A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) (33 page)

Miss Chatham stepped behind him, shielding herself. She extended one shaking arm past him, pointing at Willie. “It’s him! He took me and held me. He kept on talking and talking about how clever he was and how my fiancé and my father would never catch him. And he kept talking about—” Her voice caught on a sob. “About what he did to those other poor girls. What he was going to do to me.”

"You did it," Royston said, and the words had the taste of ashes in his mouth.
 

Willie laughed a dark, ugly laugh that Royston had never heard before. “You still don’t get it. Too easy, it’s too bloody easy. I knew the Commissioner would never figure it out, let alone that idiot Browne. And my dear father is long past his glory days. But you, at least, I had hopes for.”

“But Winchell. . . The automaton was Winchell’s.”

“It was. One last false clue for you to puzzle over. I stole it earlier this evening, while you would have been waiting for your own ’wolf to arrive. You have to give me credit for planning the end game for a month that you’d have your pet available for an extra night. Sporting of me.”

“You broke into Winchell’s house?” Royston said woodenly.
 

“Didn’t have to. His sweet little serving girl let me in. So accommodating, in bed and out. Kitty Harper’s necklace looked better on her, by the way, especially when she wore nothing else. Still, she balked at letting me steal the automaton. I had to slit her throat in the end.”

“Is this the same serving girl who found the dead woman?”

“The very same. I met the dead woman’s husband drinking at Fishtail’s. Told him what I’d read of Winchell’s work. And it was so very easy to manipulate my lass into being at the wrong place at the wrong time. Almost as easy as it was to manipulate you. That invitation to the costume ball? My doing as well. Miss Beauchamp’s friend does like to sample from the rougher side of life. She told me her suspicions about her friend’s death in the intimacy of after. I gave her the idea of passing the information on to you, though the masks and the masquerade were her idea. You should have pushed your luck that night, Roy-boy. A bit of fun might have done you good.”

“But you… It was
you
.”

Willie shook his head with a mocking frown of disappointment. “How many times did I have the answer to the puzzles my father brought us—well, not my father, has he confessed that much yet to you?”

“He has.”

“He never admitted it to me. My mother’s lover told me. They wanted me to come away with them. They wanted me.
He
never did. He kept me out of spite.”

“That’s not true,” Royston protested, though his defense rang hollow even in his own ears.

“Lying to your oldest and dearest friend? You should be ashamed.”

The shock hadn’t worn off so much as dulled, and Royston’s thoughts started turning again at about their normal rate as his Yard training reasserting itself; slowly, yet steadily picking up speed, like a steam engine chuffing forward after a pause.

“It is you who should be ashamed, Willie Godwin. More than ashamed. The game is over. You’re coming in with me.”

Willie laughed. “Same old Royston, with the shouldn’ts and the musn’ts and I’ll-tell-your-fathers.” He drew a gun from a holster concealed under his coat. “Same old Royston, still always one step behind me.”

Up until that point, a part of him, if a rapidly shrinking part, had been waiting to find it had all been some elaborate tasteless joke, waiting for Willie to explain it all away.
 

But now, with Willie looking down that revolver with eyes full of cold promise, the magnitude of the truth froze his blood.
 

“I even tried to help you out. I told you to leave your emotions out of it, to think like a criminal. Had you done so, you might have realized that this criminal was much smarter than you. Not many people fit that description, and few of those know police procedures. Or your history. Or have enough of a grudge against Chatham to take his darling daughter when there’s easier prey to be had.” Willie shook his head in disappointment. “I thought a little extra motivation might get you going, too. But I guess you just aren’t as into pretty Miss Chatham as I thought.”

“You. . .” Royston had trouble finding the words. “You are
obscene.”

Willie pouted like a child. “You always liked the puzzles Da threw your way. What’s wrong? Not up to a real-life game with real stakes? Da must be disappointed in you.” He grinned abruptly. “Do you like my machinery? My own invention. I worked for Winchell for a while, mostly odd jobs. He didn’t appreciate me either. He never knew how much I learned from him.”

 
“How? How could you?”

Willie grinned. “How could I what? Steal knowledge from Winchell?”

Witnessing that familiar teasing playfulness on a subject so grim chilled Royston to the bone. “Those poor girls. How could you?” And how had he not seen what Willie truly was?
 

Willie chuckled. “The ‘how’ was the easiest part. Women love a charming rogue, and once I got them to a quiet place, a lot can be hidden in the darkness and the fog. Miss Chatham was the only real challenge. I knew I’d have to snatch her quick-like. She never did have the time of day for me.”

“I was right,” Miss Chatham said, voice proud despite the tremor of sobs still beneath the words. “There was always something I didn’t trust about you, something not quite right. You may have been Mr. Jones' friend, but you were nothing like him.”

“Why, Willie?” Royston asked again. “
Why?”

“Ah, now you’re asking the right question. It wasn’t for the thrill of the kill, you know. I knew the Yard would stop at the most obvious explanation and assume they had another Blackpoole. That was the fun of it. Watching you all chase your tails, knowing that you had dismissed the only man capable of original thinking. You may be the best of the lot, Roy-boy, but you never think of the unusual, the uncommon, when you go to solve a puzzle. It held you back when we were children, and it holds you back now.”

Willie had some truth there. Original thinking had led him to a werewolf among the landed gentry, but it hadn’t taken him far enough to see the killer in his best friend, he thought bitterly.

The part of his mind trained back when he not only investigated crime but actively confronted criminals on a daily basis started to turn its gears. Willie seemed to have forgotten about the ’wolf, at least he was ignoring Bandon for the time being. If Royston rushed him and drew his fire, Willie would have a chance to get off one shot, maybe two before Bandon jumped him. It might work.
Might
. Willie was a good shot and cool under pressure. And he’d be expecting the tactic. Bandon had no training and would not be.

