“And back pay, I presume?” Northrup said.
For God’s sakes, don’t push the man!
But the Commissioner merely smiled. “Of course, of course. And a generous bonus for capturing Doctor Death. I am sorry, Jones. I know you and the younger Godwin were close. It must have been hard.” He sounded almost sincere.
“Y-yes, sir.” Memories and emotions he wasn’t ready to face welled up; he capped them ruthlessly, shutting away, also, his surprise at the expression of sympathy.
“Now will you tell me what the hell actually happened last night?”
Northrup broke in. “Sir, I must protest. My client has not had a chance to rest…“
“No, it’s all right,” Royston broke in. The solicitor spoke only sense. He’d be more likely to say things he shouldn’t in his exhausted state. But he just wanted this all to be over.
Starting with Godwin’s visit the previous afternoon, he moved to the note he’d gotten from the killer threatening further violence to Miss Chatham if he got the Yard involved. Explained how he figured out where Miss Chatham might be held, told of how he borrowed the horseless carriage but left out the werewolf in the back seat.
He kept his voice flat and emotionless as he described the clockwork killing device Willie had constructed and the apparent choice he’d had to make. If he started to let himself feel, let himself relive those horrible moments, it would be a long time before he could regain a professional demeanor.
“I had forgotten that Willie used to work for a butcher. He’s held so many jobs since he was fired from the Yard. None for more than a month or two. That’s probably where he learned how to handle a knife, and gained some rudimentary sense of anatomy. Enough to, well, do what he did. I’m willing to bet he copied his former employer’s keys and was able to borrow a cart and horses without notice.”
It would explain the scent of animal death Bandon had picked up, but he couldn’t tell that to Chatham.
“And the werewolf? Where did he come from?”
“I don’t know, sir.” At least not in the sense of the theological question of where do any of us come from, so he was not actually lying. “Maybe he came with the masked man with the black carriage.” And maybe he didn’t. Offering a theory wasn’t the same as stating an untruth. He hadn’t officially accepted reinstatement, anyway. Chatham just assumed he’d come slinking back, the tail between his legs wagging gratefully.
“This masked man in the carriage. Sounds hard to credit.”
“I know, sir, but it was just as Miss Chatham said.”
And Chatham could not contradict him without impugning his daughter’s statements.
“The papers think there’s some vigilante on the loose.”
“I doubt very much we will see the masked man again.” That much, at least, he could swear to.
“And the werewolf? This is the second time that a mysterious werewolf came to the rescue of a damsel in distress. Not that I’m not grateful to the beast, but it could put us in a difficult position. Public perception, and all.”
“Coincidence, maybe? There’s nothing to say that ’wolves can’t be as public-minded as any other citizen.” He closed his eyes and gathered his courage. “The truth is, the ’wolf saved myself and Miss Chatham both."
“But you found my daughter when no one else could,” Chatham said. “I was wrong. Wrong about your talents and your motives. If you had stayed off the case like I told you…” He paused to clear his throat. “If you had stayed off like I told you, who knows what would have happened to my sweet Adela.”
Surely the doctor had taken too much blood. Because on this point Chatham sounded completely sincere. And somewhat humbled.
“I knew Willie Godwin through his father longer than you have, even, if not so well,” the Commissioner continued. “I thought he was a rake and a wastrel, but I never took him for this sort of monster. Even Godwin didn’t see it, and he was the finest detective London’s ever known. As for Winchell. . .” He looked down for a moment. “You were more right than wrong there. Certainly you were closer to having the measure of the man than I.”
“I don’t understand.” It was one of the truest statements he’d made all afternoon.
“We were called out to Winchell’s house last night. A burglary and a murder. The servant girl’s throat was slit.”
“That was Willie, too,” Royston said. “He was the one to set us up to find that poor corpse that Winchell gutted. He, I don’t know, took a fancy to the automaton and killed the serving girl when she wouldn’t let him walk out with it.”
