Chapter 3 : Blood Connection

Sebastian Grey''s residence was not what Alex had expected. Instead of the gloomy, gaslit detective''s office of fiction, they arrived at a modest but well-kept townhouse in Bloomsbury. The neighborhood was respectable but not ostentatious, with trees lining the street and the distant sound of children playing in a square.

"Mrs. Hawthorne will see to your needs," Sebastian said as he unlocked the front door. "She''s my housekeeper. Discreet, efficient, and not given to gossip."

The interior was a reflection of the man himself—orderly, functional, but with touches of personality. Books lined the walls, not just in a study but in the hallway, the sitting room, even what appeared to be the dining room. Scientific instruments shared space with more conventional decor: a microscope on a side table, chemical apparatus on a shelf, a human skeleton in a glass case that made Alex do a double-take.

"A teaching aid," Sebastian said, noticing his glance. "I occasionally lecture at University College. Anatomy and forensic science."

Of course he did. Alex''s grandmother had mentioned that too—Sebastian''s interest in the emerging field of criminal investigation, his belief that science could bring order to chaos.

A woman appeared from a back room, wiping her hands on an apron. She was in her fifties, with sharp eyes that missed nothing and a no-nonsense expression.

"Mr. Grey. And a guest, I see."

"Mrs. Hawthorne, this is Mr. Alexander Sterling. He''ll be staying with us for a time. He needs clothing, a bath, and a meal. Can you arrange it?"

The housekeeper''s eyes swept over Alex, taking in his disheveled appearance, the ill-fitting clothes, the general air of someone who''d spent the night in a cell. Her expression didn''t change. "Of course, sir. I''ll draw a bath and see about some of Mr. William''s old things. He''s about the same size."

"William?" Alex asked as Mrs. Hawthorne disappeared up the stairs.

"My... associate," Sebastian said, leading the way into a study. "William Carter. Former Royal Navy. He assists me with investigations. He''s away at the moment, visiting family in Devon."

The study was the heart of the house. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a large desk piled with papers, maps on the walls with pins marking locations, and a fireplace with a comfortable chair beside it. Sebastian gestured for Alex to sit.

"Now," he said, taking the chair behind the desk. "Start from the beginning. And leave nothing out."

Alex took a deep breath and began. He told Sebastian about the Midnight Preacher, the six victims, the pattern of leaving bodies in churches with scripture carved into their flesh. He described the chase to St. Ignatius, the confrontation, the flash of light, and waking up in 1888 London.

Sebastian listened without interruption, his fingers steepled before him, his expression unreadable. When Alex finished, he was silent for a long moment.

"A serial killer," he said finally, testing the unfamiliar term. "A murderer who kills repeatedly, following a pattern, driven by psychological compulsion rather than material gain."

"Yes. It''s a classification we developed in the twentieth century. Based on the work of people like... well, people who haven''t been born yet."

"And you believe this Midnight Preacher''s actions are connected to your... translocation?"

"I don''t know. The light, his words—''We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed.'' It feels connected. But I don''t understand how or why."

Sebastian rose and went to a bookshelf, pulling down a volume. "The quote is from First Corinthians. Chapter 15, verse 51. It continues: ''In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.''"

He looked at Alex. "Apocalyptic imagery. Transformation. Resurrection. Your killer appears to have a religious fixation."

"Most serial killers do. They create their own twisted theology to justify their actions."

"Fascinating." Sebastian returned to his desk. "But let us set aside the metaphysical questions for now. You claim to be from the future. My relative. Prove it."

Alex thought quickly. What would convince this man, this brilliant, skeptical Victorian detective? Not just family stories—those could be researched, invented. Something personal. Something specific.

"Your brother," he said. "Thomas. He died when you were both boys. Typhoid fever. You blamed yourself because you''d persuaded him to sneak out to see a traveling fair. He caught the fever there."

Sebastian''s face went still. "That is... not widely known."

"My grandmother said you never spoke of it. But it shaped you. Made you obsessive about causes and effects, about tracing things to their origins. You became a detective because you needed to understand why things happen."

"Go on."

"You have a sister. Margaret. She married a banker and moved to Edinburgh. You don''t see her often, but you write. She thinks you''re wasting your talents on ''sordid criminal matters.''"

A faint smile touched Sebastian''s lips. "That does sound like Margaret."

