“One of them had me demoted,” Royston protested.
“Possibly,” she said. “But if either of them was behind it, be sure he saw it as swatting an annoying fly, not engaging a rival.”
“But it is possible? To create a false scent.”
She sighed. “Yes, it’s possible. And I have been known to be wrong. Not often, but it does happen.”
“Wasn’t one of Downey’s papers something about scents?” he persisted.
“Some sort of spurious attempt to cure consumption by using pleasant smells to drive out the miasma of illness. About as scientific as attempts to predict criminal tendencies by the shape of someone's skull. And not relevant to your line of inquiry.”
“But if he was working at all with scents—“
A loud bang echoed off the walls. Royston ducked reflexively. When Miss Fairchild laughed, he realized it was the engine, not a gunshot. The chuffing stopped entirely, and he thought his worries about getting into a horseless carriage were premature, as were any hopes of making headway toward rescuing Miss Chatham. But then the chuffing started again, slowly but regular now and picking up speed. Steam hissed, then whined. The odd, almost chemical scent of burning gasoline made him rub his nose. How did Bandon cope?
The ’wolf jumped into the back seat and lay down, tail thumping against the upholstery. Taking a deep breath, reminding himself of Miss Chatham, of nameless future victims, of what would happen if he didn’t clear his own name, Royston took the passenger seat next to Miss Fairchild.
The carriage leaped forward, steam billowing from a gleaming brass pipe that rose from the nose of the beast. The tires kicked up gravel as they left the courtyard and, impossibly, the thing picked up speed. A hired carriage horse had once bolted with him, and they had careened down a country road with no barrier in sight, the cart swaying dangerously on the turns. It had been one of the most terrifying experiences in his life.
This was worse.
“Aren’t we going a bit too fast?” He had to shout to be heard over the rushing wind.
Miss Fairchild tilted her head back and laughed.
Royston looked over his shoulder at the ’wolf in the back seat, hoping he would intervene to bring Miss Fairchild to her senses. Bandon was sitting up, eyes closed, nose tilted up to catch the scents rushing by. No help from that quarter.
The horseless swerved abruptly to avoid running down a hedgehog that darted across the road. Though long alienated from the Church, Royston closed his eyes and began to pray. The carriage had to slow a bit when they neared the heart of London because of narrower roads and the occasional lovely traditional horse-drawn carriage. When Miss Fairchild finally brought the vehicle to a halt and they were all still alive, Royston started to rethink his opinions on the power of prayer.
“We’ll have to walk from here,” she said. “The horseless will never fit down the alley where Tom lives.”
They walked down the narrow alley, the ’wolf taking point with Miss Fairchild just behind. Royston held the rear, alert for trouble. It was a rough neighborhood, and anyone out and about at this time was surely up to no good. Including themselves, come to think of it. At least it wasn’t one of the werewolf slums. ’Wolves had good reason to be hostile and suspicious of full humans in their territory. Miss Fairchild’s client must be hiding his nature from his landlord and neighbors.
They avoided stepping in the narrow streamlet that trickled down the center of the alley and stank of sewage and steered clear of the garbage piled along the side. Royston couldn’t blame the residents—landlords too infrequently bothered with the expense of emptying privies, which often overflowed, and rubbish collection in poorer neighborhoods was infrequent and often too dear for households that barely managed to pay for food.
Despite the remedy that kept him from changing form, Tom clearly kept the hours of all his kind on full moon nights—candlelight shone from the windows. Miss Fairchild stepped up to the door and knocked.
“Ar, and who be there this time of night?”
Royston couldn’t quite place the muddied accent—clearly lower-class, and he suspected that the man had moved from place to place a lot as a child.
“Dr. Foster sent me.”
There was a rush of movement from inside, and the sound of something—maybe a small table— being knocked aside in the rush to the door.
