A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) (18 page)

 
“I was out with a friend the night before." He lifted his chin. "And, yes, we made rather merry. It is not the Yard’s business what I do in my off-hours. I wasn’t meant to work that morning and had no reason to expect that I would be called. If I did not stop to bathe and change, it was because of my urgency to the task, but I was as sober as choirboy long before I arrived at the scene.”

“I heard that you nearly passed out at the scene.”

“From shock, sir, to see the dead woman so ill-treated. I was not the only one to be so affected. The housekeeper was in hysterics, and two of the constables refused to enter the room at all.”

The commissioner shook his head. “Clearly I expected too much decorum from one of your upbringing. To be reeking of alcohol on a Sunday morning, when any man of good breeding would be preparing for church. . .”

“Sir, I fail to see how my religious devotion or lack thereof pertains.”

“Of course you would, a child of sin brought up in so scandalous a manner.”

From the little bit of the Bible his mother had made him read, Christ hardly seemed the type to judge a man for having no father, but there was no point in debating theology with a believer.

 
“My vicar runs a temperance league for men such as yourself,” Chatham continued. “I suggest you consider it. In the meantime, you will give Browne everything you have on the Doctor Death case.”

“You’re giving the case to Browne?” Damn it to hell, did the commissioner not care at all about catching the murderer?

“I am. I think it’s time to have a proper detective on the case, one of sensibility and proper background. You’ll be working with Parker. His partner got knifed breaking up a drunken brawl outside Fishtail’s and isn’t expected to return for a long time, if ever. Parker’s a good family man, sober and respectful. Hopefully he’ll be a good influence on you.”

“Hard luck, old boy,” Browne said when Royston came out of the office.

He knew all along. And they call me a bastard.

“I look forward to your insights into the case,” Browne said. “Though I have some ideas of my own. I’d like to know about this source that led you to the warehouse.”

 
“I doubt he’ll work with you,” Royston said.

Browne wasn’t clever enough to make the connection between Bandon and the death of the Ladykiller, and Bandon hadn’t kept his secret so long by being a total fool. He knew better than to reveal himself to a weasely little social climber like Browne. And if he didn’t, Royston would warn him not to. He’d heard Browne’s opinions on werewolves. Bandon had given the Yard its only real lead on Doctor Death. He didn’t deserve to be repaid with the kind of trouble Browne could cause him.

Parker was on the night shift, so at least he’d have a chance to sleep before he returned. Royston was given a constable’s uniform and sent home to change. Heavy black wool, bright brass buttons, domed hat—when he was eighteen and starting out as one of the youngest of recruits, this uniform had meant pride and accomplishment and great things to come. Now it symbolized shame and the end of all his dreams. He wanted to drop the uniform on the floor and turn his back on the Yard forever. Everything he’d worked so hard for, everything that he’d ever wanted, all of it was gone, and he wasn’t fool enough to think he’d be given another chance at it.
 

He held the uniform and walked deliberately. There was still the service to the city, the protection of innocents. But how could he hold onto those commitments when the organization that supposedly served those interests was so damned incompetent as to be nearly criminal itself? There was a killer out there, damn it, one Browne would never catch.

“Oh, Jones?” Browne called behind him. “Will you stop at Dr. Foster’s on the way home and see if he has any ideas on that poisoning case I sent over to? There’s a good lad.”

Royston’s grip tightened on the uniform until his knuckles went white, but he acknowledged the order with a nod and a crisp, “Yes, sir.”

His throat ached, but he marched out with eyes front and head held high. He had dealt with humiliation his whole life. As a child, he had been the smallest boy his age and fatherless to boot, with a name too lofty for his circumstances. As a new recruit, he’d been an easy target for trainers and fellow recruits both— too short and too educated to fit in. As a child and as a recruit, he’d had Willie as his protector, Willie with his easy charm to keep them out of trouble and his ready fists to handle anything he couldn’t talk his way out of.

Willie had found trouble neither fists nor words could get him out of. Royston was on his own.

And now he was off to see Foster, or Miss Fairchild, or whatever he should be calling the alchemist in his head. Because it was too much to ask that he be allowed to lick his wounds in peace for a few hours, he had drop in on one of the last people in the world he wanted to see. She had tried to warn him off of Downey just yesterday, most likely wishing to protect a fellow alchemist. No doubt hers was one on the voices raised up in protest at his investigation of Winchell.

Foster—it was easier to think of Miss Fairchild by her assumed name and gender when she was in her glamoured guise—was just seeing a client out when Royston arrived. A working-class man, hat in hand, clothes clean but mended many times over, mechanic’s grease too deeply worn into the cracks in his hands to completely scrub out. Not the sort of man who could afford an alchemist’s services. A charity case, then. One of the werewolves?

Foster clapped a hand on the departing man’s shoulder in a way that would be entirely inappropriate for a lady, and then turned to Royston with a smile. “Inspector Jones, what can I do for you?"
 

Royston just stared at her. The politely cheerful greeting from the person who had done nothing but threatened him, who had finally succeeded, with others, in taking away everything that he had worked so hard for, everything that had ever mattered to him. . .

”Won’t you please come in?” Foster’s tone faltered just a little. “I have some things I want to discuss with you on the Doctor Death cases."

He ground his teeth and stood where he was. “It’s Constable Jones now,” he said. “And if you do come up with anything on those cases, you’ll want to forward it to Inspector Browne. He’s the one on the case now. Speaking of Browne, he sent me on an errand. You were working on a poisoning case for him?”

