The Inspector's Shadow – Chapter V
The Griffin's Trap
Gay Romance / Gay Fiction 🔞
On Friday, November twenty-eighth, the fog in London grew so thick that the city virtually ceased to exist. The walls of the buildings vanished into the yellowish-brown swirls, the gas lamps glowed only as faint, bloody smudges in the void, and one felt as though they were walking inside a giant, smoky stomach, slowly digesting the world.
Victor Blackwood sat in his office, holding his pistol.
Not because he was afraid—though he was. Rather, because the weight of the weapon, the cold smoothness of the steel, gave him something concrete to hold onto on a day when everything else seemed lost. The barrel of the Webley revolver was dark, its wooden grip weathered and stained by years of his own sweat, and now, as his fingers traced over it, it felt as if he were touching his own past.
But tonight, he would not be alone. Tonight, he had to meet the blackmailer.
The letter—which he had burned, though its words still seethed in his memory—prescribed eleven o'clock. The Griffin's Nest. Wapping. The wharf. A place he knew. A place he had been. A place where, behind the black silk mask, he too had been just a nameless body.
And now, someone knew. Someone who not only knew his secret, but was playing with it. And had dragged George into it, too.
Victor slipped the pistol into his coat's inner pocket. The weight of the weapon pressed against his chest, cold and reassuring. He stood up. The chair creaked. The embers sleeping in the fireplace glowed red, casting dancing shadows on the walls—shadows that looked like hanging men, or lovers in an embrace.
A knock at the door. Three raps. Even. George.
"Come in," Victor said, his voice raspy.
George stepped inside. But he was not alone.
Behind him, emerging from the darkness of the hallway, was the silhouette of Dr. Sterling—tall, gaunt, his black overcoat draped like a shroud. The doctor’s face was pale, his spectacles glinting in the dim light, and his left hand—the hand Victor watched so closely—was still bandaged.
"Apologies for the intrusion, Blackwood," Sterling said, his voice cold and sharp. "But I thought you and the sergeant ought to see this before you... go anywhere tonight."
Victor and George looked at each other. A single moment. A secret hung between them, thicker than the fog.
"See what?" Victor asked.
Sterling stepped forward. In his hand was a small, brown paper parcel, tied with twine. The twine was stained—dry, brown spots, like rust.
"It was left at my door at the hospital this morning," Sterling said. "I believe the killer left it. And I believe it is meant for you, Blackwood."
Victor reached out. The weight of the paper was heavy. The scent of blood—sweet, metallic, familiar—drifted from it. He unwrapped it.
Inside was a photograph. Small, the kind taken with the new Kodak Brownie. The image was blurry, grainy, but anyone who knew the venue would recognize it.
The Gilded Cage. The masked ballroom.
And in the center of the picture, in the shadow of a pillar, stood two figures. Close. Too close. One wore a black mask—only his mouth was visible. The other, shorter, with broader shoulders, wore no disguise. George.
Below the image, a single sentence was written in red ink: "The Lovers' Night. Friday. Midnight. Do Not Be Late."
Victor's face didn't change, but in his mind, the puzzle pieces instantly clicked together. The blackmail letter had summoned him to the Wapping warehouse for eleven o'clock—but this photograph made it clear that the Griffin's Nest was merely the first stop, the entrance to the trap. The real game would culminate at midnight in the ballroom of the Gilded Cage. They had barely an hour.
The hand holding the photograph trembled.
"Where did you find this?" Victor asked.
"Outside my door," Sterling repeated. "At the rear entrance of St. Bartholomew's Hospital." The doctor paused. Behind his spectacles, his eyes—gray, cold, inquisitive—locked onto Victor. "Curious, isn't it? Someone knows where I work. Someone knows where you work. And someone knows where you play... apart from your duties."
The word lingered in the air. Play.
"Thank you, Doctor," Victor said, his voice dangerously smooth. "We shall look into it."
Sterling nodded. Yet he stood there for another moment, watching them—the two men standing too close to one another, whose glances spoke far too much.
"Careful, Blackwood," Sterling said softly. "The fog tonight... is so thick, one could easily lose his way in it."
Then he left. The sweep of his coat's hem echoed down the hallway for a long time.
Silence.
George stepped closer. So close that Victor could feel his body heat, the scent of damp wool, and that aroma he would have recognized out of thousands—George’s soap, his shaving cream, and beneath it, his skin, his neck.
"It's a trap," George said. He didn't ask. He knew.
"Yes," Victor replied. "The Wapping address is just the beginning. We need to be at the Gilded Cage by midnight."
"And yet you're going."
"Yes."
"Alone."
"George..."
"No!" The voice was sharp now, cracked. "I won't let you get lost in the fog! If you must go, I am going too. If you must die..."
He didn't finish.
Victor understood. His hand rose. He took George's hand. His own palm was cold; George's was hot. The touch—the first deliberate touch they had allowed themselves during the day, in the open—was like an electric current coursing through his body.
"Very well," Victor whispered. "We go together."
The Griffin's Nest was actually a warehouse—a red-brick, three-story building on the Wapping wharf that had once been built for grain, but was now used by the underworld. In the fog, it appeared only as a dark mass, its contours blurred as if torn from a nightmare.
Victor and George stood in the alley opposite. The fog here was even thicker, damp and cold, smelling of rotting seaweed and kerosene. They could hear the Thames—the lapping of the water against the stone, the creaking of a ship's rigging, somewhere a rat scurrying through the gutter.
Victor wore his mask.
The black silk was cold against his face, tight—only his mouth was visible, his eyes concealed. George stood beside him, dressed as he always was—dark coat, hat, but with nothing disguising his face. He owned who he was. He owned being there.
"You go first," George whispered. "I'll follow. If there's trouble, let me know."
Victor nodded. Behind the mask, his breathing was loud. His mouth dry. His hand—holding a small knife strapped to his wrist—was trembling.
They set off.
The door to the Griffin's Nest was a thick, black slab of wood with iron rivets. Victor knocked—three times, then twice. The passcode he still knew by heart.
Silence. Then a creak. The door opened.
Inside was darkness and smoke. Not cigarette smoke—this was thicker, sweetish, raw-smelling. Opium. Victor caught the scent, and his stomach tightened. He knew this smell.
A hallway led inward. The walls were damp, the plaster peeling, and black mold grew between the bricks. The ceiling was low—George had to duck his head. The air was heavy, warm, and alive with sounds: soft laughter, whispering, and music from somewhere—a piano playing out of tune.
Eventually, they arrived in a larger parlor.
Here there was some light—gas lamps draped in thick, red fabric, so that the glow resembled blood. There were people in the room. Men. All men. Some wore masks like Victor, others showed their faces. Everyone was in suits, or pretended to be—but their glances, their postures gave them away.
Victor felt George tense beside him. He saw George's gaze sweep the room—the couples huddled in the corners, the men whose hands secretly touched.
"What are we looking for?" George whispered.
"A sign," Victor replied. "Someone who knows the picture. Someone who..."
He didn't finish. Because he saw him.
At the far end of the parlor, on a dais, sat a man. He wore no mask. His face was familiar—not from here, not from this life, but from the other. The daytime one. The lawful one.
Lord Henry Ashford. The Undersecretary of the Home Office.
And now he sat here, with a younger man in his lap, his face flushed with wine and desire.
Victor stopped. This couldn't be a coincidence. The blackmailer wanted him to see this. To know: no one was safe.
And then a voice spoke in his ear. Low, but clear:
"Blackwood."
