The Cloven Foot by Mary Elizabeth Braddon

Murder! an awful word under the most ordinary circumstances of every-day life -- an awful word even when spoken of an event that happened long ago, or afar off. But what a word shouted in the dead of night, through the close darkness of a sleeping house, thrilling the ear of slumber, freezing the blood in the half-awakened sleepers' veins.

Such a shout -- repeated with passionate clamour -- scared the inhabitants of the Cibber Street lodging-house at three o'clock in the winter morning, still dark as deepest night. Mrs. Rawber heard it in her back bedroom on the ground floor. It penetrated confusedly -- not as a word, but as a sound of fear and dread -- to the front kitchen, where Mrs. Evitt, the landlady, slept on an ancient press bedstead, which by day made believe to be a book-case. Lastly, Desrolles, who seemed to have slept more heavily than the other two on that particular night, came rushing out of his room to ask the meaning of that hideous summons.