A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1)

by Shawna Reppert

  “Yes, we did, though I am surprised you remembered. I was not the detective in charge of the case.”

  “Of course I remember. You loaned me your handkerchief. All of the police were very kind and very professional that night. I promise you I am not usually so prone to hysterics.”

  “Understandable, under the circumstances.” He had not expected her to be so gracious, and it made him a little uncomfortable.

  “I think you have not met my fiancé, Mr. Bandon.”

  “An honor, sir.” Royston bowed at the waist.

  “Pleased to meet you.” Bandon’s boyish smile made the formality seem almost sincere.

  “And that is Jane Waters, my assistant, by the window. She is unlikely to break away from her reading to join us,” Miss Fairchild said with warm exasperation. “Though if the maid brings her some tea and cake, she may eat.”

  “Your assistant?” Ladies had servants, cooks, maids, housekeepers, but an assistant?

  “I dabble in alchemy. I find it more rewarding than painting or embroidery, and I would not inflict my attempts at music on the world.”

  Rarely would a woman of her class be so unashamedly frank about her failures in the womanly arts, nor so blunt about such an unfeminine hobby as alchemy. Royston glanced at Bandon, expecting some sign of disapproval, but the man’s smile was fond, even proud. Against his instincts, he found himself almost liking these two.

  Since the lady herself had brought up the alchemy, perhaps now would be the time…

  But then the maid came in with the tea things, and the conversation was occupied with the serving of tea and cake and small delicate sandwiches filled with watercress and salmon. Miss Waters, as predicted, did not come to the table, though she did glance up briefly when the maid set a cup of tea and a plate with cake and sandwiches on the window seat beside her.

  Though Royston had never taken tea with anyone more illustrious than Jacob Godwin, he was confident of his manners. Mum had tutored him every night despite her long, exhausting hours at her factory job. She had made certain that Royston’s education and manners made him fit for any company, no matter what their opinion of his birth.

  “So then, Inspector, I take it this is not a social call. I thought the matter of Mr. Blackpoole’s attack on me and his subsequent death by werewolf had all been resolved.”

  “There is one matter that still bothers me,” Royston said. “We were never able to ascertain the identity of the werewolf, nor how he came to be in the right time and place to affect a rescue.”

  Her eyes glanced toward Bandon. It was a quick, instinctive reaction, just as quickly repressed, but telling all the same. Even seasoned and trained members of the criminal class could not avoid such unconscious indicators, and Miss Fairchild was hardly that. Royston kept his expression neutral.

  “I fail to see how the identity of the werewolf matters. He is a hero, whoever he is. He saved not only my life, but the lives of any other unfortunate women the Ladykiller would have preyed upon in the future. A task which, I must say, you police had been unable to accomplish. Should you find him, I would reward him gladly for the service he did me.”

  All traces of warmth and welcome had gone from her voice. She spoke now in the icy, clipped tones of those whose ancestors, a few centuries past, would have had him flogged to death for impertinence. The monster in the fairy tales had betrayed its true form. But no, he decided upon second thought. He could see how little she used such imperiousness; it sat on her like an ill-fitted mask, and behind the mask her eyes flashed with the fear of a cornered animal.

  He suppressed a wince of shame. Miss Fairchild and Bandon had welcomed him as though he were an equal and he had just abused their hospitality by uncovering their closely-guarded secrets.

  “No one has said that the werewolf was anything but justified in his actions.” He pulled out his best "reasonable" voice, the one that most subjects found soothing. “Still, he presents something of a loose end, and we detectives hate loose ends. Especially with a new set of murders so similar to the last.”

  “Your pardon,” Bandon said. “But I fail to see how the identity of the werewolf that saved Miss Fairchild from one killer could possible help you identify another killer. Surely the werewolf cannot be under suspicion?”

