A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) (36 page)

He nodded.

“Unfortunately, I think you’ve no choice but to go along with the story that silly girl concocted. It blows just enough smoke to obscure the real circumstances. Speaking of which, what really did happen?”

He told her everything, from the automaton wolf guarding the warehouse to Willie’s diabolical ‘test of friendship’ to Bandon’s act of heroism.

By the time he finished, they were at the Fairchild Manor. They passed two unfamiliar hansoms in the courtyard on the way in the garage.
 

Tired and still weak from the transfusion and feeling the ache of the automaton’s bite on his leg, Royston wanted only to crawl into a bed and sleep for a week. The Commissioner could arrest him or hang him after that.

Miss Waters met them before the car had come to a full stop. “The solicitor is here as you requested, and the Commissioner is here looking for Mr. Jones. Apparently he did not take kindly to your note suggesting he wait on Mr. Jones’ leisure.”

Miss Waters slipped up a back stair after Foster, no doubt to help assist in the change back into Miss Fairchild. Miss Fairchild must have paid a pretty penny for a trigger-glamour that she could turn on and off at need. Tied to the pocket watch, maybe. Foster wore little in the way of jewelry.

In any case, he had been left to face his fate alone. Or, alone except for the solicitor, who was practically a stranger and not truly in his employ, so Royston wasn’t sure he counted. He limped through the foyer and into the sitting room. There, he regarded the lovely, embroidered furniture and then his trousers which were stiff with blood, not all his own, and liberally dusted with the accumulated filth of an abandoned warehouse and wondered if he should sit. Under the combined stares of the solicitor and the Commissioner, he made an ineffectual attempt to brush himself off.

This was not going to be a short interview, and passing out in the middle of it would not help his case. After what he’d done to Miss Fairchild’s horseless carriage, not to mention her fiancé, damage to a chair would make little difference.

“If this is to be an official interrogation of my client, I insist that you wait until he has had a chance to bathe and rest,” Northrup said.
 

The Commissioner looked affronted. “Interrogation? I am merely debriefing one of my men. And offering a commendation, albeit an unofficial one. The official one will follow. A public ceremony, of course, with the mayor.”

Perhaps Maxfield had taken more blood than he had realized, and it was affecting his reason. None of the Commissioner's words made any sense.

“It was my understanding that my client was not only suspended from his duties, but actually fired.”
 

It clearly wasn't making sense to Northrup, either.
 

“A misunderstanding,” the Commissioner said. “All a misunderstanding, already rectified.”

He’d heard the Commissioner use that same tone of unctuous false affability to others before, but the man had never thought
him
worth the effort. Obviously, there must be something to Maxfield’s claim that the papers had hailed him a hero. A star for Chatham to hitch his wagon to, at least until he faded out.

“Does that rectification include a restoration of rank?” Northrup asked.

“Certainly. This man is wasted as a constable. There’d be a public outcry.”

A bit more of the picture revealed. The Commissioner had restored him because he felt he had no choice. He’d be biding his time to revenge himself for having his hand forced.

“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, seeing 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.