to the bay window in defiance.
A distant Mrs Ramage stands at her blinds—silhouette, curlers, phone to her ear. Watching.
She sees him. Drops from view. Lights off—faster than Norman can reach the curtain drawstring.
Norman chuckles as a dark thought crosses his mind.
Should she be next?
He draws the curtains shut.
Stenning has been had—and has had enough.
He storms off, slamming the front door. Gone.
Alone, Norman returns to the living room. Cracks a self-satisfied smirk. Launches into a delighted, egotistical caper. Spins in victory. Catches himself in the mirror.
The Dreaded Dorchester Dismemberer.
The Cop-Kidder Copycat Killer.
He who plotted, then garrotted her carotid.
A bow to his own reflection.
A grinning ghoul of greatness and glory.
V.
Crying Wolf
Norman vanishes upstairs, returning with Millie’s naked, unconscious—but unscathed—body. He lays her on the sofa, adjusting her pose to mirror her portrait. After a beat of admiration, he drapes her with an afghan and ducks into the kitchen. He returns with water, a butcher’s knife, and a vial of smelling salts plucked from his art supplies.
With exaggerated expression, he dangles the knife above her face—then catches it mid-drop with a pompous huff. Control. Dominance. She stirs. He uncaps the salts, flinches at their fumes, and waves them under her nose. Millie moans. A second pass jolts her awake… somewhat. She sits up—naked, dazed, searching.
Norman hands her the water. Then her clothes. Groggy, she dresses, trying to process. Norman casually articulates: he drugged her with sleeping pills, which the scotch accelerated. She missed a police visit. Mrs Ramage watched him dismember a dummy—an expensive replica of Millie.
Millie—livid, oddly flattered, but woozy enough to stay subdued—demands clarity. Norman, eager, grabs a bottle of sparkling wine and pops it in celebration. The cork ricochets off Elizabeth’s portrait before landing beside her gold-plated scalpel trophy—awarded only to top-tier surgeons. He pours two glasses and unveils his ploy: the entire scene was an orchestrated setup. A performance, staged to discredit Mrs Ramage. It went off without a hitch. Now, any of her police calls made in the near future will be dismissed as delusion. A false alarm from a known crier of wolves.
They toast. Millie, still with one eye shut, hiccups on her bubbly.
Norman assures: Sergeant Stenning—who left but moments ago—now believes his proclivities, morbid as they may be, are purely theatrical. A twisted farce. Nothing more. And Mrs Ramage? Officially discredited—no matter the horror she claims to witness from across the way.
Millie, flustered, asserts: drugging her without consent is a betrayal. She’s been a willing accomplice before. Quick flashbacks prove compliance—her in costume, cold, humiliated, helping Norman stage recreations across England. She doesn't object to being drugged—only to being left out of the loop. It’s only a game if one knows they’re playing.
Next time, she wants in on the con.
Norman reassures her vitalness to his plot—conscious or not. She pulls away from a kiss. The mood shifts. Accusations arise. Millie corners him: all these games are distractions. Delays. Procrastinations. He promised to kill Elizabeth—but he’s stalling. Lagging. Dragging his feet.
Without action, it's all a pipe dream. Make-believe.
All bark. No bite.
Another broken promise. Another empty threat.
Will he ever follow through?
Millie reminds him: they’ll never truly be together as long as Elizabeth breathes.
Norman’s bravado falters.
She presses harder—reminding him Elizabeth returns tomorrow. Do it then. Prove he’s not just fantasising. Prove he’s not bluffing. That he’s got guts. Put your money where your mouth is.
Crestfallen, Norman agrees to do it tomorrow—but Millie’s not done.
The notion excites her.
She invites him to rehearse. On her. A dry run. Practice. Otherwise, she calls his bluff: refusing to show her only proves he has no intention of taking an actual life, despite all his pontification. Just another farce.
Norman denies, but her wink lands.
Challenge accepted, he vanishes into the cellar, rummages, and returns with an odd assortment of items—including a deck chair. He unfolds it near the kitchen door, facing away, then detaches a gas poker from its rubber tubing. The hose unspools across the floor. He pushes through the swinging pendulum door—its rhythmic sway again offering glimpses into the kitchen: the tubing threaded through, attached to the stove. A dish towel snatched. A mixing bowl pulled.
He returns to Millie, giggling at the deck chair—knowing Elizabeth would rather burn it than sit in it. Realising she’s right, Norman collapses it and swaps in an armchair. He gestures for her to sit. She does. With a sultry voice, he instructs her to close her eyes. Relax. She obeys—breath caught, aroused.
He hands her the bowl. Drapes the towel on her face. Slips into the kitchen. Opens the gas line.
Barefoot now, he creeps behind Millie, tubing in hand, stretching it from kitchen to chair. He inches it toward her nose, under the towel, narrating softly—how John Christie used gas victims the same way.
Millie squirms. Hacks. Starts to resist. Norman lets her win. He lifts the towel and dashes into the kitchen. Through the swinging door: he shuts off the valve, soaks the towel in cold water, and darts back. He presses it to her neck. He waves salts under her nose, tips her forward.
Millie jolts upright—coughing, rattled, furious. I said show me—not kill me!
