The papers call me “the gentleman killer.” I wrapped the throat of my first victim in the silk scarf with which I strangled her. That’s what passes as a gentleman these days.
I ask you: How do you reconcile a man who is capable of deep, tender love (because I’ve felt it), a man, who—by public standards—is a health reformer, assistant to the future British Prime Minister, and the son-in-law of a wealthy industrialist, but who, when the moment overtakes him, kills women? I don’t know what to make of it myself, but that’s me. I’ve been told I have a philosopher’s mind, that I’m ambitious and can do anything I set my mind to—but sometimes my sadomasochistic tendencies get the better of me.
I don’t venture judgement—on myself or anyone else. I’ll leave that up to you.
My name is Kilcairn, and these are my confessions.