Northrup’s solicitor calm broke. “He did all this, killed all those girls, just to play a game?”
“Yes, to play a game. And to prove how much smarter he was than us. To make the Yard look foolish, to get revenge on Chatham for firing him, on his father for disapproving of him, and on me for being more what Godwin would have wanted in a son. That’s why he drew things out with Miss Chatham. To change the rules, to keep us guessing. I suppose we should be thankful for that. It gave me time to find her alive. How is she doing, sir?” he asked Chatham. “She seemed shaken but unhurt, but I didn’t have time to take proper care.”
“She’ll be all right, and thanks to you. No thanks to me trying to keep you off the case. I was wrong. And I was wrong about Winchell.”
“You had started to say before, but I didn’t quite follow.”
“When we went to investigate the burglary and the murder, we found wolves in cages in the basement. Wolves that seemed to understand more of human speech than any natural creature. Wolves that were no longer wolves once the moon set. And there were mechanized metal frames for wolf automatons, and bills of sale for custom orders.”
“Oh, God,” Royston gasped.
Chatham frowned. “I’d say the Adversary, more than the Creator, was responsible for this travesty. I’m no champion of werewolf rights. They cause us more than their share of trouble. But they’re people of a sort. Citizens. Winchell’s scheme was an abomination. A legal nightmare, too. We have him on several counts of kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder. But the murder charge will be hard to make stick unless the alchemists can come up with some way to prove the automaton wasn’t made from a natural wolf.”
Royston’s hand went to the wound on his leg.
“We’ll be consulting Mr. Foster,” Chatham continued. “I understand he’s been doing some work with werewolves in addition to his forensics.”
Royston would be consulting Mr. Foster as well, or at least Miss Fairchild.
“You did good work on this one, Jones. And you saved my daughter’s life. You and I may not see eye to eye on a lot of things, and I’m sure we’ll clash in the future, but the Yard is lucky to have you.”
“With respect, sir, the Yard doesn’t have me. You made it very clear what you thought of me during this whole mess. Even a bastard has his pride.” Somewhere in the back of his mind, the sane, rational part of him was screaming. Police work was all he ever knew and all he had ever wanted. His savings wouldn’t carry him over more than a few months, and what then?
Chatham sighed. “I understand how you feel. I—you must know how hard it is for me to say this, but I was wrong about you, and I’ve wronged you. Dear God, I’m even regretting discouraging Adela from seeing you. Browne is an idiot, and he’s lucky I haven’t fired him yet. I might still.”
Royston, for one moment, considered a future where Browne lost his job and most likely Miss Chatham as well. She was a lovely girl, spirited and brave, and wouldn’t their shared danger bring a bond between them?
Only that would leave him with the Commissioner as his father-in-law. He had no doubt Chatham would make his life a living hell. If he loved Miss Chatham, it wouldn’t matter.
Which was how he knew he didn’t love her. Respected her, admired her, yes. Wished her well, most definitely. But he didn’t love her.
He remembered the night after the trial, taking Bandon to Browne’s door to compare scents, s
eeing Browne in the upstairs window, bowed over with weeping.
“Browne loves your daughter, sir. And the worst of his idiocy came out of being mad with worry for her. We are all sometimes blinded by our own feelings.”
Chatham shook his head. “You’re a better man than we deserve. Which is why I know you’ll be back with the Yard.”
Jones didn’t have the spirit to argue.
“Take the next few days off—it looks like you got a bit knocked about—and report for work at your old shift and rank Monday.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He had a job. If he still wanted it. Vague relief washed over his exhaustion, carrying away much of the tension that gave him the strength to remain upright.
He needed to sleep. Preferably for a week or more. Then he might have the energy to make a decision.
Chatham was addressing Northrup. “. . . Owe you gratitude. Your intervention and Miss Fairchild’s prevented a grave injustice.”