Norman pours water. Sips before offering. She gulps it down. He condescendingly kisses her nose. Then promises that was not the real plan.
The real one? He won’t say. The less she knows, the better. Interrogation-proof. Accomplice insurance.
She pushes back. Accuses him again. No plan. No intention. Pure fantasy. All cowardice cloaked in a costume of courage.
Her tone cuts.
Norman’s smile fades.
A standoff.
Millie breaks a smirk first.
It’s foreplay again.
She dares him once more: rehearse on her. Not the real thing—just a drill. He refuses. She pleads. Offers herself up. Consensually, this time.
Norman won’t budge.
Frustrated, she needles him with more reverse psychology: If he won’t tell her, it’s because there’s nothing to tell. No plan means no intention. More empty spectacle. Pretending is all he’s good for.
That hits a nerve.
He explodes—ranting as he throws on his evening wear. Claims the plan is a masterpiece. Too perfect to share. Too intricate for her to grasp. She rolls her eyes.
He throws her coat over her shoulders, cuts her off mid-sentence, and steers her to the door. She begs—says she’ll rehearse in full Elizabeth wig, wardrobe, and effects if that’s what it takes. She just can’t stand being left in the dark.
He refuses. Slams the door behind her.
Their goodbye: bruised. Familiar. Unfinished.
Both with the same parting thought: I’ll show you.
Norman returns to the mirror. Toasts himself. Tries on a few more killer nicknames for size:
Norman the Corpsman.
Cut-throat Cresswell.
Bart the Beheader.
The Dorset Decapitator.
Dress rehearsals are over.
Tomorrow is opening night.
VI.
Out with the Bathwater
Later that evening, a silicone “bone” still smokes among the ashes in the potbelly stove.
At the top of the stairs, the bathroom glows behind frosted glass. A shadow moves—a woman’s silhouette. Elizabeth. She bobs about, hair wrapped in a cap, sprinkling bath salts into the tub, stirring the water. Taps hiss. Water pours. Steam escapes the crack in the door.
Downstairs, a car pulls up. Frank Sinatra’s My Way blares from the speakers. The music cuts. Clunk! The car door opens.
Headlights beam through the front door transom. Norman’s shadow eclipses the light, shrinking as he approaches. He enters in full evening attire, drops his keys—blinded by the glare. He slams the door. Problem solved.
Inebriated, he stumbles into the main room, swings off his coat, and flicks on a lamp—still humming the tune. Then stops dead.
Her fur coat. Her hat. Her suitcase. All by the Chesterfield.
From the landing, he looks up the stairs. Water hisses. Steam leaks from the bathroom door. A body settles into the tub. He sees her outline, backlit by candlelight.
That bath cap... unmistakable.
He freezes. Glances to her portrait. His stomach drops. She’s home. A day early.
Norman backs up into his easel. It clatters. She hears him.
Elizabeth’s nasal voice calls down. She demands a brandy. Pronto.
Norman knows there’s only one acceptable response: Right away, dear. Their dynamic, already established.
Frazzled, Norman crosses to the bar cart. Eyes the murky, torn-label scotch—drugged. Useless. She despises scotch and requires the desired. Begrudgingly, he pours the brandy. Pauses. Thinks.
He bolts to the bookshelf. Thwacks through volumes. Lands on George Joseph Smith: The Brides in the Bath Murders.
He brushes up on Smith’s method: A sudden submersion—yanking the feet forward—could trigger the vagal inhibition reflex, incapacitating the victim instantly to then drown in the tub. No sign of struggle. No marks. A perfect crime.
Not the original plan—but fate hath handed him a method to mimic, on a porcelain platter. His gaze snaps to the harmonium. He grins. Strips fast—down to his smalls. Tosses back her brandy.
Up the stairs. He twitches. Pauses. Debates. Retreats. Advances again. One step forward, two back. Her voice snaps. Demanding. The tone hardens his resolve. Now it’s two forward, one back… until…
He eases into the bathroom.
Steam parts. Her bath cap bobs among the bubbles. Blissfully ignorant.
He lunges. Grabs her slick legs to yank them—but slips, fumbling forward. Legs freed. Water sloshes. A shriek—cut short. A mouth full of bathwater.
The only thing Norman managed to grasp was that he’d completely botched Smith’s method.
Brute force now. Before she can clear her eyes, he plunges her head beneath the bubbles. Legs thrash. Pleas gargle. Water sprays. Candles snuff.
Darkness.
He holds.
Stillness.
He holds.
Bathwater calms.
He steps back, soaked. Limbs jut from the frothy remaining suds. No movement.
He breathes.
She doesn’t.
He exits with a towel. Closes the door.
Gobsmacked, he takes a knee at the top of the stairs. Heart racing. Pale. Elated. Both of them changed forever.
He gathers his clothes. Like another re-enactment—only real. Serious. Better… Much better.
Changed into slacks and a sweater, he returns to the main room. Faces the harmonium. Plays a shaky version of Nearer, My God, to Thee—signing the canvas of his homage. A true tribute to The Brides in the Bath Murders, complete with the very hymn Smith was said to have sung.
He stops. Hands steadier now.
No longer trembling.
Calm.