"And..." Alex hesitated, then plunged ahead. "There''s a case you never solved. The ''Limehouse Locksmith.'' Three women murdered, their bodies found with intricate locks placed in their hands. You tracked the killer for months, but he vanished. It still bothers you. You keep the case files in the bottom left drawer of that desk."

Sebastian''s eyes flicked to the drawer in question, then back to Alex. His expression was unreadable, but something had shifted in his demeanor. The skepticism was still there, but it was now tempered with something else—curiosity, perhaps. Or the beginning of belief.

"You know a great deal," he said quietly.

"I grew up on stories about you. My grandmother idolized you. Said you were the smartest man she never met." Alex leaned forward. "I don''t expect you to believe me completely. How could you? It''s insane. But I need help. I''m stranded here, in a time that''s not my own, with knowledge that''s useless or dangerous or both."

"Knowledge such as?"

"Jack the Ripper. He''s active right now, in Whitechapel. Five women dead. Mary Ann Nichols, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes... and soon, Mary Jane Kelly. November 9th. In her room at 13 Miller''s Court. It will be the worst one. The most brutal."

Sebastian''s eyes narrowed. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because it''s history where I come from. The Ripper murders are famous. Studied, analyzed, debated. I know the dates, the victims, the methods. I know the police will never catch him. I know the theories—dozens of them, hundreds. But I know what actually happens. Or what''s supposed to happen."

The implications hung in the air between them. If Alex was telling the truth, he had foreknowledge of one of the most notorious crime sprees in history. He could change it. Or he could be wrong. Or his very presence could alter events in unpredictable ways.

Mrs. Hawthorne appeared at the door. "The bath is ready, sir. And I''ve laid out some clothes."

Sebastian nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne." He turned back to Alex. "Clean yourself up. Eat. Rest. We will continue this conversation later."

As Alex followed the housekeeper upstairs, he felt the weight of Sebastian''s gaze on his back. It wasn''t hostile, but it was assessing. Measuring. The kind of look a scientist gives a curious specimen.

The bath was a luxury Alex hadn''t realized he needed so desperately. Hot water, soap that smelled of lavender, clean towels. Mrs. Hawthorne had laid out clothes—a shirt, trousers, waistcoat, jacket, all slightly outdated in cut but well-made and clean. As he dressed, he caught his reflection in the mirror and barely recognized himself. The modern haircut looked bizarre with the Victorian clothing, but otherwise... he could pass. For now.

When he returned downstairs, a simple meal was waiting in the dining room—bread, cheese, cold meat, ale. Sebastian joined him, sipping tea as Alex ate.

"I''ve been considering your situation," Sebastian said. "If you are indeed from the future, and if your arrival is connected to this Midnight Preacher, then there may be a purpose to it. Or at least, a pattern to discern."

"You believe me?"

"I believe you believe it. And you know things you shouldn''t. Whether that''s because you''re a particularly clever fraud, a madman with astonishing research skills, or actually from the future... that remains to be seen." He set down his teacup. "But I''m willing to entertain the possibility. And to help you, for two reasons."

"Which are?"

"First, you''re family. Or claim to be. And family matters, even when it''s inconvenient." Sebastian''s expression was unreadable. "Second, you interest me. A man out of time, with knowledge of crimes past and future. That could be... useful."

Alex finished his meal, the food settling uneasily in his stomach. Useful. That''s what he was now. A tool. A resource. It was better than being in a cell or an asylum, but it came with its own dangers.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"Now," Sebastian said, "we test your knowledge. And we see if you can be of actual use, not just a curiosity." He stood. "Tomorrow, we visit Scotland Yard. I have friends there. And you, Detective Sterling, are going to help me with a case. A current one. Let''s see if your future policing methods have any application in the present."

Alex felt a flicker of something he hadn''t felt since waking up in this strange world: purpose. He was a detective. It was what he did, who he was. Maybe, in this impossible situation, that could be his anchor.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don''t thank me yet," Sebastian replied, his expression serious. "Victorian London is not kind to outsiders. And if you''re wrong about anything—if your knowledge fails, if your story unravels—the consequences will be severe. For both of us."

He left the room, leaving Alex alone with his thoughts and the growing realization that his journey was just beginning. He had an ally, of sorts. A place to stay. A direction.

But the Midnight Preacher''s words still echoed in his mind. Changed. He had been changed. And now he had to figure out what that meant, in a world where the rules were different, the stakes were higher, and the past was his present.