A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1)

by Shawna Reppert

  Impressive, yes, but why was it relevant? He stared hard at Jones, trying to impress upon him the desire for further explanation.

  “The letter was addressed to me by name. It told me to go back to the beginning. That was the beginning of my career. It takes a bastard to catch a bastard.”

  Fourteen

  This time, Jones led them through the dark streets. There was no performance at the Little Globe of London tonight, and only distant laughter and drunken song from down the street broke the silence.

  “Here, Ba— boy, how’s your nose now? Can you sense anything?”

  He never talked to werewolves as though they were dogs, but it was better than finishing Bandon’s name. Damn, but the case was getting to him. If the ’wolf noticed the slip or resented the rudeness of his cover, he didn’t show it. Not that it was easy to tell what was going on behind that animal skull.

  Bandon waved his plumed tale once and dropped his nose to the ground, his snuffling loud in the quiet. Forward, up one side of the alley and down the other, while Royston questioned whether he had gotten the puzzle right, thought about the girl who must be terrified, every moment an agony of anticipated pain if not actual torture, depending on him to get it right.

  The ’wolf checked, turned back, started zig-zagging over an increasingly small area. Then he jumped up, barking and pawing at the layers of playbills stuck to the walls of the theater.

  “Carefully!” Royston cautioned. “You may be destroying evidence!”

  The ’wolf fell back to all fours and backed away, giving Jones and Parker room as they carefully stripped away the playbills until they found, stuck beneath one of them, a lumpy envelope addressed to Royston.

  Royston took a moment to consider the envelope. Coarse paper, there would be no watermark. Cheap ink. ‘Royston Jones’, no title, printed in a hand that was bold but coarse. Something about it tickled at his memory, but printing was less distinctive than script.

  Had the man known that, and printed to disguise his hand? That would mean that the killer was someone Royston knew and knew well. The thought of such evil among his circle of acquaintances sent a chill down his spine despite the too-heavy constable’s uniform.

  The killer could just be someone who knew he would be suspected and asked for a writing sample. Or someone who printed habitually—for the less-educated, printing was often easier than script. The paper certainly pointed to someone in the lower class. Unless, of course, the choice of paper was meant to deliberately mislead. Winchell would be just that clever.

  A puzzle, just like the ones Godwin had brought him, the ones he so loved as a child. Despite the stakes, a bubble of excitement built in his chest, something bright and warm filling him, feeling that it might overflow at any moment and fill London with its light. He would find this killer; he would make his city safe.

  Royston carefully broke the seal. The lump proved to be a lady’s pendant, a cameo with a broken chain. Miss Chatham had been wearing just such a pendant when last he saw her.

  He withdrew a single sheet of paper, sloppily folded.

  “Congratulations for making it this far. But the clues will just get tougher from here. From the young bastard’s success to the old man’s failure.”

  “Please tell me you know what he means by that,” Parker pleaded.

  Royston closed his eyes. “I’ve no idea.”

  A girl’s life hung in the balance, and he had no idea.

  Bandon made a quiet noise in his throat, not quite a whimper, and shifted back and forth on his forepaws, restless. The buildings all around let only the smallest bit of horizon visible between them, but that bit showed the barest hint of gray.

  He sighed. “You’d best be going, then. I don’t think we’re going to figure this out any time soon.”

  Bandon wouldn’t be of any use once the sun rose, and Royston couldn’t, in good conscience, put him at any more risk.

  “The first thing we need to do,” Jones said to Parker, “Is to figure out what old man the killer means.”

  “Chatham?” Parker suggested.

  “Could be. Although the first letter referred to my career. In which case the ‘old man’ is probably Godwin. But what failure? Even a detective as sharp as Godwin has had more than one failure. There was the thing with the rubies. And the case with the banker’s daughter.”

  “What about the time he was shot?” Parker suggested.

  “I don’t think Godwin would count that as a failure,” Royston said. “The bullet shattered his health and ended his career, but he got his man.”