The man who opened the door was shorter than Royston by a good two inches, thin and wiry. He was the sort of man that a ruffian might mistake for an easy mark until said ruffian saw the flint in his eyes and took in the way he carried himself. Hard to tell his age—too young, probably, for the gray in his hair. The lines in his face spoke more of trouble seen than years passed.
“Anythin’ Doctor Foster wants, I’m his man.”
Royston saw the moment when the odd nature of the assemblage registered—a young woman in man’s clothing, a man in a disorderly constable’s uniform, and a werewolf. The man’s eyes went wide with surprise, his mouth opened in a silent ‘O’.
Royston recognized the man, now. He’d arrested him once, years ago, for a string of burglaries. Tom was good at what he did. Royston might not have caught him if not for the man’s bad luck; a wet night, a ladder that slipped, a man with a criminal history turning up at one of the charity clinics with a broken leg.
Royston waited for the door to be slammed in their faces.
Instead, the man pulled himself together and stepped out of the way to grant them entrance. “If Doctor Foster sent you, best come in. You lot’ll surely draw attention standing there.”
He let them into a single-room flat, neatly kept but spare. A plain table of unfinished wood was probably homemade. Woodworking tools sat on a rough bench in one corner, and the floor was adorned by chips of wood. The three-legged stool by the bench was probably dragged over to the table for meal-times. A collection of roughly identical miniature birds sat on a table nearby. A few had fallen to the floor, probably when Tom bumped the table in his haste to answer the door. Linseed oil fumes thickened the air.
“I’ve gone straight.” Challenge in Tom’s voice suggested that he expected Royston to doubt his assertion. “Found a man who didn’t know me from before, didn’t know I’m a ’wolf. Easy enough to hide it now, thanks to the good doctor. Piece work, doesn’t pay much, but I’m honest now.”
“I’m glad for you,” Royston said. “Doctor Foster has done a lot of good.”
“Saved my life.” Tom nodded. “If I’d been caught one more time, did one more stint in the workhouse, it’d kill me for sure. Breaks a man’s health, it does. What can I do for you? Anything Doctor Foster wants, anything at all, it’s his.”
Royston couldn’t manage the words. In the end, Miss Fairchild was the one who spoke up.
“We need you to break into Scotland Yard.”
The man paled, took a step backwards, sat down on the rough cot. “Well,” he said. “Well.”
Almost, Royston hoped the man would refuse. He didn’t want to be the one responsible for this man risking what little he had won from the poor hand fate had dealt him. But it wasn’t only, or even primarily, about Royston. It was about Miss Chatham and about all the women of London who would live in terror until the killer was caught.
Miss Fairchild explained what they needed, and why, leaving out only the human identity of the werewolf and the connection between herself and Doctor Foster.
“And what is the doctor’s interest in all this?” Tom finally asked.
Royston exchanged glances with Miss Fairchild.
“The werewolf committed to tracking the killer is another of his clients, and very dear to him,” Miss Fairchild said. “He has worked with Inspector Jones in a professional capacity and is not only convinced of his innocence, but feels he may be the only one who can find and stop the real killer. Foster nearly lost someone close to him to Blackpoole, and these new murders. . .bring back unpleasant memories.”
Tom looked at Royston. “Not that anyone’ll listen t
o us, but none of us think you did for those girls. Thieves and beggars and lowlife we may be, but we knows a gentleman when we sees him. A true gentleman, not a toff. You’ve never roughed up anyone who didn’t need roughing up, and you’ve always been extra polite to the women, even the working girls.”
“Thank you.” How was it that this man, rough, uneducated, and a natural enemy, saw him more clearly then the men he served under?
“Well, then.” Tom stood up. “We’d best be at it. Not much left to the night, is there?”
Eighteen
Getting in the horseless carriage was no easier now that Royston knew what to expect. Bandon, lacking the option of stretching full across the whole back seat, chose the front seat beside his fiancé, leaving the former Inspector and the former burglar to share the back.