Foster’s lips tightened. “It wasn’t poisoning. At least not intentional. Our society insists that ladies are delicate and must be protected, but then they work the women of the lower classes like dumb beasts. Worse than dumb beasts. The conditions those poor girls face is criminal. Or at least it should be.” Foster’s voice rose in anger. “Browne is an idiot,” she said. “How could they think of giving him a case this important?” And then the glamoured alchemist broke off, brows furrowed as though confused. “They demoted you? For what?”

If this was an act it was a good one. He really didn’t see the point in it. He glanced down the sidewalk, reminding her that they were still standing in the doorway, in a public street.
 

“You’d best come in,” she urged, her voice soft, troubled. “Please.”

He hesitated. But Charles Foster could have a man in his office without an escort, and he was beyond caring anyway. He badly needed to have it out with
someone,
and Foster’s dual identity made him the safest target. He followed her into the office.

She closed the door firmly behind them. “Anyone who knows anything about the Yard knows you’re one of the sharpest knives in their drawer. How did you get yourself demoted?”

His eyes narrowed. What game was she playing now? “Apparently some people don’t appreciate a working class bastard with a badge questioning his betters.”

She flinched at the word ‘bastard’.
Hypocrite.

He watched her face as she tried to put it together. Really, it shouldn’t be so hard. “Winchell? I’d hardly call him your better, no matter what his pedigree and how many diplomas hang on his wall.”

“Winchell almost certainly. But I recall another even above him who threatened to put me in my place.”

 
“You think I had something to do with this?” Her indignant tone was almost believable. If the alchemy didn’t work out, Foster should try her had at acting.

 
“A good detective does not discount possible suspects, especially when prior threats have been made.” He lifted his chin. “And whatever anyone else says, I am a good detective.”

“A good detective also considers the question of motive,” she said calmly. “What reason would I have to want you demoted?”

“To protect Downey? Because you can? Because I dared to ruffle the calm of your perfect life? Because your—because a certain werewolf decided to help me over your wishes. Because you don’t like me?”

He was careful, even now, not to ask her to acknowledge Bandon’s alternative nature.
 

Her eyes closed briefly, as if in pain. “First of all,” she said. “I owe you an apology. To be honest, I am long overdue on that apology.” He could tell that she had difficulty admitting that she was wrong, and yet she met his eyes and spoke steadily. “What I did to you. Digging up your history. Threatening blackmail. It was wrong. I’ve regretted it every day, and I should have told you sooner.”

What sort of game was she playing? It had to be a trap, although he couldn’t quite see how it worked. Could she really be as sincere as she sounded?

“If a werewolf chooses to work with you of his own will, then I have no objections,” she said. “And I don’t dislike you. Quite the opposite. From everything I have seen or learned about you, you are an honorable and intelligent man, and I find your lack of obsequiousness refreshing. Sit down, Inspector.” The last was said kindly, with a gesture to the faded old chair that stood in front of a desk that had seen its better days.

“It’s Constable,” he said stiffly.

“I refuse to call you that.” Her voice betrayed a touch of impatience. “Do you have anywhere you need to be immediately?”

Jones shook his head.
“Then sit down,
Mister
Jones, if you prefer.”

Jones sat, feeling a little overwhelmed. He suspected that she had that effect on a lot of people.
 

“I think I’d best make some tea,” she said.

He decided to try not to make sense of it all right now. Trying to come to terms with his demotion was bad enough; he’d need a lot more time and a good, stiff drink or three to accomplish that. And now the woman he thought was an enemy was just possibly an ally? A cuppa would do him good, but he was more grateful to have a few moments to himself while she prepared it.
 

He looked up when she set the tray on the desk, only realizing then that he had been staring at the constable’s uniform folded in his lap. The small, battered tray, which must have been quite elegant in days past, held a steaming pot, two mis-matched china cups and saucers, a small pitcher of cream, and a plate of biscuits.

He watched her pour the tea in silence, speaking only when she handed him his cup on a saucer.

“Why are you being nice to me?” His own voice sounded tired and incurious.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

He smiled a hard, bitter smile. “People like you aren’t nice to people like me.”

She sipped at her own tea, as if taking the time to temper her response. “Mr. Jones, do you think it fair that people judge you by the circumstances of your birth?”

His chin lifted. “No, I do not.”

She put her tea down and met his gaze with steely blue eyes. “Then do me the courtesy of not judging me by mine.”

He held her gaze and refused to flinch. “I have reason beyond the mere circumstances of your birth to judge you.”

She flushed, and opened her mouth—and then closed it, pressing her lips tight against an automatic retort. Clearly, she was trying.
 

“First of all, why on Earth do you think I would want to protect Downey?” she said after a moment. “The man is loathsome.”
 

“You were trying to warn me off of him.”

“What?” Her brows furrowed in confusion. “I never—oh, you mean at Beauchamp’s. I wasn’t warning you against investigating Downey. I was warning you to use care in how you approached the subject with Beauchamp.”

He shifted a little in his seat, remembering how that interview had gone.

 
“So, I only know what little was in the papers,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me everything from the beginning?”

Royston placed the folded uniform beside him. He gave her the story in a straightforward, emotionless monotone. He couldn’t let himself feel the full impact, not until he reached the sanctuary of his own rooms.
 

“So what are you going to do?” she asked when he was done.

“Do? What can I do?” He let some of the anger slip out—anger was better than the hopelessness beneath it. “I’m going to put on the damned uniform again, keep my head down, and be glad I still have a job at all.”

She gave him the frown of a schoolteacher whose brightest student had disappointed her with the wrong answer. “So that’s it,” she said. “You’re just going to give up? I’d thought more of you.”