A quiet triumph glints in his eye. His first sip of absolute power and control. Intoxicating.
Addictive.
Time for a cigarette after an unforgettable climax.
He grins and dreams of disposal:
- A body dumped from a bridge into a canal. Splash!
- A trunk bursts open at Victoria Station. A pale blue arm pops out. Gasps!
- A corpse falls from a crate in a car factory. Crunch!
- A car ablaze in the street. A flaming body at the wheel.
- A funeral: A rope snaps. Two corpses slide into the grave. Guests scream!
Norman snaps out of it. The cellar, then. He gets down to business.
Flashlight in hand, he slips out the side door to the garden shed. His whistling fades.
The shed door bangs open. Bangs shut.
Whistling grows louder.
He reappears—pickaxe in hand—and heads straight downstairs.
VII.
Red Handed
Norman descends into the cellar. Sparks fly with each pickaxe strike, until stone gives way to the wet shuck of spade meeting clay. He digs, sweat-matted, muttering aloud excerpts from murder trial transcripts—his voice echoing up the stairwell and through the floorboards above.
Headlights cut through the transom—then blink off. A pause. Keys jingle. Then the doorbell rings. No answer. Knocks follow. Norman hears nothing. Eventually, Sergeant Stenning lets himself in.
He steps inside, cautious, calling out to no avail. Drawn by the echoing voice, Stenning follows it to the cellar door. Norman’s case-file recitation continues, undisturbed.
Filthy, Norman emerges mid-recital and heads straight for the bar cart—an earned refresher. Stenning clears his throat. Norman spins—spitting out his drink.
Stenning declares that he rang the bell, knocked, called out. Driving past, he noticed the car’s headlights still on. The door was ajar. He thought to check.
Norman’s composure cracks. He pours another. His hands tremble again.
Stenning presses: he heard Norman confessing to a crime. Norman insists it was just another reenactment—part of the same morbid theatre Stenning had previously been initiated into. Reminds him Stenning already played audience to a very similar charade earlier that day.
The sergeant warns—again—about the karmic toll of toying with horror, even hypothetically. Norman scoffs, then pivots into a game of verbal fencing: smug, evasive, insulting as per usual.
When accused of leaving the door open, Norman fires back—suggesting unlawful entry. Stenning produces Norman’s car keys. Found outside. Convenient. He sidestepped a legal grey area. Norman snatches them back. Sloshes another whisky. Offers one to Stenning with sarcasm, considering a pour from the drugged bottle.
Stenning declines the whisky but smacks his lips for a beer, claiming that he’s now off the clock.
Reluctant, Norman retrieves two quart bottles from behind the liquor. Stenning empties one into a pewter tankard, filling it with a long, bubbling pour. Norman watches, agitated.
They drink. Silence thickens. Carbonation fizzles.
Norman probes for war stories—cases the sergeant has worked. Stenning gives him one grim tale, told with bitter detachment. As he polishes off the beer, he eyes the empty tankard like it betrayed him.
Norman begrudgingly offers another. Stenning's only too quick to accept. Fills the tankard again. The sound—indistinguishable from urination. Norman shifts, crossing and re-crossing his legs. The bathroom taunts him.
Another war story. More beer. Stenning talks of killers who never confessed. Norman, interested at last, disapproves—arguing that credit is the entire point. That a masterful crime isn’t complete without recognition. He laments the necessary evil of the punishment to follow. But to Norman, it’s the lesser of two evils when the alternative is to go unacknowledged for exceptional work.
Stenning’s patience thins. To him, Norman’s philosophy is grotesque. He finishes the beer to rise. He must be off—after he’s permitted to use the loo. It’s the beer...
Colour drains from Norman’s face. He composes. Albeit pale.
Without approval, Stenning assumes his way to the stairs—halfway up before Norman finds a voice.
He stutters out an excuse, intercepting him. Mumbling something about a blocked toilet.
Stenning proceeds, insisting he’s quite the handyman. Grabs the doorknob. Norman petrifies.
Stenning turns the knob. The bathroom door creaks open as he flicks on the light—revealing the legs of a woman dangling over the edge of the clawfoot… that is, if Norman hadn’t expertly diverted his attention just in time: pleading to leave the fixing to a plumber. Stenning squints—then shrugs. Shuts the door with the light still on and asks if there’s another lavatory.
Norman offers the back garden as a joke. Stenning, mortified, bursting at the seams, accepts.
In the garden, Stenning relieves himself under cover of night, oblivious to Mrs Ramage’s distant window lighting up.
Norman pulses with glee from inside, electric with the thrill of rubbing a crime in the face of the law. While watching Stenning, he notices Mrs Ramage flick on another light and approach her window.
Stenning rushes inside—dribbled and flustered—claiming Mrs Ramage caught him mid-relief. Norman mocks him by offering a chamber pot–turned–planter as a third option to finish in. Stenning waves it off, relieved enough to make it home.
Yet... he lingers. Asks when Elizabeth is due back.
Norman glares, refusing to be interrogated further, and makes it clear that he's entertained enough unplanned visits for one evening. Stenning retreats, unnerved.
The door closes. Stenning is gone. Norman exhales—then bee-lines for the typewriter on the secretary desk.