  “Even if Godwin doesn’t think of it as a failure, we’re talking about the killer’s thoughts, not Godwin’s.”

  “How am I to fathom the thoughts of a madman?” Royston clenched a fist in frustration.

  He wanted to punch the wall, punch it until his bones shattered and his hand bled. A detective didn’t show such a loss of control in public. Nor did a constable.

  “Respectfully, sir, are you sure the old man is Godwin and not Chatham?”

  “I’m certain of nothing!” Royston shouted. He scrubbed his face with his hand, took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  “It’s all right, sir. It’s nearly time to go back to the Yard to check in.”

  “We’ll have to tell them what we found. . .or at least, I’ll have to tell them. I’ll keep your name out of it, if you want. There’s no way around the fact that at least one of us deserted our post.”

  He may have thrown away even his constable’s job and with it his last final bit of security. He couldn’t regret the decision, though he felt cold and sick when he considered the consequences. How did Willie go so blithely from job to low-paying job?

  He thought about Miss Fairchild, so adamant that he was wasted as a constable. Well, he’d be wasted even more at the workhouse, but despite her promises of aid he hadn’t seen any help from her yet and really didn’t expect to. He’d even gone so far as to stop by Mr. Foster’s office before his shift started, only to be told that it was not a good time and hurried on his way. Ah, well. The wealthy could afford to be flighty.

  “I’ve never once lied about the performance of my duties,” Parker said sturdily.

  Which made Royston feel worse about what he had to say next. “I told the ’wolf I’d keep him out of it.”

  Parker grinned. “I saw you meet with an anonymous informant. Beastly sort. Black hair with a bit of gray, long nose, broad shoulders. Don’t think I’ve seen him around before.”

  This was a side to Parker he hadn’t seen when he was the man’s superior. He appreciated it, but still. . .

  “I shouldn’t be letting you put your job at risk like this. You have a family.”

  “With respect, sir, you’re not letting me do anything at the moment.” Parker smiled to take the sting out of his words.

  Royston hadn’t strength left to continue the argument. The surge of the chase could only take him so far, and both his mind and his body felt thick and sluggish from the unaccustomed schedule and the strains of the day. They dragged into the Yard just as most of their shift were leaving. Conversations hushed, and heads turned to follow their progress. This could not be good.

  “Jones! Parker!” the duty sergeant roared as soon as he caught sight of them. “You’d better have bloody good excuses for where you were and evidence to back it up or else you’re both fired. Stoddard ran into a bar fight that spilled out into the street for two blocks, just next to your watch. Blew his whistle for backup, and backup never came. I have a man in the hospital and citizens yapping at my heels.”

  Quietly, Royston related the events of the night, skirting around the details of the source that lead him to the first find. The sergeant’s red-faced anger turned to pale shock. Quiet murmurs spread about the room like ripples from a dropped stone.

  The captain sent someone to wake Browne. “Which you should have done right away,” he said to Royston. “This isn’t your case anymore, a
nd you’re not a detective. Go home. We’ll deal with this later.”

  Later came entirely too soon for Royston’s taste. Blinking in the strong light of mid-morning, he opened his door to two constables who sheepishly informed him he was wanted at the Yard. For questioning. As a suspect in the disappearance of Miss Adela Chatham, and the deaths of the others.

  Fifteen

  Royston never expected to be this side of the desk in an interrogation room. Having Browne on the other side only contributed to the farce. The sense of unreality made it hard to focus. Odd thoughts kept flitting through his head. He remembered the weeping, hysterical mothers of men he’d arrested in the past and was at least glad that his mother had been spared that. He imagined how the same prim and proper people who had said the dead girls must have brought it on themselves now saying that of course he was a killer, just look who his mother had been. All the hard work he’d done to prove them wrong had come to naught unless he could find some way to prove his innocence.

  Not to mention that they could hang him for this.

