Three days.

Three days have passed at a snail's pace and nothing has shown up, that would help further the Constable in his case. At least his hands have healed from the scratches he received from his impromptu nap on the cobblestoned street. Ichabod has visited the cemetery seven times during these past days and NOTHING has shown up! Is it all for waste? Is he wasting is time doing foolish tasks and visits?

"Why if it isn't the cowardly Constable." A rather familiar voice, full of malice seems to purr to him as he whirls around. Miss Briargrove is standing a few feet behind him, wearing a mourning dress and holding a matching parasol. Finally! Someone that can help him!

"Miss Briargrove, pray tell where-"

"None of your business." She snaps at him and turns on her heels, preparing to leave the dark alley that the Constable was snooping around in, for clues of course. Something about being left behind in the dark, damp alley isn't that appealing to Crane and he sprints after her.

"Wait!"

The maiden comes to a stop at the mouth of the alley, not daring to go into the sunlight which Crane fails to pick up.

"Yes? Do you miss my charm and fine features already?" Heather asks, well more of demands and folds up her ebony parasol. He stands straight up, attempting to look professional.

"May I have a word with you?"

Big Ben chimes in announcing the arrival of six, which for many of the lower class is the end of the work day. For a good twenty minutes or so, while the sun sets there is a cheerful crowd filling the streets. Women gossiping with their girlfriends, and going home to tend to the home and hearth. Men joking around as men seem to do and entering the closest pubs, for a drink before they head on home. One woman, limping slightly and looking exhausted is making her way down the street. This woman is Mary O'Mallory, an Irish immigrant who hoped that in coming here to London, she would have a better life.

Boy was she wrong.

From sunup to sundown, Mrs. O'Mallory is working in a textile factory and today was the day that really was the straw on the camel's back. Her ragged bootlace got caught in one of the machines, and her ankle was twisted. This resulted in a terrible pain and a limp, that makes her look like some sort of beggar woman. Hopefully her husband will be home to help her care for their young.

A shadow races across the streets and there's a scream, clearly feminine. Mary quickens her pace, despite not being able to walk very well and prays to the Lord that she'll make it home.

"Jus' one more night. Please. I want tah say so long to my wee ones."

"Rather late for a lovely lady to be out..." A man seems to growl in an unknown accent, as a cold hand grabs onto her shoulder. Tears are filling Mary's eyes. She can feel elongated fingers wrapping themselves in her mane of fiery red curls. Where is a Constable when needed?! It seems this street has become even darker and the moon is hiding behind thick, black clouds.

"Please Sir...I-I be on m-my way, no trouble for ye." The woman begs as her neck is tilted back, revealing her creamy white skin. A whimper escapes Mary's mouth, one of fear as the man leans over and sinks his fangs into her veins. She screams.

"Don't you have a wife to be getting back too?" Miss Briargrove asks as she sips her drink. The Constable brought her to a pub, assuming it would be a wise choice and regrets his decision. This tavern is full of local drunkards and they all seem to be contempt with screaming as loud as they can. Crane grits his teeth and remembers that murdering, even if it's an annoying drunk is against the law.

"No actually I do not. I am a bachelor and perfectly fine where I stand."

"You sure about that?" She questions with a slight smirk. Ichabod narrows his eyes at her-why is she blushing?! Is she amused by him, or has she grown feelings for him? Why are women so very confusing? Especially women that drink and curse and protect him from vampires and...Crane shakes his head, ridding himself of those thoughts and glances away from her and her bewitching smile. Katrina has nothing on Miss Heather Briargrove.

"Yes." Crane snaps at her and hastily stands. The second he stands, the doors to the pub are flung open and a young Constable, barely older then a child charges inside.

"Crane?! Is there a Constable Crane?" He demands, looking rather desperate and worried.

"None other." Crane replies as the boy rushes over to him.

"Your superior wants to see you."

His blood freezes and Ichabod nearly topples over. What does the Judge want this time?! The other Constable waits for a response and when Ichabod says nothing, he runs out of the tavern.

"That seemed pretty urgent. You best get going, Constable." Heather says, cool and calm as ever and Ichabod nearly screams at her. How can she be so calm when he is to face one of his biggest fears?!

"Don't disappear. This is far from over."

"Whatever you say, Constable." She says in that silky voice and blows a kiss towards Ichabod. He blushes a dark red and stumbles out of the pub, refusing to look back at her.

The walk to the constabulary is silent, as he is lost in his thoughts and he fears that if he opens his mouth he will be sick. Perhaps he turned in some of the paperwork late. Maybe he wrote too fast and the Judge can;t read his handwriting. Maybe he's getting promoted to High Constable! Before Crane knows it, he's at the constabulary doors and gulping nervously as they open.

"Ah there you are. Right on time."

The Judge's office is huge and he himself is taller then Crane, with silver hair. The Constable can feel his heart beating much too hard and it threatened to climb up his throat, and up his mouth.

"Care for a drink?" Judge Turpin asks as he makes his way over to a small table, with many glass bottles of alcohol on it.

"Oh! N-no thank you S-Sir...I..." Crane starts as the dreaded Judge smiles at him. The smile is unnerving, how a lion looks at an antelope.

"You always seem to fascinate me, Crane."

"I-I do Sir?"

"Why of course! None of my other Constables are as squeamish or...Delicate as you.." Turpin says and as he finishes, he places a hand on Ichabod's shoulder. A chill runs down his spine. This touch doesn't feel right, something is off. He would like to go home now.

"Yes. Very delicate and smooth." The Judge says as he runs a hand down on of Ichabod's cheekbones. The Constable freezes up and attempts to stay calm.

"S-Sir? Didn't you need me for s-something?" The Constable chokes out, getting a death glare from Turpin.

"Why of course. I always need you Ichabod, but if you must know...Another one has been found dead with all the blood gone from her body."