Page 6 of Across Space and Time

Hugh was left to contemplate Dr. Ledbetter’s words as he went about his late afternoon and evening rounds. Surely a large creature would be spotted running around the streets. A bear, or a wolf, or some other creature capable of killing a fully grown man with one swipe. But there were no reports that had come in, no concerned citizens or panicked zookeepers. And the words echoed in his mind. Bears don’t have thumbs. Something with five fingers, including a thumb, had struck down Christopher O’Malley and then vanished without a trace. Surely someone or something with blood all over it would be noticed on the streets in the dead of night by someone.

The streets were not very quiet as darkness descended on London. The gas streetlamps were lit, casting a yellow-hued glow over the cobblestones that were flecked with dirt and horse droppings and various other substances. Had Christopher O’Malley’s blood been cleared away? Had it flowed down the cobbles, so small that it could not be seen, and he was walking on it even now with his shined uniform boots? How many others had died on these streets, their blood soaking into the stone like the foundation of the city?

Something prickled at the back of his neck. Hugh glanced up, feeling like there were eyes upon him again, as he had felt earlier in the day. He scanned the crowded streets of straggling people making their way home or to work, though he saw no one focused on him. But the feeling of being watched did not dissipate. The hair on the back of his neck stood tall, and his stomach felt like there was a family of butterflies trying to break free from inside of it. He looked around again, but he could see no one in the shadows, no one lurking around a corner, no one peering at him from under a hat or around a newspaper.

He swerved around a baker’s cart that was nearly empty from the day. A few small pastries sat in their brown paper wrapping. He held up his hand and nodded to the man pushing the cart. “I’ll take those,” he said, pulling out a few coins.

The man took them and handed him the remaining crumbly pastries. “Apple hand pies, sir, made ‘em meself this morning. Enjoy.”

“Thank you,” Hugh said, taking a bite of one. It was a little stale after sitting all day, but the apple filling was sweet and tangy with the spiced fruit, and he hungrily devoured all of them. Apples were one of the few fruits that were easy to get year-round in London, with so many orchards and farms nearby and the ability of apples to be packed to withstand the cold winter months.

The sense of eyes on him had not abated, and Hugh cast about again with no luck. Perhaps he was simply paranoid now that he was looking for a violent killer on the dark streets of London. A little suspicion was probably good as a constable; it kept him on his toes and alert in case of danger.

After a few minutes, the feeling subsided, and Hugh found himself back to examining the passersby as he nibbled on the pies. Who could have killed Christopher, a young, fit man in the prime of life, without so much as a struggle? Who had that kind of strength? That kind of fury? That kind of vile disposition? And, just as important, why had they killed him? Christopher had had no weapons on him, and surely if the motive had been robbery, a young man with his pants around his ankles was hardly a threat. And what had become of the person, likely a man, that he had been coupling with? Could that be the person who killed Christopher? But again, Hugh was struck with why. It didn’t seem like the young man had been struggling or resisting. But even if he had been, why strike him dead, when a hand gripping his throat or the back of his neck could have rendered him docile in a matter of moments? And while Christopher was a young man, he wasn’t that much bigger than Hugh himself, who was already on the smaller side when it came to men on the police force.

The gas lamps glowed in the streets now, the sun having dipped behind the many houses and shops, casting long, gloomy shadows over the streets. Very soon, the world would be in full darkness, with only the streetlamps and the occasional glow of a candle in a window to illuminate the cobbled streets once more. London was a spooky place at night, even without the ever-present threat of violence or danger. Shadows became ghouls, dripping water became footsteps, every echo was a monstrous growl.

There was a soft rustling sound somewhere above his head. Hugh jumped, wondering if someone had opened a window, but no heads peered out from open tenement windows. But above him, on the rooftop of the building, something moved, the glint of lamplight catching something light-colored. Hugh squinted, trying to make out what it was. It seemed to be a figure, but there was something odd about the shape of the head. But whomever it was, was cast in shadow. And then, as suddenly as he had seen it, it was gone.

Was someone watching him? Were those the eyes he had felt earlier? Rooftops were popular hangout places for people; it was possible that someone had simply been leaning over the roof’s edge to look below, and the living shadows had created a fantastical shape around them. Hugh stared at the spot, but no figure reappeared. He felt a little unsettled as he continued on his patrol route. The sun had completely vanished below the horizon now, the streets plunged into cool, damp darkness. He passed many people as he walked, looking into each face, as if he could see the killer of Christopher O’Malley in their eyes, but he found nothing.

Jack

It had taken some searching, but this was the one, he just knew it. The burning inside of him settled as he watched the young police constable walk down the darkening London streets. He was beautiful. It seemed like a waste for such a lovely creature to be tucked away in darkness every night. Darkness was where monsters lurked. He had watched the constable check the young man last night and seen the anguish that had overtaken him at the life gone from someone so near his own age. Hugh had a soft heart. Soft hearts could be easily broken.

Soon, we’ll be together, he thought to himself as he ducked out of sight over the edge of the rooftop. He just had to wait for the right moment to reveal himself.