He claps out a ‘Dear John’ letter in Elizabeth’s voice. The gist: she’s leaving for good, but still loves him. He forges her handwriting as a signature. He posts it proudly on the easel.
Out back, Norman ducks into the shed again. Returns with a large, clearly marked sack of quicklime.
He hauls it downstairs. In the cellar, he dusts the fresh pit with lime. Whistling while he works.
VIII.
Matching Suitcase
A car pulls up the drive. The engine cuts. A door thunks shut. Footsteps approach. Keys jingle in the lock. It turns…
Elizabeth—alive, well, unmistakably the wife in the portrait over the mantel—steps inside. She’s the right side of forty, well turned out, and roughly the same build as Millie. She carries herself with an air of competence and efficiency. Her suitcase is in hand, her name etched on its trim. She drops it, tosses down her keys, and steps back out to fetch more from the car. She closes the door behind her—unlocked.
In the cellar, Norman chuckles to himself. Soiled and satisfied, he climbs the stairs, brushing off crud. In the living room, he stops at a new suitcase in the same spot as the one before. Same trim. Same nameplate.
Confused, he scans the room—losing his grip. The front door? Unlocked. He corrects that.
Back in the living room, Norman puzzles—glaring at the bathroom door... nevermore. He shakes it off, grabs the suitcase, and drags it toward the cellar stairs.
A thud at the door stops him. Knock-knock-knock! He turns. Ding-dong!
He sprints upstairs, flips on the bathroom light to confirm a body, then flips it off—just as the tub's silhouette vanishes into darkness with an eager ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong!
He creeps back down, confused.
A more impatient knock-knock-knock! The handle jiggles. Muffled frustration.
Through the patterned glass, Elizabeth’s silhouette waits—fur coat and all. Norman’s dumbfounded. Muffled curses. It can’t be. He must be mistaken. Has he cracked? Temporary delirium? Psychosis?
He opens the door.
It can’t be. Not her.
Elizabeth stares daggers through him, arms full of luggage.
Norman petrifies. Forgets to breathe.
She storms in, hooks the door shut with a booted heel, and backs him into the living room—her scorn sharp. Locked out while hauling more bags—of course she’s irate.
She dumps her things beside the first suitcase—same nameplate, same set—though its new position near the cellar door gives her pause. Shrugging, she mocks Norman’s catatonic daze. Tells him to stop gawking and make himself useful.
Norman’s in shock. She snaps him out of it with an urgent order. He tries to keep his cool, but cold sweat is all that shows for it. His gaze is involuntarily pulled to the bathroom.
Dissociated, he stammers out the fact that she’s early. He wasn’t expecting her until tomorrow.
Her reply cuts through his panic: surgery postponed. Her answers come quick—each one landing faster than Norman can distract with a response.
She snatches her keys, tells him to help with the last load—and not to lock her out this time.
She exits.
Norman stares at her coat, the matching bags, then bolts for the cellar door.
Looking down the stairwell: the same suitcase he tossed earlier. Same trim. Same name. Same coat colour... but different versions. A different set.
He races to the hall closet. Throws it open. Dozens of coats. Two empty hangers dangle.
He peeks through the transom. In the driveway, Elizabeth juggles dry cleaning, a purse, and one last handbag. Her keys drop with a metallic crinkle followed by a muted curse.
Back inside, Norman faces the bathroom door. His vision tunnels. He covers his mouth.
It was Millie. Pretending to be Elizabeth. Just like she offered... for practice.
He killed the wrong woman.
The one he loves is dead.
The one he hates is still alive.
Elizabeth hollers from outside, fumbling with the door again.
Norman retches. Can’t move. Can’t speak. Hyperventilating. Shaking. Going… Gone.
Elizabeth barges back in, juggling more bags and grumbling that Norman is about as helpful as an ‘s’ in the word lisp. He snaps from his frenzy just long enough to lock the door behind her.
She sighs, gives up, and declares her need for a hot bath. Norman's dread propels him. He intercepts with a brandy offer. She rolls her eyes, but could use one. She accepts.
At the bar cart, Norman reconsiders pouring from the tainted scotch bottle. Déjà vu. Alas, he comes to the same conclusion: she still loathes whisky. He fills a snifter with her usual brandy.
As he pours, she eyes his slovenly appearance, noting he was supposed to have a dinner party this evening. He claims to have changed for comfort. She takes everything he says with a grain of salt and a sip of brandy.
While she tidies, Norman catches sight of Millie’s portrait still on the easel. He swiftly leans it against the wall, facing the trim, before Elizabeth spots it. Too late—she’s already jabbing about his ready-made courtesan.
The venom between them curdles the air. Elizabeth knows full well about his affair with Millie. She's quick to remind him. Norman snaps back with pathetic defences. Elizabeth, sharp as ever, dismisses Millie’s infatuation as a mere phase—like her own once was. She warns: it fades with age. The clock: she ticks.
She mocks the cycle. Norman will just find another bimbo to seduce and poison with delusion. Part of the fun for him. His games.
She’s right. Hence why it hurts.
She needles deeper. In defense of Millie, Norman blurts out his preference for her. Elizabeth smirks, triumphant. She knows what buttons to push. She turns and makes for the stairs.
