The Assassin's Assassin

By Benjamin Parsons

Who is the beautiful and mysterious Thamesis, born from the dirty waters of London's mighty river? Why does death persue those who love her? What is the secret of her fatal allure? When a discreet murderer is hired to kill her, the preternatural enigma of her life begins to unfold. But when two assassins are set against each other, who will assassinate who? Part of the collection The Green Lady and Other Stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Benjamin Parsons
• Release date: Mar 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301785995

Benjamin Parsons

I am a writer and artist from the Westcountry of England now living in London. I write and illustrate stories about love, hate, ambition, revenge, beauty, and the supernatural.

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The Assassin’s Assassin

by Benjamin Parsons

Copyright 2023 Benjamin Parsons. First published in 2012.

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Very early one cold, overcast January morning, it came about that I was crossing the river at St Paul’s to reach the south bank; and as I began to mount the arc of the new bridge, I happened to look down to my left, over the rails, and was surprised by what I saw below.

When the tide goes out, the receding waterline reveals intermittent stretches of stark beach under the embankments— dirty fringes of sludge and rubble— and there, contrasting as a pale gleam with the squalid detritus around her, was a beautiful woman, finely dressed in a long and sumptuous white coat, open in front, with a mere slip beneath. Her bare toes peeped from the hems of her attire, but she neither stepped with timidity, nor lifted those fine clothes out of the muck; and the fledgling seagulls, flecked with brown, which were stood huddled all along this shore, neither flinched nor cawed at her approach, even as she moved among their numbers. Her face was full of anxiety, and a sort of breathless urgency that was matched by her movements as she advanced between the sorry, rotted palings sticking up at intervals from the shallows. She moved to the very lapping edge of the water and paused, a picture of terrible but lovely anguish, staring out into the silver-grey body of the river.

I wondered, for a moment, whether the pockets of her elegant mantle might be stuffed with broken bricks, picked from the silt on every side, and that, thus weighed, she meant to rush into the strong flood and drown herself; but as soon as I realised who she was, I knew I was wrong— and so, like a true Londoner, I hurried on my way, ignorantly, and did not look back to see what happened next.

But I have since learned the whole tale of what brought her to the brink of the Thames that chilly morning, and here it is.

Do you remember hearing of a strange foundling, a mere baby, who was washed up one day near Tower