Northrup and Chatham rose and shook hands, preparing to leave. Royston wondered if anyone would mind if he just slept where he sat. The killer was dead, Miss Chatham was safe, and Bandon was being cared for. Miss Fairchild was eminently capable of caring for herself. “Commissioner, sir. Has anyone spoken to Jacob Godwin? How is he taking the news?”
Chatham’s face went gray. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think I would be the best person to break this news to you, but I suppose its better that you hear it from me than read it in the papers.”
A chill ran through his blood. “What, sir?”
“Jacob Godwin is dead.”
“How?” His mouth tasted bitter, like cold iron. “Willie?”
It shouldn’t surprise him, not after what he’d discovered.
“No,” Chatham said. “At least not directly. The papers were already out before I sent Browne ‘round to break the news as gently as he could. That was badly done, but the reporters got to my daughter before I or anyone else could counsel her, and she was in quite a state and not thinking clearly. Godwin saw those blasted, infernal papers before Browne arrived. He had one clutched in his hand. His heart, most likely, though the coroner will have to have a look.”
Suddenly the air in the room seemed too thin, too hot, and too cold at the same time. “That doesn’t make sense. Except for the leg, he was the strongest, healthiest man alive.”
Chatham shook his head. “You didn’t know? Perhaps he didn’t want to worry you. That would be like him. When they did the surgery on his leg, the doctor discovered a heart murmur. No one knew how long he’d had it. It was why he was retired from the Yard entirely. We would have been happy to keep him on at a desk job and not lose his wisdom and experience, but the doctors advised he avoid stress.”
First Willie, and now Godwin lost to him. Both in different ways, but both just as final.
“I am sorry, Jones.” Chatham sounded sincerely sympathetic. “I know how much he meant to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Royston managed, though his mouth was dry and his throat thick.
Twenty-nine
“I’m surprised to see you here, Inspector.”
Royston turned to see Bandon striding across Chatham’s manicured lawn. He hadn’t heard from the man since the morning they’d parted ways at Maxfield’s. Well, unless he counted an unsigned folded paper with a rough sketch of a wolf relaxing with a brandy by a fire. That had been waiting with his mail when he finally returned to his flat.
The toff looked well, skin no more pale than normal and the black arm sling nearly invisible against his black formal tail coat. From the open doors of the impressive brick house behind them sounds of laughter and merriment floated on the lazy summer breeze. The day was bright and clear but not too hot, a perfect day for a wedding.
“A gentleman does not begrudge a lady her happiness because his own suit for her hand failed, nor even give the appearance of doing so.” He added in a lower voice, “Nor is it politic to refuse the invitation of one’s superior. I was surprised to be invited, however. I suppose Miss Chatham—Mrs. Browne insisted.”
Royston had snuck off to a rather isolated corner by a primrose hedge to be alone with a pipe and his thoughts, and so they were private enough for candor.
“Or else he thought you would be conspicuous in your absence, since others in your department are present. You are, after all, quite the hero.”
Maybe, but not to the girls who had died because he failed to catch on sooner. Part of Royston’s bonus money had bought Molly a simple gravestone. He had taken flowers out to her grave yesterday. Posies, because she said once that she liked them better than roses.
“Catherine told me your blood test came back negative. Congratulations on not becoming your own tracking ’wolf,” Bandon said. “I’m closer to coming to terms with what I am than I ever have been before, and I have our adventure to thank for that. Still, I wouldn’t wish my fate on another.”
The hour or so between Miss Fairchild drawing his blood and announcing the results had been an eternity of contemplating what it would mean to live with the prejudice and hostility the general public levied against werewolves.
“Catherine was disappointed that you declined our invitation. She said to tell you she is saving a place for you, regardless.”
“It is not that I don’t wish the both of you every happiness,” Royston said quickly. “I certainly don’t hold you in less regard than Browne and his lady. I—”
Bandon cut him off. “Don’t worry. We regret that you will be absent, but we don’t resent it. I understand why you would not feel comfortable. Catherine does as well, though she pretends not to.”
Royston glanced back toward the house. “Here, at least, there are others to whom I am at least close to being an equal.”