“The ’wolf, well the wolf-’wolf,” can act as lookout if you like,” Miss Fairchild offered.
Tom had to know better than anyone how much sharper Bandon’s senses were in that form, but he shook his head. “Nah. Draw too much attention. Part of the secret to success is to blend in on the way in and out. Same thing with Jones here. Don’t you own any other clothes, man?”
“I wasn’t given the opportunity to change,” Royston said. “If we’re not wanted, I suggest you drop the ’wolf and I off near Browne’s. Even though I’m certain he isn’t involved, we may as well eliminate the possibility.” If there had been time, he’d ask to take Bandon past Winchell’s, as well, but the man’s house stood on the other side of the city. He should have thought of doing a scent comparison long before. Too easy to fall into thinking of Bandon in wolf form as just another tracker dog, instead of remembering that he could be used for tasks more complex than ‘follow that trail’.
“All right, then,” Miss Fairchild said. “Don’t be seen. He isn’t exactly fond of you.”
“Don’t you be seen.” Royston retorted. “The Yard isn’t fond of anyone who breaks in.”
Miss Fairchild let Royston and the ’wolf off at a cross-street near Browne’s residence with the agreement to meet them in an hour at a certain corner two blocks from the Yard.
“Will that be enough time?” Royston asked as he stepped gratefully onto terra firma with his own two reliable feet.
“A professional learns to be quick about it,” Tom said. “The longer you’re in, the more chance of getting caught. I was very good at what I did.”
Royston grinned. “I remember.” And then he ran to catch up with the ’wolf. Sometimes Bandon forgot how hard it was for a mere human to match that tireless wolf-trot.
Though the lateness of the night meant they had fewer hours to accomplish their tasks, at least it meant there were fewer witnesses to the sight of an apparent constable, largely out of uniform, chasing after a ’wolf. Such a thing could be easily misunderstood.
Browne had a small but tidy row house, much nicer than Royston’s flat. Browne’s parents had settled a small amount on him when he came of age so he didn’t have to struggle as he made his way up the ranks. The gaslight still shone out of the top window. Like a shadow-puppet, Browne’s form stood out in silhouette behind the curtains. His head was in his hands, and his shoulders were heaving with sobs. Royston felt his resentment of the man fade. No matter that it was a smart match, Browne genuinely loved Miss Chatham. To have her missing, to not know where she was and what was happening to her must be killing him. Seeing it in that light, Royston marveled that he had managed as much restraint as he had in the interrogation room.
Slinking through the shadows and nearly invisible to any who didn’t know where to look, the ’wolf made the porch of the townhouse. He sniffed at the door of the house to get the master’s scent. His demeanor when he returned to Royston’s side confirmed what Royston already knew. Browne was not the killer.
They made the rendezvous point just as Ben struck the hour. Tom and Miss Fairchild had not yet arrived.
Bandon circled, sniffed, circled. Finally he sat down, tail tucked tight against him. A barely-audible whine escaped his throat.
“I’m sure it’s fine,” Royston said with the same false confidence he gave to citizens filing a missing person’s report.
Just then he heard shouts and the shrill whistles of multiple constables sounding alarms, all coming from the direction of Scotland Yard.
Bandon was on his feet and crouched to spring forward, but police reflexes were nearly as fast. Royston caught him by the scruff, ignoring the growl and the flash of teeth. “Wait, listen!” He used his best command voice, the one that brought impetuous constables and rowdy hooligans alike to heel. “How will you know where to go? How will you get to them without getting caught yourself or shot? If they’re hiding and you track them, you might lead the constables to them.”
Bandon looked up at him, eyes wild and red-rimmed. He could snap my arm with his jaws. One bite, and I’ll be as he is at the next full moon. But if he let the toff loose, and the ’wolf were taken, Richard Bandon would be ruined come daybreak.
“Use sense! If they do escape, and make it back here, and we’re gone, what then? They might endanger themselves further, looking for us. Do you think this is easy for me?”
