Page 14 of Across Space and Time

“He would have disappeared two nights ago,” Hugh said.

Anthony shook his head. “Nobody from here then, but I’ll ask around for ya.”

“Thank you. Would Mr. Galloway have any reason to want Alexander gone? Or Christopher?”

Anthony shook his head. “No. We make money when we’re alive, I can’t think that he’d let somethin’ happen to us. Unless it was a helluva lot of money.”

Every soul had its price, Hugh supposed. “Has that happened before? Someone got too violent with one of you?”

“Not usually here,” Anthony said. “One scream, and we got lots of people that will come running. But sometimes at special events, if they’re looking for something in particular and had enough money, I suppose anything is possible.”

He rose to his feet. “Thank you for answering my questions. I will do my best to find out who killed Christopher and bring him to justice.” He had no idea how much he could actually do. He was a patrolman, not an investigator. But he found himself caring about this group of boys he had never met. Boys who had been rejected by their families or run away from home because of who they loved. Forced to sell their bodies to strangers to keep a roof over their heads and food in their stomachs. At least here was safer than out on the streets.

Anthony slid off the bed. “Much appreciated, sir.” His icy eyes narrowed, and he smiled sweetly, closer to the flirty smile he had had downstairs. “You did pay for a full hour. Anything I can do for you while you’re here?”

He hated to admit that he was tempted. Anthony was beautiful, and it had been months since he had had his last encounter in a furtive tumble in the back room of one of the pubs. But he was still a police officer, and he was technically on the clock, investigating two mysterious deaths. He was not going to break that trust with Anthony by not being better than any other corrupt police officer. “Thank you, but no,” he said gently. “I appreciate the offer though.”

Anthony smiled, a genuine smile now, and gave Hugh a gracious nod before opening the bedroom door for him. “Thank you for coming.”

Hugh nodded in return, not wanting to say anything more with the door open and people passing by in the hallways, so he just put on his cap and headed down the stairs. Mr. Galloway waved him over, and Hugh reluctantly moved to the big man’s side.

“How was Rachel?” he asked.

“Oh, um, wonderful,” Hugh said, giving him a polite smile. How was one supposed to talk about something so intimate with a complete stranger? “Thank you.”

“Will you be visiting our establishment again?” Mr. Galloway asked.

Hugh nodded politely. “I very likely will. Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Galloway tipped his head. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Hugh gave the man a last nod, then turned and headed out the door and up again onto the street, taking a deep breath of outside air. The brothel had been so full of perfume and musk and bodies that stepping out into the cool night air of London was actually a relief to his senses. He turned toward Bowery Lane where Christopher had been found. He could try to trace Christopher’s path, at least, and see if anything occurred to him.

There were people about on the streets, though not as many as during the day, and Hugh at first didn’t notice the shadow that darted overhead, keeping pace with him. He was on his usual high alert that he maintained while doing his patrolling, though he forced himself to walk a little more casual, so he looked less like a police officer. The gas streetlamps flickered and cast strange shadows over the cobbles and the mouth of darkening alleyways. He had to admit that London was more than a little sinister in the darkness. It was no wonder that people envisioned ghosts and spooks, along with the usual cutthroats and other vagabonds.

He paused at a corner as a gentleman’s horse-drawn carriage rolled past, the clip-clop of hooves unnaturally loud in the night’s stillness. The few people he could see were all heading about their business, shoulders hunched and heads swiveling to watch for trouble the same way he was. He let his eyes wander over the buildings, searching the windows and rooftops that he could see, but there was nothing that caught his eye. Was Christopher O’Malley a ghost now? Wandering the streets of London, lost, crying for justice for what was done to him, for the life that was so abruptly and viciously snuffed out? Was he perhaps following after Hugh, encouraging him to find the monster who did this? Was he angry that nothing had been done thus far? He had no idea if spirits were tied to a particular place or if they could go anywhere they chose. Perhaps he was just being paranoid, walking in the footsteps of the murdered young man. Or maybe… He pictured the tall man with the ghostly mask and horns. Jack had said he would be watching him. Was he following him right now, his blazing inferno eyes on him at this very moment?

