A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1)

by Shawna Reppert

  Royston swallowed. “Thank you.”

  “Yes, Miss Fairchild is a very smart woman, but she’s not infallible,” Just a hint of protective uncle now colored Winston’s neutral servant voice. “If it turns out she was wrong about you, and if you do anything to make her regret helping you, I don’t care what it takes, you’ll wish the hangman had gotten you first.”

  “Understood.” The threat, such as it was, made Royston unaccountably light-hearted. It felt good to know that Miss Fairchild had the protectiveness and loyalty from her servants that she deserved.

  After Winston left, Royston shaved. God, but it felt good to be rid of the stubble. How could anyone stand to grow a beard? As he did up the buttons on the waistcoat, he thought about the case. The last constable had to be the killer. Had to be.

  Why then had Bandon not found his scent on the outer door? Tom had expected that.

  Unless an artificial scent had been planted on him. Miss Fairchild had admitted, however reluctantly, that it was possible, and he was not as ready as she to dismiss Winchell or Downey as suspects. That would still mean that the killer had a confederate in the Yard—not a happy thought.

  His conscience nagged that he had not been completely candid. He had not told anyone about Willie’s visit. If it were anyone else. . . But he refused to name Willie as a suspect. His friend was a drunkard and a rogue, yes, and probably guilty of any number of things Royston didn’t want to know about. His greatest fear was that Willie would someday kill someone in a drunken bar fight and Royston would be the one to have to bring him in. But cold-blooded, brutal murders like these, no. He felt a moment of revulsion as the memories rose, unbidden. No. Willie could not do that.

  Willie liked women, and they liked him right back. He’d believe Willie capable of getting a woman pregnant and abandoning her, sadly, yes. But not slicing her open and removing organs. Willie’s interest in women was entirely healthy, if slightly too enthusiastic and indiscriminate.

  Pointless to worry until they got a definitive answer from Bandon. Assuming Bandon had made it home.

  After a few wrong turns he found his way to the drawing room where Miss Fairchild had served him a late supper. He hoped that he would find Miss Fairchild there, or at least breakfast.

  His luck was good. He found both.

  Miss Fairchild looked up from her paper as he entered. “Ah, Mr. Jones, just in time. The eggs are still warm. There is toast, of course, and scones. The honey is from our own bees, and the raspberries in the scones are from our garden. My gardener is a wonder.”

  She gave him a bright, carefree smile. So the 'wolf was safe. Royston took the seat she had indicated. How to politely ask about her missing fiancé?

  An envelope on the plate in front of him distracted him. His name was hand-printed on it. His stomach dropped, but it was better quality paper and a neater hand than the killer used. Still something seemed vaguely familiar. He opened the unsealed envelope. It contained a single sheet, folded over like a greeting card.

  Another rough sketch of a wolf, this time lying on top of the doghouse in an attitude of exhaustion.

  He unfolded the note and his smile faded. Two words, unsigned.

  No match.

  He turned to Miss Fairchild. “Do you know—”

  “That the ’wolf made it home safe?”

  “That much is obvious in your face.” Royston smiled gently.

  “That none of the constables were a match for the killer’s scent? Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “We risked so much last night, and it’s gotten us nowhere!” Nowhere, except to make Willie look like a more likely suspect.

  His appetite vanished.

  “Do eat, Mr. Jones. You’ll be no more effective for starving yourself. And even a negative result in an experiment yields useful information. We now know who the killer is not.”

  “Wonderful news. We eliminated four men in one night. Five, if you count Browne. Out of, what, just shy of a million living in London? At this rate, the killer will die of old age before we track him down. It might be a bit late for Miss Chatham, though.”

  “Eat,” Miss Fairchild commanded.

  She was right about eating. Royston obediently spooned some eggs on his plate.

  “I hope you don’t mind comb honey. I can ring the maid for a jar of the other if you prefer, but I used to get comb honey as a special treat as a child. I was fascinated by bees and their hives with the precise little geometric combs even then. Comb honey always makes me smile, and I thought you could do with a smile.”