Bandon frowned. “Catherine and I consider you to be at least an equal to any in our acquaintance. But I do understand that the old divisions and differences still stand in the minds of many. Maybe someday, it will not be so.”
Royston fiddled with his unlit pipe. A bit of tobacco would steady his nerves, still on edge from being a guest in a house where he was only nominally welcomed by the host. He filched his tobacco case back out of the pocket of his best formal jacket and offered it to Bandon. “Care for a smoke? It’s the last of Godwin’s.”
He had left it to Royston, along with all of his worldly goods. He might have had enough to survive long enough to find another career path, but that wasn’t what Godwin would have wanted for him. Ultimately, it wasn’t what he wanted for himself.
With the inheritance on top of his detective’s salary, he was better off than he’d ever hoped to be. He’d rather have Godwin back.
Bandon shook his head. “I didn’t bring a pipe. Catherine disapproves of the habit.”
Royston took a second pipe out of his jacket pocket. “Godwin’s as well.”
Bandon glanced over his shoulder, probably looking for Miss Fairchild. “I would be honored, then.”
Since the man was incapacitated by the sling, Royston packed the pipe for him and helped him to light it. They smoked in companionable silence for a few moments.
“I would have rather thought you would consider yourself well rid of me,” Royston said. “How’s the shoulder?”
Bandon glanced down at the sling. “Healing well, thank you.” He looked around, then added in a quiet voice, “It will be a while before I’m up for another hunt.”
“I wouldn’t ask you again,” Royston assured him. “I’ve learned my lesson about drafting civilians.”
Bandon gazed off into the middle distance. “Shame. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Royston almost dropped his pipe. “Are you insane? I nearly got you killed.”
“But you didn’t. And we stopped a killer.” He drew deep from the pipe, then blew the smoke out slowly. “You risk your life every day to make London safer for those who can’t protect themselves. This whole experience has brought home that there are bigger and more seriou
s problems than whether Lord Pemberton cheats at whist. Which he does, by the way, most outrageously.” He inhaled again from the pipe. “Maybe it started before this, watching Catherine work so hard to help werewolves. I started to feel like I should do something useful to the world.”
“Landed gentry don’t work, you know.” Once, Royston would have leveled that as an accusation. The teasing tone in his own voice surprised him.
“And werewolves aren’t invited to society weddings.” Bandon flashed a grin. “We share blood now, you and I. The natives of the Americas would say that makes us brothers.”
“Indeed.” Royston blew smoke out slowly to express how little he credited the assertion.
“Indeed.” Bandon bounced once on the balls of his feet, wolf energy shining through the gentlemanly exterior. “Also, you saved my life. I believe that means it belongs to you.”
Miss Fairchild might have an opinion on that. “You saved my life first, when you took a bullet to stop Willie. So where does that leave us?”
“Inextricably linked, I'd say.” Bandon’s broad, boyish smile made him seem at least a decade younger than he was. “I’ve come to know you, come to know your dedication. Sooner or later, you’ll have another case where my other self will be needed, and you won’t be able to resist doing anything you can to get a dangerous criminal off the streets. I’m just letting you know that I’m amenable.”
The Beauchamp case came to mind, though that was by now so old that there would be no scent markers. He couldn’t even blame Chatham—much—for refusing to let him open it. But another case would come where he was stumped, lives were on the line, and the scents were fresh and, yes, it would be hard to resist the temptation.
Royston was saved from responding by the new Mrs. Browne’s voice trilling from the steps of the house. “Mr. Jones, there you are. My dear Mr. Jones, you must come in. We’re just about to cut the cake.”
The sun shone in her hair, and her white dress floated about her like soft summer clouds. Any faint bittersweet of might-have-been was lost in the savor of seeing her beautiful, vibrant, and alive. Not enough to banish the shades of the dead girls entirely, or to make him forget the evils that still lurked in the dark corners of London, but still it was something.
A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) Page 27