He blocks her path. Offers another drink—an olive branch. She sighs, relents.
He pours... pours... pours… Triple brandy. She softens. A flicker of warmth passes between them. Or perhaps it's just the booze?
They recall a trip to France. The triple shot was designed to trigger on such memory. It works. Laughter. Nostalgia. Tension relieved. They finish each other’s sentences. For a fleeting moment—they’re human again. Something like love once lingered between them.
Norman ruins it. He can’t help himself. He relates the memory to a famous murder case.
Elizabeth recoils. Moment shattered.
She claps back that he should tell it to his jailbait, then starts up the stairs.
Norman stalls her with a last-ditch effort: her car. She should move it to the carport. Forecast calls for snow.
She refuses. Exhausted.
He insists. She suggests he do it, if it matters that much to him.
Back and forth they go—until she folds. Storms outside in a rage to acquiesce.
A moment alone. Norman bolts upstairs.
In the bathroom, he slips on wet tile—face to face with Millie’s dead eyes. Bubbles now cleared.
He mourns—for a fleeting second—then gets to work.
Drain unplugged. Water swirls, revealing more of her. He hauls her slick, dead weight—like a broken marionette—from the clawfoot. A wig and bath cap bob in her wake. At the top of the stairs, he loses his grip. She tumbles down—BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-THUNK! Insult to injury.
Outside, Elizabeth’s car door slams. Time’s up.
Norman grabs Millie’s ankle in retreat. Dragging her back up, her head makes each step felt with a thump. He folds her back into the tub. Tries to wipe the panic—and suds—from his face.
Lights out. He flees to a hard stop.
Elizabeth confronts him at the landing. He blocks the bathroom route. She sidesteps. He blocks again. She shoves past. Vanishes upstairs.
He grimaces. Waits. Looks away. Any second now.
A match strikes in the bathroom. A sink candle flickers. Another. Elizabeth hears water draining behind her. The light catches the shape of a pale, lifeless figure in the vanity reflection. A mannequin? Is Norman playing games again? She rotates to face it.
Another match strikes, trembling as it illuminates Millie’s face. Dead. Drained. An empty vessel.
Elizabeth whacks the lights on, then stands almost as still as Millie—save for the shiver.
Face to face with a corpse in the tub—just as the last of the water drains through the tangled hair of a sudsy wig. A deafening, tortured GURGLING-SLURP reminds Elizabeth to breathe.
Her eyes fill.
IX.
Prenuptial
Elizabeth staggers from the bathroom—pale, hollow-eyed—and descends toward Norman, slumped at the bottom step. She forces his terrified eyes to hers. Silence confirms his guilt.
Norman insists Millie's death was an accident. Elizabeth dismantles his story—each contradiction exposing a deeper lie. Then the hammer drops: Why didn’t he call the police?
Norman’s defences crumble.
Elizabeth calls out Norman’s obsession with the "Brides in the Bath" murder case, accusing him of recreating his sick fantasy. Cornered, Norman breaks—swears he never meant any real harm to Millie. Her drowning was a tragic accident, a twisted game gone wrong. Elizabeth doesn’t buy it—not fully.
Desperate, Norman weaponises Elizabeth’s reputation as a doctor. He claims her testimony could protect him. He sketches a believable scene: Millie bathing, Elizabeth unexpectedly home early, a tragic slip—plausible and convincing. Elizabeth listens, disgusted yet intrigued.
She demands another drink. Norman obliges—hope floats. Elizabeth nurses her cognac, questioning aloud why she should protect a husband she'd gladly surrender to justice.
Norman darkens, threatening to implicate Elizabeth if she refuses. Her career. Her spotless reputation. All of it would collapse in an instant—under suspicion of murder.
You could cut the tension with a scalpel.
She asks what his original disposal plan was. He admits to preparing a quicklime grave in the cellar—no body, no crime. Elizabeth scoffs at his shortsightedness, insisting the only believable way forward is staging an accident.
Norman rises—hopeful. Elizabeth slices through it by laying out strict terms of agreement: no divorce, absolute fidelity, and publicly presenting a flawless marriage henceforth. Norman hesitates briefly, then agrees—the price trivial compared to Elizabeth’s critical cooperation.
Elizabeth takes command. Eyes steady, voice icy: conceal the grave.
X.
Webs We Weave
Elizabeth strides to the cellar door. Freezes. Her coat and suitcase lie beside the freshly disturbed earth. Dread. Norman stiffens.
She demands answers, suspicion sharpening her voice. Norman stammers a pathetic excuse—maybe she dropped them down there herself? Elizabeth dismisses his lie, storms down, grabs her belongings, back up to thrust them toward him. She must have answers.
Blocking his escape, she replays his startled reaction upon her unexpected return home. She’s come home early before. Why, this time, did Norman look like he’d seen Hamlet’s father?
It clicks: Elizabeth, not Millie, was the intended victim.
Norman flails—denial by instinct. But Elizabeth pieces it together: Millie, indulging their twisted game, had disguised herself as Elizabeth, never believing Norman would actually go through with it. He drowned her, thinking she was his wife—realising his fatal mistake only after it was too late.
She pegs him with the precision of a sniper’s kill shot.