  He had his own memories of honeycomb. A trip out to the country when he was small, to visit a friend of his mother’s. Being given a small square of the sticky, waxy treat to chew on while bees buzzed about the garden and his mother and her friend talked.

  Resisting the urge to pop a piece of honeycomb in his mouth directly, as he had back then, he sliced off a bit of the comb and smeared it on a slice of toast, watching the wax melt.

  Miss Fairchild raised an eyebrow at him. He sighed and took a bite of toast.

  “You just need to come at it at another angle,” she said. “And another, and another, until the angles converge. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”

  “You should meet my mentor,” Royston said. “Jacob Godwin. Except the two of you in the same room might be frightening.”

  “Odd that you should mention that,” she said. “Mr. Godwin will be coming around for tea this afternoon.”

  Maybe he hadn’t really woken up. He stared at her blankly. He’d had odd dreams before where people he knew from disparate parts of his life came in and out of the narrative completely without context.

  “I invited him,” Miss Fairchild said. “I think seeing you alive, well-fed and unharmed is the only way he’ll believe I haven’t bricked you up in the wine cellar. He was quite suspicious of my reasons for setting my solicitor on your case and having you brought here.”

  “Not that I am ungrateful, but you do realize that it will be difficult to explain my presence here.” Something he’d been too stunned and exhausted to think of last night.

  “Nonsense,” Miss Fairchild said. “I am an adult woman and mistress of my own home. There are servants here to witness, and both my assistant and my fiancé are in and out of the house constantly. Besides, if I was looking to have an affair, I could find a man more cheaply and more easily than buying one out of prison.”

  He could continue to protest, and she would continue to insist. Frankly, he didn’t have the energy for it. He knew who would win any contest of wills.

  “It is just as well Mr. Godwin comes here,” Miss Fairchild went on. “I know him quite well by reputation. Or at least Charles Foster does. It couldn’t hurt to have his thoughts on what we know so far. Lord knows, Browne will never find Miss Chatham alive on his own.”

  “But we can’t do that without revealing my source as a werewolf.”

  She sighed. “I know. And the safest way to explain my involvement is to reveal my alter ego. The ’wolf is one of my clients, he knew me by scent in my real identity and came to my rescue when Blackpoole attacked. I am aiding you out of gratitude for the kindness you showed me that night…”

  “I loaned you a bloody handkerchief!”

  “…and, of course, out of concern for women who face the fate I once faced.”

  “Godwin taught me everything I know. And he knows the details of what happened that night in Pemberton’s garden, including the oddity about the tracks. What makes you think he won’t come to the same conclusion I did?”

  “Godwin also taught you the importance of respecting the confidentiality of informants, did he not? I think—I hope—he will not inquire too closely into the identity of the werewolf if you make it clear you’ve promised to keep it a secret.”

  “That’s quite a bit of confidence, coming from someone who once blackmailed an inspector over the same secret.”

  Miss Fairchild sighed. “Not one of my finer moments, I think
we both agree. And, for good or ill, Richard and I are involved in this now. No sense in not availing ourselves of all the resources at our disposal.”

  He felt immeasurably better for the prospect of seeing his mentor once more. Maybe Godwin could make some sense out of the killer’s last notes.

  The old man’s greatest defeat. If the old man were Godwin, surely he could answer that. But would his answer be the same as the killer’s?

  Willie, a traitorous voice whispered in his head. If the old man is Godwin, some might consider Willie his greatest defeat. Godwin’s disappointment with his own son was legendary.

  And didn’t that make it less likely that Willie was the killer? Surely he wouldn’t draw attention to himself. . .

  And damn it all, he was starting to look at his best friend as a suspect. He shook his head to clear it.

  Time is running out. Given the killer’s penchant for wordplay, Royston was sure there was more there than the implied threat of the killer’s impatience.

  “Oh, the stupidity!”

  Miss Fairchild’s outburst jerked him out of his thoughts. He looked up.