Bandon stopped struggling. Royston eased his grip but did not let go entirely. With each passing minute Royston became more certain that he’d contributed to the ruination of the finest woman in London and destroyed a good man’s efforts to turn his life around.
“Evening, guv’nor. Waiting for someone?” The voice behind him made him spin.
Tom, walking arm in arm with Miss Fairchild, strolled toward them from a direction opposite to what he'd expected. From a distance they looked every bit the part of two working men stumbling back from a bit too much fun at a gin house. Bandon reached Miss Fairchild in two bounds and leaped up at her like an over-excited spaniel. His behavior could get him shot if it was seen and misinterpreted, but Royston didn’t have the heart to remind him.
“Ran into a bit of trouble,” Tom said in an undertone. “Had to do a bit of misdirection. Wanted to make sure we lost them. You’re in hot water enough already, and I won’t implicate a fellow ’wolf if I can help it.”
“Did you find what you needed?” Royston asked.
“Constable Patrick Dodd and Constable Daniel Boyer were the ones who brought you in, and a John Smith and a Paul Wittson where the ones that escorted you to the trial. You’re in luck. They’re all four married, so they all four have private residences. Wouldn’t like to have to smuggle the wolf into the police dormitory.”
The dormitory, where per police rules Royston would have to move back into if he weren’t reinstated after this mess was over. Assuming they at least hired him back as a constable. His circumstances had changed so rapidly for the worse these past few days that his poor mind couldn’t keep up. Only married constables were allowed to live in private residences, and Royston had no prospects that way.
He forced himself to focus. He’d be lucky if his next residence wasn’t a gaol cell, followed by a grave.
Tom read off the addresses he’d copied down. Thank God someone somewhere along the way had taught the man to read and write. Royston knew where the streets were without resorting to a map.
“Both flats are within walking distance,” he said. “Which makes sense, considering.”
Constables didn’t get paid enough to afford any transport other than their own shoe leather.
At least they wouldn’t have to climb back into Miss Fairchild’s infernal machine for a little bit longer. He clung to that small comfort as they turned the corner. If he survived to have another debate over dinner with Godwin, Royston would never defend the horseless carriage again.
And walked straight into two constables who were clearly searching for whoever had been bold enough to break into Scotland Yard.
Nineteen
The constable in front lowered the lantern he was holding so it no longer shone directly in Royston’s eyes, and Royston was able to see his face. Parker. The man
behind him was familiar, too. Parker’s cousin. Royston had taught him to read, so he could pass the Yard’s literacy test.
Technically, Royston, freed by the court, had every right to be walking the streets. But under the circumstances and given his strange company, Parker would be obligated to bring him in for questioning. Once Tom’s criminal history was known, they’d all be held for questioning, and the new-fangled fingerprint technology would doubtless seal their fate.
Parker looked to his cousin, and then at Royston and his motley band. “I don’t even want to know what this is about, sir. I hope to hell it’s something to do with finding Miss Chatham. Get out, now, and be careful. They’re running a sweep.”
“Thank you. Someday I hope to have a chance to explain.”
“See that you do. And good luck, sir. He sent another note, the killer. Direct to the Yard, but addressed to you. Not feeling so smart now, are you? Time’s running out. The note was pinned to a corset. The Chief says it’s his daughter’s size, and Miss Chatham’s dressmaker says it’s her work.”
Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. The best we can do for the lass now is to be about our business.” He tipped his hat to the constables. “Evening, gentleman.”
***
Richard had thought his life was over when the constables stopped them, only to have his life handed back to him when the constable who had addressed Jones sent them on their way. But the news the constable had for Jones tainted that relief, and sent him forward on his mission with greater urgency.
The first constable had rooms on the first floor, and a separate entrance. Easy enough to determine the scents— a man, a woman, children who smelled a little bit like both the parents. None of them the killer.
A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) Page 19