Cooper took a long drink from his early-evening beer. “Looks like Walton got his publicity after all.”
“I never doubted it,” Hugo said. His own beer was untouched — he was too intent on what Blazey was saying, hoping that his boss wouldn’t be maligned, that the memories of those killed would be properly recognized. For Hugo, that was the trouble with these operations; the exploits of the captured or dead murderer stole most of the show, and whatever was left got soaked up by those taking credit for the capture or kill. Which left nothing for those who’d suffered the most: the dead, and those who survived them.
The pub door opened and Hugo glanced over, then stood as the familiar face of Clive Upton peered in.
“I meant to tell you,” Cooper said, smiling wickedly, “a couple of friends are on their way.”
Upton, dressed in a tweed jacket and corduroy pants, stepped into the pub and Hugo grinned when he saw who was behind him. Merlyn stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, shooting him her dirtiest look. Then she smiled and skipped past Upton, ignoring Hugo’s outstretched hand to give him a bear hug. When she finally released him, Merlyn stood on tiptoe and whispered into his ear. “Didn’t bother chasing me up to Edinburgh, huh? I’ll get you for that.”
Hugo smiled and directed her to the chair next to him. “I knew you were safe,” he said. “But I’ll buy you a drink to make up for it.”
“My round,” said a voice behind him. Hugo turned and saw Constable Agarwal in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, but still wearing the erect posture of the policeman on duty. Agarwal shook his hand. “Mr. Marston, how are you, sir?”
“It’s Hugo. And I’m fine, how’re you, Constable Agarwal?”
“You can call me Sandy now, sir.”
“Oh?” Hugo turned to Upton. “Someone get promoted to sergeant?”
Upton shook Hugo’s hand and grinned. “The chief constable couldn’t very well take all the credit for snagging Walton, she had to share a little.”
“Which means you’re now a superintendent?” Hugo asked.
“It means I got a pat on the back and wasn’t fired for letting you steal my car.”
Hugo and Agarwal swapped quick looks, then Agarwal excused himself and headed for the bar.
Hugo took his seat beside Merlyn, who reached into her bag and handed him a book. “I believe this is yours,” she said. “Clive told me you left it at the pub the other day when you were off chasing Walton. And not me.” She flashed her teeth to show she wasn’t really mad, and Hugo took the book. It was Hidden Horror, the book he’d bought from the bouquiniste named Max, in Paris.
“Thanks,” Hugo said, tapping the book with his fingertips. “I’d almost forgotten.”
“You don’t get enough of that in the real world?” Upton asked.
Cooper raised his glass. “Amen to that. The man is obsessive. Tell them about your little lady in the alley, off Gable Street.”
Hugo smiled and picked up the book. “I bought this because it may help me with that.”
“You have a new case?” Merlyn chipped in.
“No, an old one,” Hugo said. “Very old. A woman killed in that alley a hundred years ago, right about the time of the Ripper. But,” he held up a finger, “not killed by the Ripper. You know, in the back of my mind I wondered if there was a connection between her death, the Ripper, and a serial killer who stalked my hometown, Austin, at about the same time. Not that I was the first to theorize a connection, of course; other people have written about those deaths and how the killer might be one and the same.”
“The Servant Girl Annihilator, isn’t that what they called him?” asked Upton.
“Yes, you know about that case?” Hugo was surprised. “Anyway, over the years I’ve wondered about that connection and even looked to see if there was any evidence. I never found any, so I looked for other transatlantic possibilities but never came up with any of those, either. But I was always looking for serial killers, cases where there was some kind of overt sexual motive. Then Harry Walton came along and that made me wonder. Motives differ and some killers don’t get classified as serial killers, or didn’t in years gone by, if their motives were more concrete.”
“Like politics?” Upton asked.
“Right.” Hugo paused as Agarwal arrived with a tray of beers, apparently noticing the rapt expressions on the faces of Upton, Cooper, and Merlyn. He laid the tray on a neighboring table, sat down, and quietly passed out the pints. “Revenge, too,” Hugo said. He waved the book. “And then I was flicking through this and read about a mysterious killer known as the Axeman of New Orleans.”
“I’m from there,” Cooper said. “And I hate to dash your theory, but the Axeman used to sneak into people’s houses and attack them in bed. Your gal was found in an alley and you, of all people, should respect the MO of a serial killer.”
“Fair point,” said Hugo. “But remember, my victim was found half-naked and without shoes. Her house was nearby, unlocked, and blood was found on her bed. It’s possible that the killer got into her house, attacked her without killing her, and when she fled, he chased her into the alleyway and finished her off. That would explain the blood and her attire — and it’s consistent with the way he killed and the time period.”
“But what is the New Orleans — to — London connection?” Cooper asked. “Any evidence of that?”
Hugo smiled. “Not yet. It’s just a theory, and now that this little bit of fun is over, it’s one I can explore.”
“Where was this woman killed?” asked Merlyn. “You said Gable Street?”
“Right,” said Hugo. “You know it? It’s close to where Ginny Ferro died, near the Whitechapel cemetery.”
“Can we go look?” Merlyn asked. “That case sounds interesting, but I’d also like to pay my respects to Ginny, in the place she died.”
Hugo looked up at Chief Constable Blazey. She was wrapping up the press conference, taking a few last questions, her face serious as she told the BBC reporter that she had no idea if there was going to be a Harry Walton exhibit at Madame Tussauds — he’d have to ask the museum that question.
“Sure,” Hugo said. “It’s a nice afternoon for a walk. Would you gents excuse us?”
Agarwal, Upton, and Cooper all stood as Merlyn worked herself out from behind the table. Hugo nodded his thanks and turned to Cooper. “Need me back at work this week, or am I still on vacation?”
Cooper grinned. “In exchange for your untouched beer, you may return to work.”
“Deal,” said Hugo. He shook hands with Agarwal and Upton, then waved to Al and the girls behind the bar before following Merlyn out the door into the bright, and warm, afternoon sun.
The traffic was starting to build around them, coughing up its gray exhaust into the atmosphere, so Hugo led them on a less-direct route though the quieter, narrower streets. They walked in silence for a while, a comfortable silence, Merlyn with her head down, apparently deep in thought. As they turned the corner onto Gable Street, she looked up.
“Do you think it will come out? The stuff they were into?” she asked.
“Ginny and Dayton?” Hugo frowned. “I honestly don’t know. The press here are pretty relentless, but the focus of their story is Walton. He’s their bad guy, and once they start painting Ginny and Dayton as victims, well, let’s hope they don’t want to make themselves look dumb by then portraying them as perverts.”
“You don’t think they’re perverts, do you?”
“Me?” Hugo stopped and looked at her. “No. As far as I’m concerned, people can do what they want with each other, as long as both parties consent. Why should I care?”