  He made himself concentrate on trying to talk some sense into Browne. “This is ridiculous. You’ve seen my record. I’ve worked with the Yard for years. Do you really think I’ve suddenly turned into some crazed killer?”

  “I think you got the taste for fame and big cases after working on the Ladykiller case last December. You’ve always been ambitious.”

  No, that would be you. I only ever wanted to be a good detective. But just as the liar sees dishonesty in every man, so Browne would never understand someone who only wanted to catch criminals and keep London safe.

  “I think you engineered the Dr. Death cases to mimic the Ladykiller.”

  If anyone in this room were capable of such ruthless ambition, it would be Browne, but even he could not be capable of such calculated obscenity.

  “Enamored of the upper class, to which you claim unwarranted association by your given name and the outrageous lies your mother told to explain her own weakness, you targeted Winchell and Downey as an excuse to rub elbows with the gentry during your investigation.”

  Were he not manacled, Royston would hide his head in his hands for shame at such idiocy coming from a colleague, shame and despair. “Have you even bothered to look at the evidence against either of them?”

  “I didn’t need to. Such savagery as the Doctor Death killings could clearly only come from the criminal classes.”

  “Listen to me, Browne. You can hang me, and it might make you feel better, but it’s not going to help Miss Chatham, and it’s not going to help the next victim. At least take a look at the bloody files. I compiled them for a reason!”

  “I don’t need to look at the files to know that you targeted Winchell and Downey out of the hatred you bear your betters.”

  “Wait, am I meant to be hating the upper class, or thinking myself one of them? I’m not following you, Inspector Browne.” Royston was already damned, no point in holding his tongue.

  Two constables stood by the door, men Jones hadn’t worked with before. They stared straight ahead, professional, with no expression to betray what they thought of Browne’s lunacy.

  Browne continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I know you walked out with Adela, with Miss Chatham. I know it was she who broke it off. You were angry, jealous.”

  “Then what about the others? Patterns, man. Think it through.” Even under the circumstances, he couldn’t resist trying to teach Browne his job.

  Somebody had to.

  Browne paused, eyebrows furrowing in a look of concentration. Ah, so Royston was getting through to him. There was hope after all.

  Then Browne’s face cleared, and he launched into his counterargument. “At least one of the other girls was known to you. I saw you flirt with the fish-and-chips girl often enough. Did she scorn you as well? Did you know the others as well; did they reject your advances?” Browne leaned in closer, towering over him. “Or do you simply hate all womankind? Perhaps you blame them all for your notorious lack of success with the fairer sex.”

  That stung. “My poor luck is hardly notorious. I wouldn’t even call it remarkable. I just haven’t met the right girl.”

  Browne sniffed as though the right girl for a rather short, plain man of no prospects would be a long time coming. “And so, angry at Miss Chatham for having spurned you in favor of one more suitable, and angry at her father for your well-deserved demotion, you kidnapped Miss Chatham and wrote the notes yourself in an attempt to force the Commissioner to bring you back on the case.”

  Jones laughed. Inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it. “Browne, you’re wasted on the force. You should be writing detective serials.”

  Browne caught him by the collar and shook him. “How dare you! How dare you, while Adela is locked up somewhere and scared witless or maybe lying dead. Where is she? What have you done to her?”

  Oh dear God, the idiot actually believes I’m Doctor Death! Jones struggled to breathe. If he struck out against Browne’s strangling hands he’d make his position that much worse, but if Browne didn’t contain himself. . .

  “Sir, sir, stop! You have to stop!” It took both constables to pull Browne off him.

  “The law,” one of them said. “We must follow the law, or where will we be?”

  “If you kill him, he can’t tell us where Miss Chatham is,” said the other.

  Browne was panting, eyes red and murderous. Jones had seen such a look only once before, just before a drunk down on the wharf mistook him for the Devil and tried to open him with a knife designed for gutting fish.

  “Get him out of here,” Browne said. “Take him to a holding cell. Clearly he’s not man enough to admit to his crimes.”

