Mayhem by Sarah Pinborough Page B

– or perhaps foolish – than usual, I went back out into the dark streets of Bluegate Fields.
    The cold air stung my face and the fog dampened my skin, sending pleasant tingles through my body as I turned up my collar and strode forward. I could hear raucous noise coming from some of the wretched, overcrowded buildings around me, but I passed no other living souls. This would normally have been a relief to me, but my curiosity to see more of these strange auras was overwhelming my usual instinct for survival.
    I rounded a corner into a narrow alleyway and stopped suddenly. The den towards which I was heading was closer to the other end, and a glow of light cut through the heavy mist: the door was open and someone was leaving. I stared as the tall figure exited, and then the light pinched out as the door was closed behind him. I stumbled forward a few paces to get a clearer view – could it be the stranger I sought? Knowing full well that the opium could be playing with my sight, I scurried forward, sucking in the dank air as I broke into a jog.
    The man had turned away from me so I couldn’t see his arm, but his gait was familiar and he was of the right height to be ‘my’ stranger, as I thought of him. I was perhaps ten feet away when he spun round, histall body crouching slightly as if in preparation for a fight.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, sounding slightly breathless. ‘I had no intention of startling you.’ I stopped where I was and pulled off my hat, then rubbed at my face in an attempt to try and remove my poor disguise. ‘I’ve seen you – at the inquests.’
    He stared at me, and for a long moment he said nothing. I could not place his age other than between thirty-five and fifty. He was taller than he had at first appeared, perhaps four inches over my own five feet eleven, and his face was like leather, worn and rough in a way that could only come from being battered by both life and the elements. His eyes were little more than black pits in the gloom, yet still they managed to bore into me. The straggling ends of his long dark hair reached to his shoulders, but he was cleanshaven, no moustache nor hint of whiskers gracing that scarred visage. I saw no aura around him, but it was perhaps muted by his hat, or maybe the effect of the drug was wearing off. His arm, as I had seen before, was bent at his waist and as thin as a twig in comparison with the rest of his impressive form, and the fingernails at the end of the crooked hands were long and dirty.
    None of this shocked me. What drew my eyes and held me in place where I stood was the glint of the heavy gold cross that hung beneath his priest’s collar. Was this why he always wore a heavy overcoat, todisguise his true calling? But why? Although the robes he wore were unfamiliar to me, they definitely belonged to some religious order, and if so, why would any man hide his love of God, if he had taken such vows?
    ‘You are mistaken,’ he said, eventually.
    He had an accent, but from where, I could not determine; I could hear the lilt of Italy in his words but he spoke like a man who had not been in his native country for a long time.
    ‘The Rainham inquest,’ I said, more firmly now. ‘I saw you there. And then you were at the Whitehall site.’ Now that I had found him, I was determined to get at his purpose, though I found myself at the same time almost at a loss as to what to say, without sounding like a madman myself.
    ‘And I have seen you in the dens. You are looking for something, I believe.’
    His back stiffened. I have a natural ability to analyse the actions of men, and with the opium and excitement both rushing through my veins, my senses were more acute than ever. He had risen slightly from the fighting stance he had adopted as he had turned to me, and I knew I had surprised him. He was looking for something.
    ‘Do you know something that would help the police? Do you have suspicions about who might be committing these awful crimes?’