  Throwing down the journal she had been reading, Miss Fairchild continued her rant. “This idiot brags that he has perfected a method of ‘purifying’ honey of its ‘pollen residue’.”

  Royston blinked at her. “There’s a problem with that?”

  “Only that bee pollen is one of nature’s greatest wonders. Purifying, indeed! Ounce for ounce, bee pollen is the most nutritive substance in the world.” She stood up from her chair. “You must excuse me, Mr. Jones. Someone must tell The Journal of Science and Alchemy that its contributors are imbeciles.”

  Royston suspected that ‘someone’ would be Mr. Charles Foster. Her gender was more limiting, in some ways, than his background had been to him. With nothing to do in the hours until tea time, Royston wandered the paths of the formal garden, turning words over and over in his mind, trying to find patterns and hidden meanings.

  Trying to find a way to avoid letting Godwin know that his son was a suspect in some of the most heinous crimes in London’s long history of horrors.

  Old man. Time running out. Old man time. Time waits for no man. Running. In the center of the garden was an elaborate monolith of gears and levers that apparently ran the clock on the summit of the contraption.

  He sat on an iron bench and watched the exposed gears turn. The black cat Miss Fairchild called Fortuna appeared and insinuated itself onto his lap.

  Time. Clocks. Running clocks. Big Ben?

  Defeat. Did Godwin have a case that somehow involved Big Ben? Or did it even involve a case? The first clue related to a case, but the others might not. What then?

  “Pardon, sir.”

  Royston startled and turned. He hadn’t even seen the uniformed maidservant come up behind him.

  She bobbed a curtsy. “Your pardon, but tea is laid. Mistress sent me to find you. There’s a Mr. Godwin here, too, asking for you.”

  Had he really been lost in thought for that long?

  Strange and uncomfortable to have servants treat him as though he were a peer of their mistress rather than a working man on their own level. He couldn’t wait to return to his own home and his own life.

  “This came for you in the afternoon post, sir.” She held out an envelope.

  He took it from her with thanks, noting his name in looping cursive on the front. He felt its uneven bulk, and then opened it.

  The French coin his mother had given him. He closed his eyes against unexpected tears. Amid all else, one single coin should not matter so much. But it did.

  He returned the coin to his watch chain and continued into the house.

  Tea was in the sitting room that Miss Fairchild seemed to prefer to her formal dining room. The servant left him there with another curtsy and slipped away.

  Godwin was on the other side of the room, talking with Miss Fairchild and another young woman who seemed vaguely familiar.

  Spying him, Godwin crossed the room quickly despite his limp and pulled him into a quick embrace. “Royston, my boy. Are you all right?”

  Touched by the display from this usually undemonstrative man, Royston could only nod.

  After a moment, he cleared his throat so he could speak. “Miss Fairchild has been very kind.”

  “When I heard that they had arrested you. . .” Godwin broke off, shaking his head. “What has become of the Yard since I left?”

  Royston gave a little laugh. “Lord only knows.”

  Ridiculous, but having Godwin here suddenly made it feel like everything would be all right. It took him back to when he was a boy, and reaching Godwin’s home meant security and comfort and safety from bullies and teasing. Like nothing bad could ever happen to him in the presence of a Scotland Yard detective.

  It was like being in the presence of God.

  “Shall we?” Miss Fairchild brought their attention to the table, where tea had been laid.

  She directed him to the chair next on her left. “And you remember Miss Waters?”

  Royston looked in panic at the young woman to his right. Obviously he was meant to know her, and he feared his manners were about to fail because he had absolutely no idea who she was.

  He had to know her through Miss Fairchild. He and Miss Fairchild had met only on a few occasions, fewer if he discounted any encounters in her guise as Doctor Foster. Not last night, he would have remembered. The encounter at Bandon’s aunt's house had been too brief to involve any additional introductions, and the night Blackpoole died had been too hectic. That left the day he came first came to Fairchild house to interview Miss Fairchild regarding a certain werewolf who had come to her rescue.

  The girl at the window seat, absorbed in a book.