Chapter three

SPRING-HEELED JACK SIGHTED ON LONDON STREETS declared the newspaper that Hugh picked up as he went about his shopping later that day for his day off. He puzzled over that for a moment. He had heard of Spring-Heeled Jack. The first records about him had been over fifty years ago, in 1837, with various sightings over the years in different areas of the country. He paid his coin and picked up a copy of the paper to read it. ‘Demonic spectre has remained unseen for a number of years, but several recent sightings have been verified by multiple individuals in the greater North Western London area.’

There was an artist’s sketch on the front of what Hugh assumed was meant to be Spring-Heeled Jack. A figure, dressed in a gentleman’s style coat and breeches, with a long, black cape, looked human enough. But the face was oddly sharp and angular, the eyes blazing even in the pencil sketch. And from the forehead of the mysterious creature sprouted two large horns, as if Spring-Heeled Jack were a manifestation of the devil himself. Hugh studied the drawing intently. He thought that Jack was meant to look monstrous and evil, and he was certain he would not want to meet Spring-Heeled Jack in a dark alley while on patrol. But there was something about him that wasn’t quite as demonic as Hugh thought the papers meant him to be. He couldn’t say what, and he skimmed the article instead, though he stopped short when he read the description.

‘The spectre takes the guise of a tall, pale man, with eyes that resemble wheels of fire. His cloak gives the impression of a large bat or bird of prey, made all the more spectacular by the large, iron claws the miscreant has on the tips of his fingers.’

The vision of the five deep rips in Christopher’s flesh came to Hugh’s mind. Spring-Heeled Jack, suddenly spotted in London after an absence, and then a young man turns up with slashes as if from a great clawed hand. Hugh frowned thoughtfully at the drawing again. It could just be a coincidence, of course. It was convenient to attribute unnatural sightings and attacks to a supernatural creature so those responsible did not have to be found and brought to justice. There were enough monsters with human faces walking the streets of London without adding a demonic, horned beast to their ranks. But that didn’t mean that there wasn’t someone masquerading as a spectre to hide their identity either. Hadn’t people fifty-odd years ago thought Spring-Heeled Jack to be an Irish Marquess in disguise or something like that?

Further down the page was information about the death of Christopher O’Malley, who was listed as a ‘rent boy’ which Hugh knew was a tasteful way of saying that the young man was a prostitute. The paper speculated that Christopher might have been a victim of Spring-Heeled Jack due to the nature of the slices across his flesh. Reporters had gotten wind of that detail quickly. But beyond that, there was very little about the murdered young man. Just one more dead body in the bloody gutters of London.

He was passing the local cemetery, and Hugh felt the heavy sensation of eyes watching him once again. He lifted his head from the paper, scanning the area intently, first the street, then the gravestones beyond the wrought-iron fence that demarcated the cemetery from the street. There were many people about, as it was a fine October day, but no one seemed to be giving him much heed. He lifted his head to even look at the rooftops of the buildings nearby and the mausoleums in the cemetery but found nothing out of the ordinary. He felt the prickle on his skin though, and he hurried past the cemetery and turned down another street. He was not one to be spooked by the idea of ghosts and other beasties from beyond the grave; he had never met a ghost, or any other such creature. But that did not mean that he knew all there was to know about their existence.

The feeling of eyes on him once more abated, and Hugh started to crumple up the newspaper to throw it in a bin. But his hand caught as he looked at the picture of the mysterious Spring-Heeled Jack, and he instead folded up the paper under his arm and took it back home with him.

When he returned to The Yard the next evening, there had been no new developments on Christopher O’Malley’s case. Dr. Ledbetter’s autopsy had revealed nothing more that could help determine who the killer was, and the body had been taken away to be buried in one of the local potters’ fields. That left Hugh with an ache inside of him. The young man had had no one to turn to, no one who could pay for a proper funeral and a plot where he might rest in peace. If he could have afforded it himself, he might have done it. But, as it was, all he could do was make a silent promise that he would find whoever killed Christopher and bring him to justice.

He was out on patrol that night when he heard a scream from nearby. His mind instantly filled with images of Christopher’s ruined body and the puddle of blood on the sidewalk as he ran towards the sound. A woman in a dark dress stood, staring up at the rooftops overhead. Several other people were approaching her as well, as they must have heard her scream. “Ma’am?” he asked.

She turned to him, her face pale in the lights from the streetlamps. “It was him! Spring-Heeled Jack!” She pointed towards the rooftop. Hugh craned his head back, but there was nothing that he could see on top of the building.

“What happened?” he asked.

She looked frantically around. “He… he was standing on that railing.” She pointed to one of the fire escapes above her head. “When I screamed, he climbed up the rails faster than a monkey, and then he was on the roof and gone.”

“How do you know it was Spring-Heeled Jack?” Hugh asked. The small crowd was looking cautiously about, as if Jack might suddenly land in their midst.

“He looked like his picture in the paper,” the woman said, clutching at her breast. “A great black cape, horns like the devil, and those eyes. Like a raging inferno inside of them.”

“Witchcraft,” muttered someone in the crowd, and Hugh let out a huff.

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