  “No,” Royston said quickly. “I never suggested that. But the two murders are so similar in the manner of their crimes that I can’t help but think there is some connection. I thought that resolving the unsolved questions from the Ladykiller’s death might shed some light on the new cases.”

  Bandon looked down at his tea, then over Royston’s shoulder. His gaze shifted quickly, nervously, and he did not quite meet Royston’s eye. Miss Fairchild’s stare, by contrast, was hard and implacable.

  “We wish you luck, then,” Bandon said. “But I’m afraid we cannot help you.”

  “Are you certain?” Royston pressed. “Perhaps this werewolf knows something and doesn't recognize the significance of it. Werewolves are known for their keen senses, keener than any bloodhounds. Please, we have no solid leads, no way to stop this monster from killing again.” Images of vivisected women flashed in his mind, and he could hear the flatmate’s voice, pleading with him to stop the killer. “Perhaps there is something the werewolf smelled, a scent that could tie the crimes together if he would but—”

  “Buy a bloodhound, if that is what you need.” Miss Fairchild cut him off. “I will not help you to harass someone who came to my aid when I needed it most.”

  “The Commissioner won’t hear of it,” Royston said. “They brought in a couple of tracker dogs early on in the Ladykiller case, but they were poorly trained and unmanageable. One of theme bit the Commissioner—not that I entirely blame him.”

  Bandon’s lips quirked up at that in a hint of a smile. Yes, he’d be the easier one to persuade.

  “So that was the end of that,” Royston said. “No more dogs for the London police. Officially, that is. But unofficially, a werewolf…"

  “Are you suggesting we are in the habit of associating with werewolves?” Miss Fairchild cut in.

  “I’m not just suggesting. I know as much, Miss Fairchild. Or perhaps I should say Mr. Foster?”

  Miss Fairchild set her teacup down too quickly, caught the edge of the saucer, and nearly spilled. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  She clearly hadn’t expected to be caught at it. The high-born always thought they could get away with anything. All to his advantage. She might have hidden her reaction better if she had been less surprised.

  “When I went to talk to you about the results of the blood analysis on the last murder, I noticed the bill from your glamorist sitting out on your desk. Careless, if you wish to keep your secret. The glamorist was most helpful once I showed her my card. The honest ones always are—don’t want to be suspected of aiding criminals, you know.” And he understood. In spite of the manor house and the wealth that surrounded her. Denied the right to pursue a career she was passionate about because of her sex, Miss Fairchild had found a way—with a little help from a glamorist—and was amazing alchemists twice her age with three times the formal training. She was clearly heedless of the scandal it would cause if she were caught and—he had to admire her pluck. Miss Fairchild tilted her chin up. “So I have taken on an alter ego in order to be able to pursue my vocation without facing bias against my sex. That is hardly a crime. Nor does it say that I know anything about this poor werewolf you seem intent on hounding. If this is the best investigation London’s police force can offer us, no wonder those poor girls are killed with such impunity.”

  Royston crumpled a napkin in his fist.

  “I’m sorry,” Bandon said in a pacifying tone. “But I believe you are wasting your time here.”

  “I know about your work with werewolves,” Royston said to Miss Fairchild. “The werewolf in Pemberton’s garden transformed long after midnight—it’s the only thing that explains the tracks. The transformation was tr
iggered by some strong emotion. The ’wolf saw that you were in trouble and reacted instinctively.”

  “Even if it were one of my clients,” Miss Fairchild said. “I would not recognize that person in wolf form. And I saw no one in the garden before the ’wolf appeared.”

  “An interesting thing, Mr. Bandon, Miss Fairchild." He looked from one to the other. "One of Pemberton’s servants remembers seeing you at the doorway, Mr. Bandon, making a fuss about the blood test the Pembertons had arranged to ensure that none of the guests were werewolves. The man administering the test remembers the same thing. Several people saw you walking out to the garden where Miss Fairchild had gone. But no one remembers seeing you later. Even though your beloved had been attacked by the Ladykiller and had witnessed a werewolf rip the man’s throat out.”

