A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) (13 page)

“The Inspector and I met after the incident at the Winter Ball," Miss Fairchild inserted smoothly. "He took tea with us one day last month—Richard was visiting and the good Inspector was pursuing a possible connection between the late Dr. Blackpoole and the current killer. Sadly, I was not able to tell him anything of importance.”

Saved by Miss Fairchild. The world should be glad
she
had not chosen a life of crime. She’d be brilliant at it.

“Yes, terrible business, that. All those poor girls,” Mrs. Woodard said in the same tone she might use for lamenting a picnic cancelled because of the rain.

Bandon and Miss Fairchild took their leave, and Mrs. Woodard led him to the sitting room, which was all floral-embroidered chairs and lace doilies.

“Downey?” she said. “Yes, lovely man. He did leave a little early from the duchess’s dinner, if I recall. Probably indigestion. That French cook of hers is atrocious. But I am quite certain he stayed to the very end of my ball in April, for he danced one of the last dances with me.”

***

Royston lay awake in his lonely flat, the sounds of family life from the flats below long since stilled to the silence of night. Despite his bloody cold, despite exhaustion that made the room spin, he could not sleep. Dates and times shifted in his mind to create a kaleidoscope of opportunity. Balls and gallery openings rotated around disappearances and deaths.

Somewhere out there the next victim slept, sound in her bed. Somewhere out there the killer prowled. It was Royston’s job to see that the two never met, and so far he was making a hash of it.

Nine

Catherine’s dual identity put her in a unique position to hear gossip from both the Yard and society. She didn’t like what she was hearing. Of course, members of her social class ruffled their feathers like the useless peacocks they were when a policeman came calling, worried more about their own reputations than about those poor dead girls.

Yes, the same could be said of her own reactions—but her situation and Richard’s was unique. And she had endeavored to protect herself and her love without damaging Jones’ career. But others who cared nothing for a mere Inspector had been making veiled and not-so-veiled complaints to the man’s supervisor. The Commissioner wasn’t an idiot; he had to know how valuable Jones was to the Yard. At the same time, he valued his own position more than the responsibilities it entailed, and if Jones' earnest work caused him too many problems, he’d not hesitate to be rid of him.

Had any of her previous enquiries inadvertently added to the pressure on Jones? She could never forgive herself if her actions contributed to the ruination of the gallant and determined Inspector. Surely they were safe on that count; she’d been quite discreet. But still. . .No matter. Jones was a good man doing important work. It was only fitting that she do what she could for him.

She put on her best walking dress—a pale pink that complimented her fair coloring and gave her a look of deceptive innocence—and went to call on Miss Chatham. They had been introduced at a ball last season, and so it was quite proper to do so. On that last occasion, Catherine had found Miss Chatham much less tiresome than many of her peers. She had even asked Catherine a few intelligent questions about her dabblings in alchemy, although she carefully glanced about periodically to make certain her father did not hear her talking about such an unladylike topic.

This afternoon, however, Miss Chatham already had several guests, and so the topic of conversation perforce remained fashion and who was expected to marry whom. Catherine, who had little interest in either topic, mostly smiled, sipped her tea, and ignored the barely-disguised curiosity of the others. She could hardly blame them for wondering about her presence. Even if Mr. Foster’s activities didn’t keep her busy through the normal hours for such visits, the social niceties invariably gave her a headache.

Still, she suffered through, keeping one ear out for—yes. The sound of a carriage pulling into the cobblestone courtyard. She glanced at the clock in the corner, an elaborate gilded thing with fat smiling cherubs that hurt to look at. Too late in the afternoon for a new visitor. Surely it must be her quarry.

The time it took her to excuse herself, she really must be going, thank you for the lovely tea was approximately the same time it would take the footman to open the door of the carriage, the Commissioner to step down and make his gravid way up the steps, and for the butler to greet him at the door.

When they met in the hallway, Catherine pretended to be surprised. “Commissioner, I was just leaving. I had such a lovely tea with your daughter. Really, you must have your cook send over her recipe for those lemon cakes. Quite delightful.”

She watched his reactions pass over his face. Surprise that Crazy Catherine was acting, for once, like a normal lady of her station, followed by alarm that she had been with his daughter, putting who knows what sort of foolish ideas in her head. Followed by the knowledge that he dare not let either of those reactions slip, as Catherine, crazy or not, was far above him.

“Miss Fairchild, an honor.”

“This is quite fortuitous,” she continued in a light, breathless rush. “I had been meaning to speak to you about one of your men.”

“If this is about Inspector Jones—" he rumbled.

“Oh, indeed it is.” Catherine blithely ignored his tone. “But of course, you must be hearing about him all the time. Such an upstanding young man, quite the credit to his profession. It has only now occurred to me, well, with all the unpleasantness in the papers, that he was very efficient at the scene, very thoughtful. I wasn’t surprised in the least to hear you had put him in charge of the new investigation. I expect he’ll go far, that one.”

His reaction was anything but what she expected. His frown deepened, and his face flushed red. “I understand that Mr. Jones has taken to attempting to ingratiate himself with his betters. I’m sorry if he took advantage of your vulnerability to attempt to influence you.”

Ingratiate himself with his betters? Jones? Could they even be talking about the same man? She reined in her temper with an effort. She might have expected his patronizing tone. “I assure you, the man was entirely proper,” she said. “As a citizen, I merely wished to express my appreciation—"

“Yes, quite, my dear. I understand that Jones can be very charming when he wants to be, and I wouldn’t expect a lady such as yourself to be sophisticated in such matters. If you wish to do something for our brave boys, Adela and Lady Pemberton are organizing a charity ball for the widows and orphans fund. I believe they still need help on the refreshments committee.”

