The Execution

by | Jul 24, 2025

A crowd of onlookers watch the flames consume the structure.

“The Burning of the Mansion House, Queen Square” (1831-32), William James Müller. Courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It was the twenty-fourth of December and my firm had given us the day off. I thought I would spend the day at home, but the boardinghouse was unbearably loud—the landlady had invited her sisters, and they were clucking and bickering like hens. So instead, I grabbed my coat and went for a walk.
It had been a dry winter—bitter, biting cold, and not a drop of rain or snow for weeks. The streets were parched, salt-white, like a valley of bones, and those hot, hissing braziers put out for Christmas made the skin peel off the back of my hands and the blood curdle in my nose. The wind was searing cold that day, and the wood in those old London houses rattled, brittle enough to break.

After walking aimlessly for a few blocks, I decided I wanted to have a look at the Thames. The quickest way to get there was to cross through Whitechapel, the city’s red-light district. I had been there a few times before, not averse to watching fish-netted legs contort themselves in glass cases. But tonight was for the Thames, and there was no need to waste money on entertainment.

I had walked a few blocks into Whitechapel when, a little way ahead, I saw a crowd gathered outside a tall, gaunt row house. I wondered why until I saw the clouds of smoke puffing from the building, and heard the sirens in the distance. I stopped to watch and to listen to the murmurs of the crowd; I noticed not a small amount of them were thinly dressed sex toys. And then I saw—or thought I saw—a shadow move in one of the second-floor windows.

I had been there a few times before, not averse to watching fish-netted legs contort themselves in glass cases. But tonight was for the Thames, and there was no need to waste money on entertainment.

My heart skipped a beat. I wove through the crowd and ran up to a woman standing a little apart in the center of it, who seemed to be the proprietor of the house. She was staring at the blaze stoically, expressionlessly.
“Is there someone in there?” I cried.
She didn’t answer—didn’t even look at me.
Then I saw the shadow again, and my heart gave another corresponding jolt. It was a ghastly image: the figure of a woman, black against the red wall of fire behind her. It burned with an unchained hunger, rolling and wavering in euphoric, flickering colors, engulfing her. I could hear the snap of sparks and smell the skin, burning, as tongues of flame licked her arms. The heat made my eyes tear up for the first time in weeks.
“Is there someone in there?” I shouted again at the woman.
Still she didn’t answer. No one in the crowd did. They only stared up at the building with numb, blank eyes.
I looked over my shoulder anxiously—no sign of the fire trucks. I decided that if no one else was going to rescue that woman, I would. Holding an arm in front of my face, I ran up to the front door. The heat billowed—hungry, angry, desperate—but I kept going.
A brass plaque beside the door read “Tenants Must Adhere to Community Rules” in melting letters. I barely remembered to wrap my hand in my scarf before grabbing the doorknob. When it wouldn’t turn, I tried banging on the door, shouting to the woman.
“Open the door!”
There was no response outside of the crackle of flame. I started ramming my shoulder into the door, but it wouldn’t budge.
I lifted my head to yell once more, and nearly stumbled back when the woman’s face was right in front of mine, floating through the window on the door. The fire gaped like a throat within the house, thirsting for her. It filled the hallway in hellish black, and she stood on the precipice of it all—commanding it.
I grit my teeth and remembered my mission. “Come on, open the door! I can save you!”

She tilted her head at me, a smile tickling her lips. In her eyes I found no fear of the blaze, or even gratitude at my arrival. Instead, she looked … proud.

She flung out her arms and rolled back her head lasciviously, tasting the flames. For a moment, her body formed a cross, Christlike and exultant, in the window frame. Then she collapsed.

I shook out of my confusion and tried once more to open the door, and only this time did the wood give. I reached down and gathered up her collapsed form, running back to the front yard. The second floor gave a creaking moan and crumbled once I was safely on the grass.

She tilted her head at me, a smile tickling her lips. In her eyes I found no fear of the blaze, or even gratitude at my arrival. Instead, she looked … proud.

 
As I passed through the throng, carrying the unconscious woman, the landlady said in a low, dry, emotionless voice, “It would have been better if you had let her die.”
She still only looked at the fire.
And in spite of the heat in the air and the sweat on my face, I felt the hard, unbending cold of winter in her words.
I brought the woman to one of the fire trucks that was arriving and left her with a medic. She didn’t regain consciousness.
I looked at the crowd, still silent and unmoving, transfixed before the blaze. Why didn’t they help her?
A pop of flame brought my attention back to the house, as it fractured further into sparks and ashes. And why didn’t she call for help? Why didn’t she answer my calls to her?
I remember turning to head home, my nerves frayed and frustrated.
A murmur rippled through the crowd, and I glanced back to see the fire flaring up as the house began to collapse. The flames twisted and bent strangely, reaching for the sky, voracious and laughing. The image was triumphant, somehow—it made me recall the woman’s face as she stared at me through the door.
With a sharp shake of my head, I worked to swallow my sudden rage and hurried out of Whitechapel.
Victoria Albert

Victoria Albert

Publab Fellow 2025

Victoria Albert is a graduate student in history at the University of California, Santa Barbara. She studies 19th-century Britain with an interest in violence, crime, and the discourses around them. In her free time she likes to write historical fiction.