Page 5 of Across Space and Time

“Nineteen, sir.”

Hugh didn’t like that Anthony had been so young when he had first submitted himself for prostitution. But life was hard on London’s streets; he saw it all too often. “Does Mr. Galloway take good care of you?”

Anthony nodded. “Yes, sir. He might raise his voice nowan’ again, but he ain’t much for the beatin’s or the lashin’s. He wants his boys to be able to work. He’s one of the good ones.”

Not beating or lashing his prostitutes seemed like a very low bar to be considered a ‘good one,’ Hugh thought, but he supposed that in the rough life that was London’s poor, it was better than could be expected.

“How many other brothels with… with male courtesans are there?” Hugh asked.

Anthony’s freckled nose wrinkled worriedly. “I… I probably shouldn’t say, sir,” he said softly. “No offense, but you is police, after all.”

Hugh couldn’t fault the boy for not wanting to snitch on his friends, especially if it could potentially lead to raids on the brothels. “I understand.”

Hugh knew that prostitution was a lucrative business for those who had very little left to sell, but it still baffled him that so many people, especially young men, had to turn to selling sexual favors to provide for themselves. It seemed that the government could not be bothered to handle the poor and needy its system created, only hang them if they committed a crime.

Anthony looked a little uneasy. “You think that whoever killed Christopher might do it again?”

“I don’t know,” Hugh said, feeling guilty that he could not give Anthony a better answer, one that might help assuage his mind. “Hopefully not. But my job is to find whoever is responsible and bring them to face justice.”

Anthony nodded, rising to his feet. “My room is at The Bull and Parasol on Lime Row, sir, if you need to find me again.”

Hugh stood as well, holding out his hand to Anthony to shake. “Thank you. I will do my best to find who did this to your friend and see that he is punished for his misdeeds.”

Anthony gave him a small, hopeful smile before he turned and left, heading out one of the side gates onto the bustling London streets.

Hugh watched him go. How could a boy so young, barely into adulthood, have had to live in such a manner for years already? His own situation might not have been any better though, he realized. Often it was simply a matter of luck. He had been lucky enough to be born to parents that could afford to clothe and feed him, a family that had wanted him. Parents that hadn’t known about his proclivities towards other men. And now his mother and father were gone, only his two sisters around, both of whom were married, both of whom were supportive of him even if they did not completely understand his unusual attractions. There but for the grace of God go I, he thought to himself.

He turned back to the morgue, taking a deep breath of fresh air before heading inside the cool, dimly lit room. Dr. Ledbetter had pulled the sheet off of Christopher O’Malley, and the young man now lay exposed on the table, nude, his insides laid bare for the world to see.

“Poor young fellow,” Dr. Ledbetter said, barely glancing up at Hugh. “Hardly a drop of blood left in him. It would have pumped out of him in a matter of moments.”

“Do you think he suffered?” Hugh asked softly.

“No,” Dr. Ledbetter said with a shake of his graying chestnut head. “He has no defensive wounds, no fresh bruises or signs of a struggle. I think he was surprised by the attack from behind, probably did not even see it coming.”

“Do you think he was in the midst of a… passionate encounter when it happened?”

Dr. Ledbetter nodded. “I do. There were traces of seminal fluid as well as oil at his rectum. I’d say the killer, whoever it was, either was whoever was en flagrante with him, or someone who surprised them both.”

“How exactly did he die?”

“Exsanguination. He lost too much blood in a short period of time. Not surprising, considering these wounds.”

“What caused those?” Hugh asked.

“I wish I knew,” Dr. Ledbetter said with a frown.

The ferocity of this murder did give Hugh pause. Even in the Metropolitan Police, where encountering death was a common occurrence, this was not normal. It was not a gunshot or a stab wound or a strangulation. He reached out to trace his fingertips in the air over one of the rips in Christopher’s skin, as if trying to sense what had made them. “This doesn’t look like a knife.”

Dr. Ledbetter nodded slowly. “If I had to guess, I’d say they were claw marks. From something rather large.”

“Like what?” Hugh asked with a frown.

“I’m not sure. Something like a bear. But there is one thing about it that bothers me.”

“What is that?” Hugh asked.

Dr. Ledbetter pointed to the five lines of ripped flesh. “Bears don’t have thumbs.”

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