2. Chapter 2

Chapter two

A t 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.”

“Much appreciated, sir,” Anthony said, bobbing his head respectfully. Hugh rose to his feet, gesturing for Anthony to follow him. The young man was silent as he led him down the hallway and outside, crossing the path to the stone outbuilding that comprised Scotland Yard’s morgue. The coroner and his assistants inside had several corpses in various states of decomposition stretched out on wooden tables across the long space. The smell of death and decay was so strong that both Hugh and Anthony covered their noses with their hands as they entered.

Dr. Ledbetter, who was a former military surgeon, looked up as they entered from where he was studying the bloated corpse of a middle-aged woman that looked and smelled like she had been fished out of the Thames. “Ah, Constable Danbury. I was hoping to hear from you. I had a few questions about the young man you found last night.”

Hugh motioned to Anthony at his side. “Yes, of course. This young man thinks he might know the victim and would like to identify him.”

“Oh, certainly,” Dr. Ledbetter, looking over his spectacles. “Are you ready, son?”

Anthony nodded and squared his petite shoulders. “Yes, sir.”

Dr. Ledbetter led them over to a table where a humanoid shape was draped with a white shroud. “Here,” he said, folding down the sheet from the corpse’s head, only over his chin. A few drops of blood were still smeared on the young man’s cheek, but his face otherwise remained relatively intact.

Anthony inhaled softly and nodded. “Yes, sir. That’s Mallory. Er, Christopher O’Malley.”

Dr. Ledbetter folded the sheet back up over the bloodless face. Hugh glanced over at Anthony, whose thin shoulders were shaking a little. He touched them lightly. “Would you like to step outside with me?” he offered. “I have some questions about Christopher, if you’d be willing to answer them.”

Anthony swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yes, sir,” he said. He nodded politely to the doctor before turning and hurrying out of the deadhouse.

Hugh glanced at Dr. Ledbetter. “I’ll be back after I talk to him.” Dr. Ledbetter bobbed his head in acknowledgement, too busy writing on a piece of paper to look up. Hugh followed Anthony outside. The area was protected by a stone wall, with several benches placed around the green yard. Hugh gestured to one of them. “Shall we sit?”

Anthony nodded and sank onto one, scrubbing at his nose with the cuff of his sleeve. Hugh reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it to the young man. Anthony took it in silent appreciation, wiping at his eyes and nose before offering the handkerchief back. Hugh shook his head. “It’s all right, in case you need it again. What can you tell me about Christopher?”

“He was a good soul,” Anthony said, scuffing his toe into the ground underneath them. “Kinda brash sometimes, but nothin’ that would make someone wanna hurt him.”

“How old was he?”

“Twenty-four, sir.”

Hugh nodded. Only two years older than himself, a young man cut down in the prime of his life. “What did he do for work?”

Anthony’s cheeks suddenly went pink, and he ducked his head. “Uh… He were a laborer.”

“What sort of laborer?”

“Anythin’ that needed laboring, sir.”

Hugh watched the boy’s face go an even darker shade of crimson. He had a sneaking suspicion that Anthony was keeping something from him. “We found him with his pants around his ankles. Do you know why that might be?”

Anthony hesitated, and Hugh felt his breath catch in his throat. He knew that look. He felt it sometimes inside of himself when he felt eyes on him, studying him, judging him. “Was he… a prostitute?” he asked, his voice dropping a little.

“Um…” Anthony ducked his head.

Hugh glanced around to make sure they were truly alone out there before he gently reached out a hand and placed it on Anthony’s bony wrist. “If that is the case, I won’t tell anyone,” he said softly.

Anthony glanced down in surprise at the hand touching his wrist before looking up into Hugh’s brown eyes. “Uh… Yes, sir, he was.”

Hugh gave him a compassionate smile. “Thank you. Do you know if he was meeting a particular client last night?”

Anthony shook his head. “No, sir. Sometimes we-” He suddenly flushed, clamping his lips together, seeming to realize he had just implicated himself as well. Hugh gave his wrist an encouraging squeeze.

“It’s all right,” he said. Since the attacks on prostitutes by Jack the Ripper, there had been a number of raids on brothels around London, and female prostitutes were punished with hefty fines or jail time. He imagined it was not much different, probably worse, even, for male ones. “I’m not going to arrest you or out you. I only want to know the truth so I can help. I want to find out what happened to him and bring his killer to justice.”

