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Ms Jacqueline de Longcorridor had endured many trials in her life. Being an independent woman in 1870s was not an easy feat. There were many who did not want her to succeed and even more who resented her achievements. Instead of allowing herself to be pushed aside, she decided at a young age that she would grab life by the balls and shine!
In some ways, life was easier in France. With not a penny to her name, she kept herself clothed and fed through sex work. It was terrible, dangerous work, and she did not miss it. But it was in France that she met Ms Longbottom. The men in France were more accepting of the affectionate nature between the two women. It was simple enough to hide in plain sight.
While in France, they had goals of getting out of the sex work industry. The pair spent many long nights lying together in the candlelight, whispering dreams of getting a little cottage and growing old together.
Looking back on those dreams now… it all felt so distant—foolish really.
One night, an old drunkard stumbled in after closing. The brothel where the mesdames worked was owned by a fool who often forgot to lock up. They should have known better really. They should have known better than to think they could allow themselves a moment of intimacy that wasn’t a performance or sealed shut behind triple locked doors.
They might have been in France, but this man did not take favorably to what he saw. There was a struggle, and then there was blood. So much blood.
And then a scream from the balcony.
Before they knew it, Ms de Longcorridor had killed the man and the young witness. They knew they’d never escape this, but they damn well tried. Ms de Longcorridor had not gone this many years scraping for any ounce of independence to let it all go this quickly.
So she and Ms Longbottom gathered up their savings and boarded the first ship out to England. They managed to set up their own establishment, “Lady Jacqueline’s Boulangerie de Strip,” where girls didn’t have to be touched. Instead, they could provide entertainment as a means of work while allowing a modicum of safety and independence to the girls.
And they had almost gotten away with it. Until word of their establishment had reached France. Girls started coming over to England to work for them. And then they were recognized.
She hadn’t wanted to kill. But she couldn’t let them take away everything she’d worked for. Ms Longbottom was clever. She proposed to make it look like a serial killer. Serial killers were never women. She even wanted to toy with the police by leaving a calling card of glitter and strippers’ accouterments.
“They’ll never suspect us. Men are so incompetent, non? Even with all the evidence right under their noses, they’ll never even see us,” she’d said.
And she was right. Until one night, someone did see—a woman passing by. It was a shame. She never should’ve been on that side of town. She turned out to be the chief inspector’s wife. But he still couldn’t even imagine the killer was anyone but a man.
Years went by without issue. The pair began to relax. When a young brighteyed girl named Annette came to their establishment, both Ms de Longcorridor and Ms Longbottom took a liking to her, and oh she would whine so pretty when sandwiched between the two older women. They couldn’t get enough of how enticing her pink lips looked when painted with her own slick, fingers touching, entering, stretching.
Absolutely angelic.
So when one of the other girls shyly approached Ms de Longcorridor with questions about her relationships, the moment things turned accusatory, she got rid of her—made it look like a reprise of the infamous Jack the Stripper, (as the killer had been benamed).
It was a shame really. When the police came poking around their establishment, the mesdames were perhaps too relaxed in what they let Annette see. She was part of this now—no longer an innocent party (despite how deliciously innocent her eyes looked when gazing up from kneeling on the floor).
“Annette, what have I told you about talking to the police?”
But Annette was too trusting. Ms Longbottom brought it up with Ms de Longcorridor first. “Ma puce, it’s time.”
That night, after they left her bloodied by the river, Ms Longbottom held Ms de Longcorridor as she cried. The inspector would pay for bringing their sweet Annette into this. Ms Longbottom began cooking up a plan.
The Bavarian lad, Frankie, was another unfortunate casualty, but Ms Longbottom had enough of killing girls. It was time for the men to pay.
Everything went perfectly according to plan. The law refused to consider the women. The men saw them, but they didn’t see them as anything but victims in the story. With only minimal proding, the men easily started pointing fingers at each other. And with one sly suggestion and a clandestine hand-over of a gun, the deed was done. The case was shut, and the detective inspector would be paying with the rest of his life.
The mesdames de Longcorridor and Longbottom waltzed out of that courtroom hand-in-hand.
Because Ms Jacqueline de Longcorridor had endured many trials in her life, but she would always come out on top.