Was Spring-Heeled Jack keeping an eye on him, to see what he would learn? But that also didn’t make sense. Spring-Heeled Jack, with his uncanny ability to leap around and disappear over rooftops, could easily evade police, even if they determined that Jack was the killer. Why would he care if Hugh found evidence that linked him to the crime?

Something glinted at the corner of his vision, and Hugh turned, lifting his head to the rooftop of the nearby tenement building. Was it only his imagination, or was there something there? The gas lamps made it difficult to make out anything their light did not touch. He thought he saw a shadow on the rooftop, crouched there like an animal-shaped stone spout, but when his eyes were finally able to focus on the darkness, the dark shape was gone.

Something hit the ground by his feet with a soft slapping noise. Hugh glanced down in surprise. Something white lay on the ground by his shoe. He bent down to pick it up. It was a single white rose. The stem was not very long, and the petals were still curled up into their protective teardrop shape, not quite bloomed into the graceful curls of a mature rose. He glanced up at the roof above him. Had someone tossed a rose out the window? But there was no one looking out, no vases in any open windows that might have dislodged a bloom. He lifted the flower to his nose, inhaling the distinct scent of roses. Fresh flowers were not common this time of year, with the weather getting so cold. It would have come from one of the hothouses where flowers were carefully cultivated to grow year-round in very controlled situations.

He stared at the roof where the bloom must have come from. He felt like he was being watched now, but it was not the feeling he got when there was a thief or other troublemaker watching him. Whatever he was sensing didn’t feel like it was intent on hurting him. He had no idea why he thought that. He had been alone on his patrol a number of times since he had first felt the strange presence; if Jack, or someone else, had wanted to hurt him or kill him, they easily could have by now.

He continued his walk, and the presence followed him. But whenever he looked up, he saw nothing. He approached the street where Christopher had been found by the butcher. The blood was gone now, having been washed away by time and weather. If he had not seen the young man dead on the ground, the brick wall and stone pavement would not have looked any different from any other patch of ground. There seemed to be nothing special about this place. It was just an ordinary street with an extraordinary murder.

Hugh had never been much of the praying type, but he sent up a silent prayer now to anyone who might be listening that Christopher was at peace. He glanced down at the white rose in his hand. White was so uncommon to see in London, where everything the city touched turned sooty and grimy. Its streets, its people, its buildings, all were covered with a fine layer of filth that would never entirely wash away. But he would do what he could to make the streets as safe as he could for the men and women who were forced to make their homes there. He knelt down on one knee and set the rose against the wall where Christopher had been slumped. “I’m sorry. I’ll find who did this to you and bring them to justice.” The only reply was a soft brush of wind and the distant clomp of horse hooves on the cobblestones.

Chapter six

SPRING-HEELED JACK SPOTTED AGAIN.

The declaration on the front page of The London Gazette was accompanied by a sketch of a young man running in terror from the cloaked and horned figure of Spring-Heeled Jack who leaped above him with claws outstretched, like a cat about to catch a mouse in the cage of its claws. Claws tipped with spikes, like that of a bear or wild lion. Claws that could rip apart flesh as simply as a razor through paper. Claws that had been covered in blood, but nowhere else.

Hugh stared at the drawing in fascination. Even in the simple artist rendering, his eyes seemed to burn with flame, as if they would consume the very paper they were drawn upon. Jack looked positively monstrous and terrifying, and with those claws, he could do major damage to anyone he encountered if he wanted to. And yet, Hugh had come face to face with him over a fresh corpse and walked away unscathed.

He scanned the story, which mentioned that several people had seen Spring-Heeled Jack in the vicinity of Bowery Lane the previous evening. That was where he had gone, and where Christopher had died. His mind wandered to the hunched shadow on the rooftop. Had the feeling of eyes on him been Spring-Heeled Jack after all? Could the white rose that fell from the sky to land at his feet actually be from Jack? What reason would Spring-Heeled Jack have to give him a rose?

---