  Bandon stood. “Get out. You have no hard evidence to back up your accusations. Get out. Get out now.”

  Royston hadn’t made detective by being a coward, but something in Bandon’s eye made him very glad it was daylight and two days to the full moon. He scrambled to his feet, keeping the chair between himself and Bandon.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I swear I mean no harm. I’ll not betray your secrets. I only…“

  “There are no secrets to keep. If you continue this line of inquiry, I swear I’ll see you ruined. This conversation is over,” Miss Fairchild said.

  Echoes in her tone of every privileged lady who ever used her position to bully those she considered her social inferiors. He heard whispers of the past, teachers and clergy who dismissed him as being unworthy of anything but factory work or manual labor. Guttersnipe. Bastard. He'd had a lifetime of bowing to those who assumed the superiority they had achieved only by the accident of their birth and condemned him for the circumstances of his. Anger bloomed in his chest and rose into his throat until he must speak or choke on it.

  He looked her in the eye despite her greater height. “Is that so? If the facts I have gathered are so meaningless and my conclusions are so erroneous, I am sure you will not object if I share them more widely. And then we shall see how far money and name will protect you both!”

  She gasped as though she had been slapped.

  He remembered the new law and their upcoming nuptials. Remembered how society felt about werewolves, how both the law and society regarded women who pretended to be men. He had lost control of himself, and thereby the interview. “I’m sorry." He took a breath. "I wouldn’t. . .I had no intention of. . .”

  “I should hope not,” she said. “Since your accusations have no basis, and I should hate to have my solicitor bring a libel suit against you.” Her protest had lost its vehemence, and her face was ashen. “You have wasted enough of our time, Inspector. I’ll have Winston bring your pony and cart ‘round.”

  Royston cursed himself soundly on the long drive home. So much for his interview skills. He’d handled them exactly wrong. He should not have lost his temper. He'd been as reckless as he'd been as a child, when he took on three larger boys at once for what they said about his mother.

  He smiled faintly in spite of his mood. That had actually worked out well in the end. He’d been losing badly when a boy he’d never met intervened, and Willie Godwin came into his life. Willie, just a year older than him but much larger, had seemed as brave and strong as King Arthur in the tales Mum told him, and Royston wanted nothing more than to be his Lancelot.

  Willie had boasted that his father was a real detective with Scotland Yard, just like in the stories! And had taken Royston home with him for his Da to clean up and feed. Willie said that he was going to be a detective, too, when he grew up, and Royston decided be a detective, too, to be detectives with Willie. They'd catch the bad guys together.

  Simpler times, when right and wrong seemed so clear-cut. For a while, it seemed as if he would live that early childhood dream. But Willie never made detective, wasn’t even a constable anymore. And Royston had just lost the last straw he could find to grasp at in the most important case he’d ever faced.

  Four

  The next day, there was a message waiting for him at the Yard. Kitty’s roommate remembered a necklace that Kitty never took off. It had not been found with the body. It was a thin trail, but he didn’t need a werewolf to follow it.

  He started a tour of the pawn shops, looking for a necklace that fitted its description—a bead of polished blue stone on a sterling chain that tarnished too easily. It had belonged to Kitty’s grandmother. At the third shop he entered, Royston froze in startled recognition at an item in the case in the front, among other dreams lost or stolen or bartered for bitter reality. Not Kitty’s necklace, but a pendant watch he hadn’t seen in over a decade. It had been his mother’s favorite possession, the only thing she had from his father. He could still see her stroking it fondly with one work-roughened finger, a wistful smile on her face. The watch had disappeared the night she was killed, taken by the man who had violated her and then slit her throat as though she were an animal in the slaughterhouse.

  Royston’s voice shook when he asked the clerk if he could see the watch more closely. At another time, he might have been embarrassed, but at the moment, too many other emotions clamored for attention.

