Page 2 of Across Space and Time

“I imagine there will be,” Hugh said, giving his friend a light pat on the back. Autopsies were not encouraged by the local magistrates and other government officials when the cause of death could be easily determined. But in the matter of a suspicious death, it was often a necessity.

The body was being delivered to the building behind Scotland Yard. It was run by a man Hugh had known all of his life, Doctor Nathaniel Ledbetter. Dr. Ledbetter had been a friend of his father’s when he and Patrick Danbury, Hugh’s father, had been in the military together. The older man was one of the smartest men Hugh had ever known, and he had even considered going into the medical field to follow in his father’s best friend’s footsteps. But medical school had been too expensive for his lower middle-class family, so he had contented himself with learning from Dr. Ledbetter and following him to Scotland Yard to get a job as a constable. His willingness to go into the long, low deadhouse with its ever-lingering scent of decay and rot that clung to everything also made him one of the de facto constables to get the information from the surgeons and examiners there and disseminate it to his colleagues.

“Depesh! Danbury!” came the bark from their sergeant, John Reardon, a severe-looking man with large, graying muttonchops and a balding pate. Depesh had once compared Sergeant Reardon’s face to that of a ferret, and now Hugh could not unsee it every time he looked at their beady-eyed, pointy-nosed commander.

Hugh and Depesh made their way over to where Sergeant Reardon sat at his large desk. “Do we have an identity on the body yet?”

“No, sir,” Hugh said. “It only just was sent back to The Yard, and no one in the crowd seemed to recognize him.”

Reardon sighed. “Fuck it all, some molly boy gettin’ his bell wrung for cheating a punter.”

Hugh gritted his teeth. There was no friendship lost between himself and his older sergeant, who purported to be a man of God but certainly espoused some of the most hateful rhetoric Hugh had ever heard when it came to London’s poor and working classes. He already knew that Reardon looked down on Constable Rezal Depesh simply for the color of his skin, despite the fact that Depesh had been born and grown up in Notting Hill; he was the son of a brick layer and a washer woman and had made himself into a constable with the Metropolitan Police despite great hardship and poverty growing up, and the added difficulty of his Indian-brown skin.

Hugh, on the other hand, had less of a visible slight against him than his skin tone. But he knew if Reardon ever found out the truth about him, he would likely find himself turned out from his position, perhaps even fined or imprisoned. For while he had the benefit of a fair complexion, his own queer proclivities were still considered a moral failing. The fact that he liked men, whether or not he even was caught engaging with one, was enough to end his career and more. Hugh had found that to be dismally unfair. While it was not the traditional role within society, he could see no harm in two people of the same gender caring for one another, or for a man to go about in lady’s clothing or vice-versa. What one did in the bedroom hardly seemed to be a matter of importance beyond those involved in it. But he still had much to lose, so he kept his mouth shut, gritting his teeth at Reardon’s casual cruelty toward the dead young man.

“It was quite a mess, sir,” he said with a glance at Depesh for confirmation, and Depesh nodded. “I don’t think it was something as simple as that.”

Reardon scoffed and waved his hand. “Of course. Obviously, it’s ol’ Jackie back at it again, eh?”

The Jack the Ripper murders were fresh in everyone’s minds, having occurred only two years ago, with no formal charges ever brought against any one individual. Hugh had been on the Metropolitan Police Force for less than two months before the murder of Mary Ann “Polly” Nichols at the end of August 1888. Those had been a scary few months, with new murders popping up left and right. The public had been afraid, as they rightly should have been, and Hugh himself had had more than one occasion on patrol when he was worried that he might not come back alive. But since November of that same year, with the brutal slaying of Mary Jane Kelly, the Whitechapel murders had become an interesting unsolved case in the annals of the Metropolitan Police, a stain on The Yard’s reputation since no one had ever been convicted of the crimes. Occasional murders popping up between then and now sometimes spurred the fear that Jack was back, continuing his horrific spread of murder and mayhem. But the brutality was often much less than what had come to be expected from the notorious killer, and no other single murder had been attributed to Jack the Ripper since then.