  The taller of the two constables took Royston by the arm, pulling him roughly even though he hadn’t tried to resist.

  “One last thing, Jones,” Browne said just as he reached the door. “You accuse me of not having reasoned this out. Tell me then, why won’t you reveal the name of the source that led you to the warehouse and to the artist’s studio? Tell me that, and maybe I’ll be willing to listen to the rest of your story.”

  They locked him in a small cell away from the general population. For his own protection or to protect the other inmates from a crazed killer? At least he was alone in his misery. A servant of justice, he still didn’t have much faith in the courts. He had sat through too many trials for that. A good solicitor could make mincemeat of Browne’s case, but Royston had no money for a solicitor. Browne was too crazed with worry to think straight, his thoughts likely further clouded by the guilt and humiliation of having his love literally stolen from his arms. The Commissioner was under a lot of pressure to produce a killer and had always been more than ready to believe the worst of Royston. Perhaps if the crimes continued after his execution, he would be declared innocent post mortem. Perhaps not.

  And meanwhile, poor Miss Chatham was. . .wherever she was. Dead maybe. If she were found, and the coroner placed the time of death at a time when he was already in custody—dear God, no. Miss Chatham may have chosen another, but she had always been kind and sweet-spoken. He could not think of her death as anything other than the tragedy it would be.

  Tell me then, why won’t you reveal the name of the source that led you to the warehouse and to the artist’s studio? Tell me that, and maybe I’ll be willing to listen to the rest of your story. If he revealed Bandon for what he was, the man would be forced to testify under oath. There would be enough evidence to clear him of Molly’s murder, at least.

  Would the courts accept the testimony of a werewolf, even one of Bandon’s stature? Or would they try to name him Royston’s accomplice? They both might end up hanged. Either way, Bandon’s life would be ruined, and likely Miss Fairchild’s as well.

  No. Bandon might be a toff, but he had risked himself trying to hunt down the killer. If Royston was to die, he would die innocent of betrayal as well as innocent of the crimes of which he was accused. Godwin would know the tr
uth—please, God, the man had to have enough sense to know Royston was innocent. His poor mother was not alive to see the disgrace. If the rest of the world wanted to believe that the bastard had shown his true nature, let them.

  Time passed slowly. How slowly he couldn’t know—they’d taken his watch and chain ‘for safety’. He only hoped his mother’s French coin that he wore as a watch token didn’t get ‘lost’. But then, if things went the way he suspected they would, it wouldn’t much matter.

  There would be a trial, but the accused was not allowed to speak and he had no one else to speak for him.

  He’d heard that in America, a man was allowed to take the stand in his own defense, if he chose. A novel concept. Royston wondered if it would ever be implemented in British courts.

  Boredom and despair were powerful sedatives, and it had been weeks since Royston had gotten adequate sleep. He dozed fitfully, leaning against the wall, his rest disturbed by dreams of accusing stares, pointing fingers, and dead girls.

  He startled awake when the door clanged open at the end of the hall. Browne come back for another round of interrogation? Not Browne. Royston could scarcely believe whom he saw strolling down the hallway, unaccompanied by a constable, grinning his insouciant grin. “Willie, what are you doing here?” Royston hissed when Willie got close enough.

  Willie grinned wider. “Bribed the constable, didn’t I? Sad how little an honest fellow gets paid. This is quite the turnaround, isn’t it? You in the cell, me out here.”

  “Damn it, Willie, this isn’t funny.”

  “No, I suppose it isn’t. Browne always was an idiot. He’s the one who got me busted for drinking on duty.”

  “That was different,” Royston said. “You were drinking on duty.”

  Willie chuckled. “Ah, let’s not argue.” He reached though the bars to pull Royston closer. Royston leaned into the rough embrace. Willie stepped back after a moment. “Here, I’ve brought you something to cheer you up.” He reached into his jacket and brought out a flask. “Irish whisky.”