  The inspector working his mother’s case had searched diligently through all the pawn shops for the watch. Royston had seen both the dedication and the exhaustion in his face and suspected the man had done the job himself, largely on his own time, as the Yard had too few resources and none to spare for an unmarried mother with no family and no money.

  When the watch hadn't turned up, the inspector concluded, and Royston privately agreed, that the killer had kept it as a trophy.

  After all these years, it couldn’t be.

  It wasn’t. The watch was very nearly identical to the one his mother had carried, but it lacked the engraving that had been on the back, a sprig of rosemary and the words For Remembrance. He studied the watch, but there was no sign that an engraving had been removed.

  Many watches resembled his mother’s. The case was affecting him. He handed the watch back to the pawn broker and asked about Kitty’s necklace. It had not been brought to that shop, nor the next, nor the one after that.

  ***

  It had taken Catherine less than a week to assemble the information she needed. Less than a week to consider her course, to strangle her guilt, to stiffen her resolve by reminding herself over and over what could happen to Richard if Jones carried through his threat. She paced the library, trying to ignore the pricking of her conscience. Damn, she had liked the man.

  He might not betray them. Everything she had learned about him reinforced her initial impression of him as a kind and fair man, a man who believed in his job but who also understood that sometimes the law was not synonymous with justice.

  But he had threatened her. More to the point, he had threatened Richard. She knew too well what could happen to a werewolf who dared to court an unafflicted human. One of her test subjects had dared as much and been found out. A mob had dragged him out of his bed one night and stoned him to death.

  She had lost both of her parents to consumption less than a year before alchemy discovered a cure. She had been sixteen, and she remembered the desperate pain of having her whole world torn from her. She pressed her lips together. She would not live through it again.

  ***

  In her glamoured guise she waited impatiently in the rented Brook Street rooms that comprised the offices of Mr. Charles Foster, experimental alchemist and occasional consultant to the London police. Inspector Jones was—she checked her pocket watch—nearly five minutes late. Damn the man, would he hurry up so she could get this over with? If it hadn't been for the telegram he had sent to Richard yesterday, she might have stayed her hand after all. But the inspector had asked for a private meeting with her love. Clearly he did not intend to let the matter drop.

  She paced the room, wooden floorboards creaking under her tread. The oak desk had seen better days—her great-grandfat
her’s days, to be exact. The couch still smelled faintly of the storage attic. She could have afforded much better, of course, but when she first started the ruse she did not want anyone wondering how an obscure alchemist could come up with such funds in the early days of his career. Now it pleased her to pay for the rooms entirely out of her alter ego’s earnings. Even though her work with werewolves was experimental and largely pro bono, Scotland Yard paid well enough for the occasional consultation, and the medical doctors sometimes referred paying clients to her with ailments they could not cure. Mr. Charles Foster was now a self-sufficient man.

  She heard footsteps approaching on the stair and restrained herself from opening the door before he knocked. Showing anxiety would give up too much advantage.

  The knock came, polite but firm. She opened the door and ushered the Inspector in. He was quite ordinary, this man who held the power to destroy her life and her fiancé’s. Short but well-built. Hair the color of the sun on a wheat field, eyes like the sky over that same field, and an open, pleasant face. If circumstances were different, she would find an excuse to have him more often to tea and to make Jane come to the table. It was about time Jane had a young man of her own.

  Wishing for different circumstances had never helped before, and it wasn’t going to help now. Richard would do nothing in his own defense. It was up to her to protect them both.

  “Your telegram asked me to come here to discuss the blood analysis,” Jones said. “But this isn’t about the blood analysis. Is it?”

  “I haven’t called you here about any case you’re working on officially, no,” Catherine admitted. “And it has nothing to do with alchemical analysis. But it does have something to do with blood. Or perhaps I should say ‘bloodlines’.”

  His shoulders stiffened at her words, but he said nothing.