“I do not believe it is the Ripper, sir,” Depesh said, and Hugh nodded in agreement.

“Well, as long as you believe that, it must be true, sahib,” Reardon said with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. The Indian word was supposed to be respectful, but it always sounded like a slur coming from Reardon’s mouth. Hugh felt his lips press into a tight line as he forced himself to not say something he’d regret to his commanding officer. “Danbury, you were our first man on the scene?”

“Yes, sir,” Hugh said.

“Good. Then you can be the contact for the inquest and any inquiries. Find out from the backyard butchers who he is and what happened to him.”

“Yes, sir,” Hugh said again, trying not to frown at the derisive name most people called the coroners and other medical examiners in the long building behind The Yard where autopsies and other post-mortems occurred.

“Coroners won’t be in until morning anyway. Get going and finish your reports.”

“Yes, sir,” Hugh and Depesh said together. They both stood and hurried away from their commanding officer without a backward glance.

Chapter two

At the end of his shift, shortly before dawn, Hugh was more than ready to return to his little flat. He walked home through the dark streets, illuminated by the flickering glow of gas streetlamps. Everything was still fairly quiet, though London was slowly beginning its process of rising and shaking off the mantle of night. The walk home always gave him time to think. What had really happened to this young man? Who was he? Was he simply the victim of a random act of violence? He had no idea what to think. Hopefully the coroner would have a better idea when he returned to work the next day.

A scraping sound above his head caught Hugh’s attention, and he glanced up into the darkness at the roofs of the tenements above him. The gas lamps did not throw their light very far up the building. He squinted, trying to find the source of the noise, but he could see nothing amongst the shadows. Probably just a window opening, or a cat scrambling over the rooftop. Being a police constable always put him on high alert whenever he heard an unfamiliar sound, and it was both a blessing and a curse. He was able to avoid a number of unsavory things tossed out windows, but it also meant that the unseen presence of an alley cat and homeless person made the hair rise on the back of his neck and heat prickle down his spine.

Nothing moved, and he heard nothing more above him, so Hugh continued home. Sleep did not come easily. He kept seeing the young man’s torn flesh and lifeless eyes. He slept fitfully, his dreams full of dark shadows and pools of blood.

When he woke, he was covered in sweat. Hugh bathed, ate a simple meal, and put on his cleanest uniform. The Metropolitan Police liked their officers to be in uniform whenever they went out so people could see them in their community and also to hold them to a higher standard of morality. He didn’t know if that second part really was effective or not, considering the corruption he was aware of amongst some of the police that he did his best to stay out of.

As he walked through the late-afternoon London streets, he felt a prickle on the back of his neck. Perhaps someone he knew was waving to him, or someone was watching him. Maybe someone who meant him harm. He glanced around, trying to keep the movement casual and small, but he saw no one paying undue attention to him. He frowned a little, pausing to buy an apple from a street vendor. The feeling of being watched went away, and he headed into Scotland Yard without a backward glance.

Hugh had only just sat down at his desk when he heard, “Excuse me, sir?” He looked up to see a young man in front of him. Not much more than a boy, really, maybe close to his own age. His face was pale and lined sharply from the hollowness that accompanied a hard life living on London streets. His eyes were an icy blue, his hair black and slightly curly, with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose.

“Yes, Constable Hugh Danbury. May I help you?”

“My name is Anthony. I was told at the front, sir, that you might know what happened to Mallory.” The pale-faced boy fidgeted a little.

“Mallory?” Hugh asked in confusion.

“Oh, uh…” The young man flushed a bit. “Christopher O’Malley. We heard that he… he was killed last night.”

“Oh,” Hugh said, feeling guilt and sadness wash over him in equal measure as he gazed back at Anthony. “I don’t know if he’s been identified by the coroner yet, but I can… take you back to see if you recognize him.”

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