Jace Arrives

The night was cold and black. Just like his coffee. American detective Jace Buntley stood at the pier of London’s East Quay, watching as his ship sailed off into the darkness. The distant ringing of buoys sounded in his ears, and the moonlight pierced eerily through thickening clouds. It seemed bizarre, as if this was all just part of a dream; part of a bad murder mystery. Yet it was real, as real as the pain heavy in his heart.

Jace sighed and looked down into his coffee mug. Cold and black, like the night. Like his soul. Like… he was startled as a sharp voice broke the stillness.
"eigh there, fellow! Are you Mister Buntley, the American?"
"Yes, I am indeed. And whom, may I ask, are you?"
"Name’s Davis, Davis Nolder! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Buntley! I’d say just about the whole South Side of London’s been awaitin’ your arrival! Pardon the Police Chief, he’d a been ‘ere himself, but Bangers an’ Mash! if there wasn’t another murder scare tonight! He’s clear on the other side of the city! I’m to take you to your ‘otel room, sir. Coach’s waitin’ sir."
"Well then, let’s go ahead. Pleased to meet you, Mr Nolder."
Jace shook the Londoner’s hand as they both moved off the pier. As the detective entered the interior of the coach, he reflected on the turn of events that had brought him across the Atlantic and back into the country to which he’d sworn he never would return. It had been almost 8 months ago in March when the news first reached New York about the brutal murders in London. The systematic murders of young, eligible, beautiful Catholic girls on their way home from midnight masses. The first murders had been a shock, as much from the grisly manner of death as of the sickening message left by the killer.

Their names had been Eliza and Verga, German transfer students on a 9-month hiatus to London. The Police report had named them feisty youngsters, but 16 years old, and sassy. Their deaths had come as a shock, but also as semi-relief for their foster family in London. The father, Howdy Redder, had already gone deaf since their arrival. Though they were beautiful and full of life, they were also full of impertinence, and all too ready to share it. But nothing warranted the gruesome fate they encountered one fateful evening.
When the police found their bodies, or more accurately, what was left of their bodies, there was not a single recognizable feature to be found. In fact, it was just too horrible to recount without causing scandal, so Jace Buntley skipped to the next memory.
The message from the killer had been drawn on a nearby wall in the victims’ own blood, and merely said: "JACK THE RIPPERGER". This sickening note was the only clue Scotland Yard possessed. For indeed, Scotland Yard had been called in to handle this case. It wasn’t so much that the Londoner’s couldn’t handle it, as it was that every single member on the Police Force just happened to be Anglican. Jace Buntley didn’t care. He had been Catholic, once, but that was before….

Suddenly, a sharp jolt jolted him out of his reminiscence. The coach had driven over a rut in the cobblestone street."Sorry sir, didn’t see that one!" Came the muffled voice of Davis Nolder from the driver’s seat. “Next time I’ll take a shorter swig from the bottle!” It was just as well. Jace didn’t want to torture himself with the memories of a former life in London, a life with a beautiful young girl by the name of Rosie Tracer.
Rosie had been an intern with Scotland Yard then, on her senior year in the Scottish School of Spies and Sleuths, or S4 for short. S4 was known for graduating the most gifted and talented English detectives in the nation, and Rosie had been at the top of her class. It wasn’t until much later that her secret was discovered: she was psychic.Yes, it was this ability that had placed her in the most secret division of Scotland Yard, and gave her exclusive rights to the most secret of secrets. There were secrets everywhere, and yet, she had insisted upon sharing them with only one man, a man for whom there were no secrets… Jace Buntley lit up a fag and breathed deep. He blew the smoke out of the coach window and wondered just where fate would take him next… after his hotel room, of course. And after the bar. And then after the loo, shower, loo again, and bedroom floor. After fate had taken him to all those places, THEN he wondered where next.

Also, he wondered what Rosie might be doing at this very minute, what she might be thinking…