Norman refutes. Pleads. Grabs her arm. She flips, violently shoving him away. She accuses, flat out: they plotted her murder. Millie, doubting Norman’s nerve to follow through, tragically underestimated the depths of his depravity. Add to that a great deal of booze and voilà.
At bay, Norman scrambles—claims her things were props for the performance. Another evasion. Elizabeth’s gaze cuts through him, dissecting his deception like the surgeon that she is.
Desperate, Norman grabs her shoulders and grovels. He switches it on her—if she doubts his innocence, call the local station and ask them to send Sergeant Stenning. Do it now. Without trust, their marriage is dead anyway.
A gentle kiss. A fragile truce. Elizabeth breaks away to add new, harsher terms to their verbal contract. Norman protests. She cuts him off, ice in her voice: he still needs her alibi.
A clock chime jolts them both. Norman urgently insists they stage the accident. Elizabeth concurs; as a doctor, she knows every second counts. Time of death is roughly detectable. The longer they wait, the more they tempt fate. She clarifies that Millie's death must look entirely accidental for this to work.
Their eyes meet. Partners again. Bound by necessity. Nothing else. Norman grabs a travelling rug and heads upstairs to stage a tragic accident. As soon as his back turns—his face alters.
Smug.
Triumphant.
XI.
Sentimental Waltz
Elizabeth lifts the house phone, begins dialling—then sees it: a note pinned to the easel. A farewell, forged by Norman in her voice. A sick joke.
An operator answers the phone. Elizabeth hangs up, fury rising.
Upstairs, Norman uses the dry travelling rug to repeatedly lift and drop Millie's slick body, staging her fatal fall. Frustration builds—until her body lands just right. In a brief, unsettling moment, he strokes her lifeless face goodbye.
He turns—halts.
Elizabeth stands in the doorway, ‘Dear John’ note in hand. Eyes ablaze.
Norman did intend her death, not Millie’s, after all.
She erupts into hysterics, mocking his pathetic attempt at criminal genius gone wrong. Norman's narcissistic rage explodes. He lunges, throttling Elizabeth, silencing her cruel laughter.
They barrel down the stairs—hard, tangled, broken.
Their impact rattles the wainscoting, knocking Millie’s portrait to the floor—face up.
Norman stirs first, finding Elizabeth unconscious but with a pulse.
An idea ignites: frame Elizabeth as Millie’s killer—jealous, guilt-ridden—and stage her suicide.
He drags her to the kitchen, slipping through the swaying pendulum door. It rocks gently—back, forth, back—revealing flashes: her head cradled in the oven, the hiss of gas. It wavers… sputters out. Furious, Norman storms off to replace the cylinder.
As the door settles, Elizabeth revives to the distant sound of Norman rummaging in the cellar. She stays still. Breath shallow.
Playing dead.
Norman returns. Through the swaying door’s gaps: a hiss of gas, the click of a new cartridge, Norman leaning in to check her pulse—then a flash. A thrust. Elizabeth stabs the meat thermometer into his gut.
Screeching, Norman reads his internal temperature, then reels back—out through the kitchen door, into the main room—clutching his fresh wound.
Elizabeth shuts off the gas. Between each door swing: flashes of her stumbling to the sink, hacking, gasping, gulping water. Each breath sharper. Each swipe of the door—more rage.
Bleeding and panicked, Norman staggers to the bay window, clutching his wound. Elizabeth stalks after him—calm, deliberate.
Norman smears blood across the glass. He calls out—wants to be seen. To be saved.
Then it hits him: he discredited Mrs Ramage. He engineered her irrelevance. Even if she’s watching, she’ll be ignored. His efforts are futile. No one will come for him.
Behind Norman, Elizabeth quietly activates her smartphone’s voice memo recorder. She hides it on the executive desk, just out of Norman’s view.
Pale and gasping, Norman slumps back—away from the window. Out of its frame.
Elizabeth arms herself with the golden scalpel from her surgeon’s award plaque, approaches the window to take his place—not in fear, but with thespian flair. She shows him how it’s done.
Exterior perspective: From across the way—approximating Mrs Ramage’s line of sight—the bay window frames Elizabeth’s performance: screaming, banging on blood-streaked glass, pantomiming a violent struggle as she’s dragged off by some unseen attacker.
Then—curtains fall.
View obstructed.
Back inside: Elizabeth finished dropping the curtains.
Illusion sealed.
Norman watches, troubled—as if she’s lost her mind.
Out of range of the audio recorder, she whispers the moral of never crying wolf: or else no one will believe you when something really happens.
A smirk.
She concludes, however, that they will believe her story.
Norman’s confusion flips to terror when noticing the scalpel that glints in her grip.
Elizabeth, now facing the concealed device on the desk, begins to scream an Oscar-worthy plea for mercy, portraying Norman as her violent attacker.
To her, it’s strategy. To Norman—unaware of the recorder—it looks like she’s cracked: all the more unsettling.
With the razor-sharp blade gleaming, she stalks Norman into a corner.
Her calls for help contradict her menacing advance, tormenting and baffling him further. The sound betrays the visual truth.
Confused.
Bleeding.
Trapped.
Norman stares, helpless, as Elizabeth pins him near the potbelly stove.