  “Miss Jane Waters, your assistant, who likes to read,” Royston said just before the silence lengthened into awkwardness.

  “You remember her well.” Miss Fairchild said, her voice inordinately pleased for no reason he could fathom.

  Royston reflected that he might do better with women if he understood them more.

  “Have you read anything good lately?” he asked Miss Waters politely.

  “Nothing, I’m sure, that would interest you. A literary analysis of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar.”

  He ground his teeth behind a smile at her assumptions regarding his intelligence and education. “It’s true, I think Hamlet the better play, but Julius Caesar is not without merit.”

  Her eyes went wide. “You know Shakespeare?”

  “Not personally, no. I’m not that much older than you.”

  She spared a glare for his flippancy. “You’ve read the plays, I mean.”

  As many times as he could, until the books fell apart. “I have. I’ve even seen a few.” In the cheap seats, when mum could scrape together a few extra coppers. Once with a young lady he’d very much wanted to impress. She’d been bored and had fallen asleep in the middle of the second act of Romeo and Juliet. He’d never seen her again, though he understood she was now happily married to a city clerk.

  “Oh,” she said, flushing in the way a debutante might if she discovered that the gentleman she’d just been introduced to was single, rich, and titled. “Did you see A Winter’s Tale last year at Covent Garden?”

  “No, I regret that I did not.” He’d been too busy trying to catch another killer, but that wasn’t polite tea conversation to share with a lady.

  “Oh, that’s a shame. The actress who played Hermione was absolutely brilliant. She brought such pride, such dignity to the role. I saw the play in a whole new light.”

  Royston listened with half an ear to Godwin’s conversation with Miss Fairchild across the table. Godwin was using his best conversational interrogation-without-seeming-like interrogation techniques to try to discover the exact nature of Miss Fairchild’s association with him, and she was dancing around the truth with grace and aplomb. He saw no reason to intervene.

  Besides, it gave him an excuse to wait t
hat much longer before mentioning to Godwin and to Miss Fairchild that Willie’s scent had also been on him last night.

  “Have you read any of Wilde?” he asked Miss Waters, and then realized belatedly that mentioning a writer of such scandalous reputation might offend a young lady.

  “Oh, yes,” Miss Waters breathed. “Such brilliant wit. Horrible how they treated him, and for what?”

  Royston privately agreed. In his line of work, he saw enough of the true horrors that human beings inflicted on one another. He saw no reason to prosecute a ‘crime’ that harmed no one. But that wasn’t something a gentleman said aloud at tea.

  Fortunately, Miss Waters took the conversation on another tangent, talking about the plays themselves, and the pros and cons of the philosophy of aestheticism that Wilde so loved. It was, all in all, a most agreeable tea, and though Godwin’s presence across the table served as a reminder of the case, the uncaught killer, and his own legal troubles, the sense of overwhelming doom lifted briefly.

  Certainly he never ate this well at his bachelor flat. Salmon and watercress sandwiches, delicate buttery biscuits, scones with lemon curd and clotted cream, and more of the honey of which Miss Fairchild was so justifiably proud.

  When they had finished tea and the uniformed maid had cleared away the tea things, Miss Fairchild stated that he and Godwin simply must see the gardens that produced the flowers from whose nectar the bees made their exquisite honey. Since he had spent the better part of the afternoon in those same gardens, he recognized the excuse to take the conversation away from the ears of the servants. Time to discuss less pleasant and more serious matters than the works of Shakespeare and Mr. Wilde.

  Miss Waters announced that she would be on the terrace with her book—still in eyesight as a pro forma chaperone but out of the conversation. He suspected that Miss Waters was very much in Miss Fairchild’s confidence, but it would be less complicated to have this conversation with Godwin without another civilian involved.

  Miss Fairchild stopped at pair of facing white-painted iron benches situated in a cleared space between the roses and the lavender. The flowers perfumed the air, sweet and heady and belonging to another world entirely than the one that held dead shop girls and faceless killers stalking dark streets.