A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) (26 page)

“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.

He came back to the waiting group, met Jones’ gaze and shook his head.

The second on the list was a bit trickier. The rooms had a shared entrance, and Richard slunk around to the back to test the air from a partially open window. A man and a woman lived here, no children, a beef stew that evening for dinner. No scent of the killer. At the third house, the woman’s scent was faint. She had not been living there for some time, and Richard’s curiosity piqued. But the man’s scent was not the killer’s, though Richard circled and tested the air to be sure before he trotted back to his companions and shook his head.

“Right,” Jones said. “It must be the next man, then.” His eyes turned hard and eager, as if he were the wolf on this hunt.

Two blocks to the next address, and Richard felt the hot blood of the hunt pounding through his heart. They would find the man at last, the one who held the women of London hostage to terror, who had turned an innocent girl into a prize in a twisted scavenger hunt. The one who caused the pain-scent, the fear-scent, the death-scent.
 

Jones knew how to find the address and he did not, which was the only thing that kept him from charging past him. His wolf-muscles ached to run, and he remembered the power of making the kill while the sick horror of it seemed a distant consideration. His human mind warned that he was losing himself to the beast, but at the moment, he didn’t care.

When they got to the two-up-two-down where the fourth man lived, they quickly realized that his address was on the second floor. The stairs to the second floor had a door with a lock.

“Can you get enough of a scent from the door to the building?” Jones asked. “He had to have passed through.”

Richard surged forward with confidence, snuffling eagerly the tales written in scent on the ground. Dairy man, delivering his wares. Skulking stray cat. One of the women who lived here was clearly a laundress. Confusion of men, boys, a girl. Wait— blood! No, animal blood, and faint. Butcher’s boy must have dropped a parcel. He sniffed harder, back and forth across the doorstep, up and down the door, rearing up on his hind legs to reach nearly to the lintel.

Layer upon layer of scent, mingled and confused. He couldn’t find it anywhere. But it had to be here, nothing else mad sense. Maybe he just needed a clearer trail. He dropped to all fours, put a paw to the door and whined.

“What is it? Have you found him?” Jones asked.

Maddening, that he could either have the power of the wolf’s senses or the power of human speech, but not both at the same time. He reached a paw to the doorknob, trying to make the request clearer.
 

“You want me to get you in? You’re mad. If you’re seen, if you’re caught, where will you be?”

Richard gave a growl-whine of frustration. Jones was the one that dragged him into this, had torn him from his frivolous, pleasant existence and forced him by weight of guilt to follow a trail to scent-memories that would give him nightmares for the rest of his life.
Now
Jones worried about what would happen if he were caught?

“I haven’t my lockpicks with me,” Jones said.

Tom stepped up. “I have. But are you sure, friend? If you know the man’s scent, I think you’d pick it up if he'd passed through that door.”

Possibly. Probably. But he had to be certain. He’d spent too many years hating what he was and ignoring his abilities to be certain of their extent. Perhaps a more practiced tracker could make more sense of the muddle, but the only other ’wolf present was in human form, with only slightly-better-than human senses.

He pawed resolutely at the doorknob.

Tom sighed. “Well, I’ve broken into Scotland Yard already tonight. Breaking into a constable’s house pales in comparison.”

With his picks Tom made short work of the door and swung it open, sending Richard in with a mocking bow.