What follows is theatre. Auditory theatre. Elizabeth crafts a convincing soundscape: overturned furniture, self-inflicted slaps, and perfectly timed cries for help.
She stages a brutal-soundtrack attack.
Norman petrifies as she superficially wounds herself, no doubt to prove aggravated assault.
Projecting to the recorder, she warns: one more move, and she’ll be forced to defend herself—begging Norman, who in reality hasn’t budged from the corner, to stop.
With vicious precision, she then slashes Norman repeatedly across the chest and arms.
Blood spatters the bookshelf and paintings. Norman collapses, bleeding out.
As he weakens, Elizabeth continues to feign remorse for her “self-defence”—yet contradicts herself by whispering cruel nothings into his ear, just out of reach of the microphone.
Stealthlike, under her breath, she riles him up—promising to claim credit for both murders, ensuring Norman will be remembered not as a revered killer, but a pathetic victim.
Norman confesses—loud and proud—clawing for control of the narrative.
Desperate to be remembered as the killer he always dreamed of being.
Exactly as Elizabeth intended.
She softly urges him—mocking. He roars his full admission, crystal clear for the recorder: Elizabeth was the intended target—but Millie’s drowning, though mistaken, was still premeditated. A deliberate, first-degree murder. He deserves the credit, nonetheless.
He believes this to be his lasting infamy.
She knows it to be sealing his fate.
Elizabeth plants a tender kiss on Norman's forehead and whispers a final thank you.
She rises, back in character. Gasps. Weeps. Paces—just loudly enough.
Then—click—she turns off the recorder. Drops the performance like a homicidal husband.
With what little energy remains, Norman writes his confession in blood. Parting words. Passing out just as urgent knock-knock-knocking erupts at both front and back doors.
Sergeant Stenning calls from outside for immediate admittance.
Elizabeth, composed, waits as Norman sinks deep into unconsciousness.
WHAM! Sergeant Stenning bursts through the side garden door. He rushes to Norman’s collapsed form—suspecting another staged scene at first, until sensing the reality of Norman’s wounds. It’s not fake this time. Another officer follows close behind.
Elizabeth drops the scalpel with a loud clatter, drawing their attention.
Terrified and blood-spattered, she trembles—convincingly.
Stenning quickly orders backup and an ambulance. More constables flood the house, clearing rooms, securing the scene.
Stenning wraps Elizabeth gently with his coat. Offers comfort. Laments Norman’s descent into madness—one he personally warned him about earlier that very day.
Drifting in and out of consciousness, Norman beckons Stenning closer.
With what he thinks is his final breath, Norman rasps a confession. Just to be sure.
He wants the credit. Needs the credit. Craves to be counted among the elect few—one of history’s great murderers.
A notorious, methodical killer.
Norman’s voice falters. Trails off.
He slips from Stenning’s arms—lifeless.
XII.
Curtain Call
Darkness.
Voices.
Sergeant Stenning reassures her softly—Elizabeth did what she had to do.
Norman jolts awake to the rip of tape—an IV line pulled from his arm. He's cuffed to a chair, feet zip-tied, wounds bandaged. Police lights pulse through the windows. Paramedics retreat. Stenning stands nearby, arms crossed, pinching and inspecting Norman’s vial of smelling salts. Past Stenning, out the bay window—distant, proud—Mrs Ramage’s silhouette is lapping it up.
Norman, realising he’s alive, demands an explanation—eyes wide, voice breaking.
Stenning informs: the wounds looked worse than they are. Thanks to Elizabeth’s anatomical awareness, major arteries and organs were avoided. He’ll survive. Which is more than she owed him after what he pulled.
Norman pivots fast. He shifts blame to Elizabeth—claims she masterminded Millie’s demise.
Just then, Millie’s tarped body passes by on a stretcher. The room stills. Norman withers.
Stenning counters—calm, deliberate—citing irrefutable forensic evidence. Also, Norman’s blood-signed confession.
Norman flails. Denies all. Claims delirium. Coercion. Anything. Everything.
Stenning doesn’t blink. Produces Elizabeth’s recorder. Presses play.
Norman’s own voice buzzes in the room: cold, calculating, clear-headed. Threats. Confessions. No ambiguity.
His “confess under duress” defense dissolves on contact.
Norman’s shaken—this time by fear, not blood loss. He pivots again: temporary insanity?
Dismissed as quickly. His actions were too methodical. Proof of a sick—but “sound”—mind.
Unseen by Norman, Elizabeth leans in and whispers a taunt—just outside Stenning’s earshot.
Norman shrieks. Eyes roll back.
Stenning calmly waves the smelling salts under his nose. Perhaps too generously.
Norman bounces back with accusations: Elizabeth was his accomplice—right up until the police arrived. He insists that a full recording, if played, proves her complicity beyond a shadow of a doubt.
Stenning raises a brow.
Reminds Norman of his voluntary confession that sits atop an orgy of evidence. The cherry.
Case closed.
Elizabeth intervenes—controlled, cool, calm, collected.
She dismantles Norman’s story with surgical precision.
She explains: anything she said was said to survive.
Every word? Self-preservation.
She did whatever was necessary to escape a threatening, homicidal maniac—her husband.