Would Bandon know what to do if he rushed Willie? And would he react quickly enough? Too big a gamble with civilian lives at stake. Best keep Willie talking.

“Why, then?”

“You can’t figure it out?”

Royston shook his head, a stalling tactic and more. He wanted to understand what went wrong, how Willie, the happy-go-lucky charmer, could turn into a conscienceless killer.

“The Yard was stupid enough to sack me.
Me
, their brightest and best, over some silly pretense.”

“Willie, you were drunk on the job.”

“Bah. I’m better drunk than half the force sober.”

“You killed those girls, those innocent girls, just to get back at the Yard?”
 

“Whores. London has too many of them, anyway. Isn’t that what they say in the papers? Spreading disease and seducing upright men into sin.”
 

“What about Molly?” The name caught a little in his throat.

“The fish-and-chips girl? What of her? There’s dozens, hundreds like her all over the city. Easily replaced. Did you think you were the only one she flirted with? She was leading you on, Roy-boy. She was leading you on and would have abandoned you just as Miss Chatham did.”

She had just been very friendly, and neither of them had been serious about it. Had Willie targeted her because of her association with him?
 

He heard a low, rumbling growl behind him. Bandon, too, was remembering what they had found in the warehouse.

Royston sympathized, but he wished the ‘wolf would shut it. All of his half-formed plans depended on Willie’s attention being on him and not the ’wolf.

“Oh, poor Royston. Unlucky in love again. I could find you a prettier one. I’ve dozens buzzing around. I could easily nudge one your way.”

Behind him, Miss Chatham choked on indignation and offence. Royston needed her to be quiet, too. Needed Willie to be focused on him.

“I don't suppose we can continue our association.” Willie’s regret sounded almost genuine. “Although that’s your fault as well as mine. You're a bit too much like Lancelot. He, too, betrayed his Arthur for a girl. If you had saved your best friend instead of the chit, you would never have found out. We could have gone off to America together. It’s a brave new world there, Roy-boy. The sort of place that appreciates bright young mavericks such as ourselves.” He smiled wistfully at his own fantasy.

“And you could go on killing.”

“Nope. I’m done here. No need for more, I’ve made my point. Figure I’d slip off and leave them all with a nice untidy mystery to haunt their nights. The killer they couldn’t catch. Leave them waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, wondering when I’ll be back.”

Willie might even believe his own assertion. But whatever he’d told himself about his own motives, the way he’d killed those girls evidenced a deep sickness of the mind. Those sorts of things didn’t just go away.

“So now I’ve just to finish off Miss Chatham. And you. Don’t worry, I’ve left them enough clues that my dear old father will prove your innocence. Eventually. Oh, there will always be a stain on your reputation, a small shadow of doubt. But the Commissioner and that puppy Browne will be made to look like even bigger fools for accusing an innocent Inspector hard at work on the track of a killer.”

 
Royston stayed silent, aware of the soft sound of movement behind him. Bandon creeping closer?
 

“Too bad I can’t be around to watch my father’s face when he realizes how much he missed. I’d love to see him agonizing over what he could have done to stop all those senseless deaths.” Willie sighed theatrically. “But by then I’ll be in another country, under another name.”

Now, or never. Royston charged forward.

Bandon was faster.

The gun’s report echoed through the emptiness of the warehouse and the ’wolf let out a snarl-yip of pain but held his charge. Willie fell backwards under the ’wolf’s weight, losing the gun when he hit the floor. The weapon skittered across the concrete. Royston grabbed it, but Bandon and Willie grappled too closely for him to get a clean shot.

Willie’s left arm protected his throat. Clearly hampered by some injury, Bandon’s attack seemed weak, awkward. Willie’s right hand slid down, grasped the knife he always kept in his boot. He had a good angle, he’d gut the ’wolf in a second.

In that second, Royston pressed the nose of the pistol to the back of Willie’s head, checked his angles and pulled the trigger.
 

The shot reverberated through the warehouse, loud as the end of the world, and Willie’s blood and brain tissue blew back, staining Royston’s hand and sleeve like the mark of Cain. But not all of the blood drenching Willie’s white shirt was his own. That one shot he’d gotten off before Bandon took him down had done its damage.

Royston’s hands shook; his fingertips felt numb. The scent of blood and gunpowder stung his nose.

The ’wolf, panting in pain, tried to rise. His right foreleg refused to obey him, and he fell again. In the background, Miss Chatham sobbed, a high-pitched, hysterical sound. Royston skirted the remains of the man who had been his best friend to kneel beside Bandon. Blood drenched the black fur, too much blood, and white bone gleamed in sharp contrast.
 

Years in service had taught him a thing or two about injuries, and so he whipped off his jacket and used it to apply pressure to the wound, ignoring the reflexive flash of teeth before Bandon turned his head away. He had seen men bleed to death or die of shock from equivalent wounds. “We need to get you to a doctor.”
 

Even as Royston’s mind churned with the difficulties involved in finding a physician who would treat a ’wolf, Bandon shook his head.

“Do you want to bleed out here?” Why on Earth would Bandon refuse help?

The ’wolf looked at the windows, then to Royston, then back to the windows.

Royston shook his head. “What? I don’t understa—Oh.”

Though the reflection of gaslight made it hard to see out of the windows, Royston remembered the amount of time that had passed since moonrise. The long days and short nights of June might be a boon to farmers, but not for a werewolf trying to conceal his human identity.
 

“At the very least we have to get you out of here.” He glanced at Miss Chatham, who might have social acquaintance with someone like Richard Bandon. “We can continue the discussion from there.”

But that would leave a traumatized young lady alone at night in an unsavory neighborhood.