Page 9 of Across Space and Time

Dr. Ledbetter pointed to a spot. “The carotid artery runs through the neck on both sides, as well as a number of smaller veins. There would be a substantial amount of blood coming out of this wound, including some arterial spray, which can travel a fair distance while the heart is still pumping. And the young man was facing his killer when he was bitten. So, your murderer would have quite a bit of blood on him.”

Hugh thought back to Spring-Heeled Jack in the alley. His clothes had been pristine; his white oilcloth and the strange bone-white of his face and horns had been clean too. The only blood on him was on his hand; Hugh had gotten similar stains on his own hand when he moved Christopher O’Malley’s body to check him for signs of life. Had Jack really been telling the truth, that he did not kill the young man?

“Thank you,” he said, giving the older man a grateful nod. “Please let me if you get a positive identification from the detectives.”

“Will do,” Ledbetter said, giving him a salute with his pen before he went back to make some more notes.

Hugh walked through the cool, autumn air from the morgue to the offices. No new information about Christopher O’Malley had landed on his desk, and Hugh was beginning to wonder if the investigation was going anywhere. It had been several days, and yet there was nothing. He steeled his nerves and approached Reardon’s desk. “Sir? I haven’t received any information about the O’Malley case.”

Reardon looked up with his beady ferret-eyes at him and laughed raucously.

“A dead boy whore is hardly a concern for the Metropolitan Police, Danbury.”

Hugh frowned, his lips tightening at the words. “Sir. Christopher O’Malley was murdered. That young man from last night was killed in a similar manner. Finding their killer should be a priority for the police.”

“They probably cheated their johns and got slashed for the trouble,” Reardon said with a shrug. “Happens with that lot all the time.”

“What do you mean, that lot?” Hugh asked, feeling a pit in his stomach.

Reardon sighed, the air ruffling his gray muttonchops a little. “Whores, without even the decency to have proper fannies to fuck.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Hugh said, the respect barely there. “People are not cattle for slaughter. They are human beings. We have a duty to find who did this and bring them to justice.”

Reardon laughed loudly again. “Caring so much for the nancy boys, eh, Danbury? Any particular reason?”

Hugh’s hand curled into a fist, and he exhaled sharply. Hitting his sergeant was not going to help his case. “Sir. Please.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Reardon said with a small smirk. “These mollies mean so much to you, you can investigate it yourself. In fact, these cases can be your sole responsibility. You find out who killed those boy whores and bring them in to face justice.”

Several of the men around him snickered, and Hugh gritted his teeth. His sergeant was setting him up for failure, of that, he was sure. They did not think he would solve the crimes or find the attacker. “I am not an inspector, sir,” he pointed out.

Reardon shrugged. “Consider this your chance to prove that you’re worth more than being on patrol. Otherwise, we might just have to re-evaluate your route.”

Hugh could hear the threat loud and clear. Find the killer, or he was going to be demoted to some of the most dangerous areas in all of London, which would either end with him dead, or injured enough to quit the police force. Neither was appealing, especially when all he was doing was ask Reardon to have the detectives do their job to find a murderer. “Yes, sir,” he said, giving the man a thin-lipped smile. “I will find the killer.”

“I’m sure you will.” Reardon might as well have patted his head like a puppy.

Hugh walked away, not letting his fists clench at his side until he had closed himself in the privacy of the privy. He wasn’t an inspector, but if he was the only one who would care about the young men out on London’s streets, then he would do what he had to do to find out what was happening to them.

Chapter five

The next evening, Hugh dressed in casual clothing rather than his police uniform. He told Reardon he was going to go look for more information about Christopher O’Malley’s customers, and he received nothing more than a handwave in acknowledgement. So, with determined steps, he headed out onto the street.

It was still light out, not quite dusk. Hugh found himself glancing up at rooftops as he walked. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see. Did he really think Spring-Heeled Jack was there, watching him, following him? What reason did Jack have to follow him anyway? He didn’t really like the answer. Two attractive, young men, engaged in sexual trysts with another man, both of them around Hugh’s age, had been brutally murdered in the unforgiving darkness. Was Jack targeting him? The man not only could leap impossible heights with ease, but he was bigger and stronger than Hugh by a not insubstantial amount. Hugh’s mind wandered back to his dream the other night, with Jack pressing him up against the wall, his hand moving between his legs, those scorching, fire-red eyes…

Stop it! he scolded himself as his prick gave a hopeful jump in his trousers that he hoped hid his growing need. Now was not the time. There would never be an appropriate time to think about the dark-haired apparition that way. He glared at one of the empty rooftops, as if Jack were perched upon it, watching him like a gargoyle on a parapet of Notre Dame. He had a job to do; he couldn’t let himself be distracted by spectres that he couldn’t even see.

Hugh found his way to The Bull and Parasol, which was a grimy-looking establishment on Lime Row. The front parlor had a bar where several young men served drinks. Another boy sat playing the piano in the corner and singing a bawdy song that he looked almost too young to understand. Hugh felt his breath catch. The boys ranged from barely teens to around his age, with various skin tones and looks to them, but most of them were dressed in some variation of women’s clothing, with corsets, stockings, bloomers, and headpieces. He moved to the bar, hoping that he did not seem too nervous. He had purposely worn his most scuffed up shoes with his plainest clothes so his usual spit-and-polish appearance would not give him away as a police officer, but he still felt like every eye in the room could see that he did not belong there.

The boy at the bar was probably sixteen, with soft, cherubic cheeks. “Evening, mister,” he greeted. “What can I get ya?”

“I’m… not sure. I’ve never been here before,” Hugh said, giving him a slight smile. “But I heard about this place from… one of the boys who works here.”

“Oh, if you’re new, you’ll want to talk to Mr. Galloway,” the bartender said, nodding his head at a corner of the room. “He’ll get you all settled, sir.”

“Thank you.” Hugh gave the boy another smile before making his way across the room. He tried not to pay too much attention to the boys but did try to note the faces of the men who appeared to be customers. Could one of them have killed Christopher? Most of them seemed to be middle-class like himself.

Mr. Galloway was a large man with an even larger mustache that looked determined to fly off of his face with every breath. He seemed like a jovial man, talking with customers, laughing, slapping backs, but there was a shrewdness in his blue eyes that told Hugh the man was not as congenial as he played. Mr. Galloway was standing in the corner of the room, talking to a handsome, young man with very dark hair and dark eyes, obviously more well-to-do than most of the other customers in the room. The young man’s clothes, while simple, were finely cut and tailored. A gentleman of some kind, Hugh figured.

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