She continues—this time cutting into a vital organ: Norman’s ego.
Divorcing him would’ve meant professional disgrace, reputational collapse, but mostly financial disaster. As the sole breadwinner, an “intact” marriage allowed her to retain her hard-earned assets and successful persona. It wasn’t out of weakness. Or love. It was business. Nothing more.
Now, thanks to Norman’s attempt on her life, he’s legally entitled to absolutely nothing. She walks away clean. Maybe even a hero. Reputation intact. Perhaps even bolstered for stopping a crazed killer and narrowly escaping with her life.
Desperate, Norman tries to spin this as her motive all along. Claims she set him up. One last lie.
No one nibbles Norman’s kibble.
The tape proves Elizabeth was extorted and blackmailed. Not to mention the ever-present threat on her life, Norman pledged to publicly ruin her with lies unless she complied. The recording not only neuters his leverage, it proves his coercive control.
Game. Set. Match. Elizabeth outplayed him—flawlessly.
Stenning delivers it without ceremony:
Norman killed the wrong woman.
Fainted at the sight of his own blood.
Got caught within hours.
He’ll surely be remembered for this night.
But not as a legend.
He’ll be a joke.
A laughing stock.
Constables cut Norman’s zip ties, unfasten his cuffs—only to re-restrain him as he struggles to stand. Elizabeth watches with grim satisfaction.
Then, the final humiliation.
She tosses out mock headlines, killer nicknames, and acronyms—a rite of passage for all the greats:
MMM: The Mistaken-Maiden Manslaughterer
BBB: Bathtub-Bimbo Bart… Not just alliteration, but the sequence of events. A double entendre.
She crowns him at last: Numpty Norm.
He breaks.
Sobs.
The constables drag him away—kicking, pleading.
Ignored.
On their way, Stenning turns to Elizabeth.
He hands her a card. Instructs her to stay in town for an official statement on Monday.
Shoots her one last signature-skeptical-squint… then departs.
Norman’s screams trail down the hall—begging for someone, anyone, to believe him.
Outside: nothing. No flashbulbs. No fanfare. No fame. Just the pulse of blue and white in the driveway—indifference.
Stenning queries: Did he expect a crowd? The press? A red carpet?
Norman’s silence says it all.
Celebrity shattered. He’ll never have his own fragrance.
His ego is what truly bled out.
Stenning makes it clear: the only attention Norman will get is in the clink—where fellow inmates don’t take too kindly to men who harm women.
Call it street justice.
Elizabeth watches from the doorway—expression unreadable.
Norman sobs the whole way to the back of the police car.
Stenning offers the advice he’s been itching to tell Norman all day: keep your gob shut.
The great, formidable foe.
Weeping like a spoiled brat.
Extinguished.
XIII.
Epilogue ~ The Last Laugh
Elizabeth closes the door behind her. Exhausted. But victorious.
She pours herself a drink from the bar cart—scotch, from Norman’s stash. Not her usual. But thou shalt waste not... Stolen is twice as sweet as earned.
She toasts Millie’s upturned portrait—the final record of her alive, captured in oil, now actually worth something. Ironic.
She vows to sell every last one of Norman’s paintings.
The insult will extend beyond his departure. Poetic, really.
She downs the scotch. A sour face. After topping off her glass, she discards the empty bottle in the bin, then climbs the stairs.
In the candlelit bathroom—still marked by forensics—Elizabeth slips into the hot bath she’s needed all along, drink in hand, new ring on her finger.
Millie’s ring, forgotten on the soap dish.
She slipped it on—amused, arrogant. Another overlooked detail that would’ve sunk Numpty-Dumpty Norman.
She reflects on it as the fatal flaw among murderers: the absurd need for an audience. For credit. That’s what gets men caught, isn’t it? They might get away with it—if not for the predominantly male urge to gloat. To sign the canvas. To leave clues. Perhaps even unconsciously.
’Tis but phallic compensation that requires applause.
Nearly drifting to sleep, she startles—imagining a figure behind her.
Shakes it off.
Just nerves. Trauma.
Another deep sip—from a bottle Norman will not miss.
It goes down easier this time.
Her head nods.
Vision swims.
Breathing slows.
Something’s wrong.
Her limbs refuse her.
Her mouth opens, but no sound comes.
Pupils dilate.
She realises it too late to escape it.
She slips further into the bath.
Her head droops.
Each subtle slide deeper into the tub displaces more water into the overflow drain. It clogs and gasps with a tortured, rhythmic SUCKING sound.
The waterline creeps to her lips.
Her nose.
Her nostrils now take on water in sync with the overflow drain—both slurping in a fight for air.
Her eyes.
The rock glass slips from her gripless fingers, smashes on the tile.
The overflow drain struggles for air.
As does she.
Downstairs, beside Millie’s portrait: The scotch bottle lies in the bin.
Torn label.
Its contents—the very poison Norman prepared—now paralyzing Elizabeth.
One last betrayal.
Upstairs—GURGLE-CHOKE-SLLLUURRRP—the drain fights the risen tide.
Elizabeth lies submerged.
Lifeless.
Adorned with Millie’s ring.
Contorted.
Still.
Identical to Millie’s portrait.
The end.