She had known of the Commissioner’s attitudes toward her sex, mirroring as they did most of her world’s, but she had thought her station would overcome them, given that Chatham was every bit the social climber he accused Jones of being. Had it been possible, she would have sent Richard on this mission, but since Richard had officially not been present during the attack and its aftermath, she didn’t have that option.

She would get nowhere with the man. Best take her leave before she said something she meant. “Thank you, Commissioner. My calendar is quite full now. The wedding and all. Surely you understand.”

“Of course, of course.” The lines on his face relaxed now that she was behaving as the sort of woman he understood. “My Adela is planning her own wedding soon, you know.”

They made a few more moments’ small talk, Catherine all the while hoping that her attempt at intervention hadn’t somehow made Jones' situation even worse.

***

Royston had just gotten into the Yard, had barely hung up his hat and had not yet sat down at his desk when word came that the commissioner wanted to see him in his office. Immediately.

Royston presented himself in the commissioner’s office, face carefully neutral. He kept his eyes fixed just past the Commissioner’s shoulder, where there hung a commendation from the mayor of London for some past service, and next to it a tinted photographic portrait of Miss Chatham. The clock on the wall, a marvel of gears and levers, had little mechanized knights that would battle on the quarter-hour.

If he were lucky, the matter would involve interviewing a victim or a suspect who did not speak English.

“Jones, what is this nonsense I hear about you using the Doctor Death case to go hobnobbing with the rich?”

Had Bandon been upset enough about their chance meeting to sic his fiancé on him again? Damn the man anyway.

“Sir, it is not an excuse. The two prime suspects I have identified—”

“Lazy thinking. Just because the Ladykiller was known among the gentry—
known
among them, I should remind you, not one of them. Blackpoole was a tradesman’s son with a clever mind for alchemy and a certain skill at manipulation who managed to achieve a position higher than justified by his birth. It is far more common to find criminals among the riffraff of the lower classes and far more likely that our killer would be found there.”

“Sir, I don’t think we can eliminate any avenue of inquiry—”

“Excuses, Jones. Let me tell you, it doesn’t matter who you claim your father to be. A thoroughbred stallion may get a colt on some farmer’s rawboned mare, but the result won’t win a steeplechase.”

Jones clenched his fists behind his back to hold his temper.

“I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to lose it all because one of my men won’t stop pestering people he has no right to even speak to. You may have a little French and a little Greek and a name more grand than you’re properly entitled to, but no matter how much time you waste courting your betters, they will know you for what you are. And our job here at Scotland Yard is to preserve order, not to disrupt it.”

“I thought our job was to serve justice and protect the public. Sir.” He was treading closer to the line than he normally dared, and his own voice of reason whispered warnings in his head.

 
“Don’t you talk back to me! As if you’ve done much of anything lately to protect the public." Chatham snorted. "Have you even bothered investigating the men who used to work in the warehouse?”

“I have men on it. Sir. Nothing stands out in any of the workers’ backgrounds. A few arrests for public drunkenness. Two for battery, but only one of the victims was a woman, and the weapon of choice was fists. Disgraceful in the extreme, but the
modus operandi
doesn’t match.”

“I’d look at it more closely, if I were you. It’s all you’ve got. Except for this mysterious tip-off you got regarding the warehouse.”

Whether or not Bandon and Miss Fairchild were behind this latest dressing-down, Royston had more honor than his betters. He would not betray a source.

“My source is not involved, sir.”

“So say you.”

“Sir, the coroner—“

“I’ve heard your flimsy excuses. Jones, you place too much faith in these beggars and street urchins you’ve gathered about you the way an old woman gathers stray cats. They’ll be your downfall yet. Get out of here and get results, or you’ll be walking the beat.”

***

“Oh, my dear Catherine, you simply must call me Aunt Rose. After all, we shall soon be family.”

“Yes, Aunt Rose,” she parroted obediently.

Frankly, she didn’t care what she called the woman. Though the prospect of being related to her was alarming, far more so than the knowledge that without alchemical intervention her intended went about on all fours three nights out of a month. After all, no werewolf in history had ever bored someone to death.

To be fair, neither had Aunt Rose, but it had come close a time or two.

Couples glided across the dance floor, the gentlemen in black or grey formal attire, the ladies in silk dresses all of this year’s fashion and in all the colors of the garden. The musicians were competent, if uninspired.

Catherine breathed shallowly and wished she’d held her ground in the argument with her personal maid about the appropriate tightness of the stays. She only listened to Richard’s aunt with half an ear, and not just out of self-defense. Inspector Jones had been stirring up a hornets’ nest, and she worried that he was about to be stung.

“Do you believe the audacity of the man!”
 

The lady wore seafoam green with pink embroidery at the neck. Catherine had been introduced to her, but damned if she could remember her name. Surreptitiously she edged closer, still smiling and nodding at Aunt Rose at appropriate intervals.

“To be caught with Lord Johnson’s wife in Johnson’s own garden!”

Ah. There was more than one audacious man in London, and more than one type of audacity.

Aunt Rose laid a hand on her arm. “Excuse me, dear, but I must mingle. Hostess’s duty, you know.”

“Yes, of course, dearest Aunt.”

Rose smiled, brightened by the affectionate address, and Catherine was free to circulate as well. Across the room, she saw her Richard, so handsome in his formal suit, doing the same. They had agreed to this course of action. Though neither had the training Jones had, they both had their wits, and they had access to places that Jones did not.
 

In her alter ego, Catherine had heard the rumors that Jones suspected either Winchell or Downey, or perhaps even the two together. While neither would advertise such activities among their Society companions, there might be some hint, some scrap of information to glean here, the significance of which had been lost on the bearer.