Anthony looked skeptical for a moment. Hugh glanced down at where his hand still rested lightly on Anthony’s wrist, hoping to convey without words that he understood the boy’s proclivities, because they shared them. Anthony looked down at Hugh’s hand, then lifted his light blue eyes back to Hugh’s face. He must have understood what Hugh was trying to convey, because he swallowed hard and nodded. “Thank you, sir. Um, sometimes we go out to meet customers while some of us stay back at the brothel.”

“Did you and Christopher work together at the same place?”

“Yes, sir,” Anthony said with a bob of his dark head.

“Where is it?”

“It’s in the upstairs of The Bull and Parasol. Mr. Galloway, he’s the owner.”

Hugh nodded, filing that information away for later. “And did Christopher go out to meet a customer?”

“Not specific, but he did go out to the street,” Anthony said. “Usually them in the street is supposed to bring them back to the brothel. Get ‘em to buy drinks and dances with the boys and the like. But if the bloke jus’ wants a quick fuck, they might just take the money and do it in an alley or something.”

“What sort of clientele do you usually encounter on the street?” Hugh asked.

“All kinds,” Anthony said. “Some gen’lemen, some real classy, but a lot of ‘em are just normal people. Sailors, fac’try workers, coppers.”

“Coppers? You mean, police officers?” Hugh asked in surprise, and Anthony flushed again.

“A few, sir.”

“While they were in their uniforms?”

“Yes, sir.”

Well, that was interesting. Hugh had never considered having a tumble with a street lad while he was working, and especially not in uniform. Any time he had slipped out to a secretive location to indulge his fancies, he had worn clothes that would not give away who or what he was. “What time last night did Christopher go out?”

“It must’ve been half twelve or so,” Anthony said thoughtfully. “He’d already brought back one gen’leman earlier in the evening.”

The watch had been summoned at around 2:30 am. Two hours from Christopher leaving the brothel to when he ended up dead in an alley. Who had he met in that time? Obviously not someone who wanted to go back to the brothel, so someone looking for a ‘quick fuck’ in the alley and then to be on his way? Unfortunately, that could be anyone of any class.

“What happened to the man he brought back earlier in the evening?”

“Oh, he had a few rounds, played some cards with a few’a the fellas. And then he had a shag, but not with Christopher. After that, I think he left.”

“Was he someone you knew?”

Anthony shook his head. “No, not that I recognized. But I don’t think he did anything to Christopher, he seemed like a nice, quiet bloke.”

Hugh hummed thoughtfully. “Do you have any regulars that you think could do something like this?”

Anthony frowned and looked thoughtful for a minute. “There’s a few blokes, mostly the richer ones, who seem to think they can get away with whatever they want. But I don’t think they’d do something like that. Killin’ is different than hurtin’.”

“Do you have customers who hurt you?” Hugh asked with a dark frown.

“Comes with the territory,” Anthony said with a shrug. “But Mr. Galloway is pretty good about keepin’ them away from us unless they pays extra. And he’s got a few boys who like that sort of thing, or at least, can tolerate it better. He tries to do right by us, Mr. Galloway does.”

Hugh wanted to have to have a word with this Mr. Galloway, but perhaps not in his official capacity as Metropolitan Police. He wondered if Anthony could get into trouble if it was known that he was telling the police about The Bull and Parasol.

“Do you know if Christopher had any family that we need to alert?”

Anthony looked a bit sad. “No, sir. Most of the boys under Mr. Galloway are on their own in this world, y’know? Family dead, or might as well be, treatin’ them like shit after they find out about them. You know…” He waved his hand vaguely.

“You mean, their families throw them out if they find out their proclivities towards men.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthony said with a small nod. “It ain’t an uncommon story for those of us in the brothel.”

“How many young men work in the brothel with you?” Hugh asked.

Anthony scrunched up his face. “It changes, but around a dozen or so. Some move on elsewhere or are only there to make a bit of money before they shove off.”

“What about you?”

“Me? Oh no, sir, I been with Mr. Galloway since I were fifteen.”

“And how old are you now?”

“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.”

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.