A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) (22 page)

Not to mention that they could hang him for this.

He made himself concentrate on trying to talk some sense into Browne. “This is ridiculous. You’ve seen my record. I’ve worked with the Yard for years. Do you really think I’ve suddenly turned into some crazed killer?”

“I think you got the taste for fame and big cases after working on the Ladykiller case last December. You’ve always been ambitious.”

No, that would be you. I only ever wanted to be a good detective.
But just as the liar sees dishonesty in every man, so Browne would never understand someone who only wanted to catch criminals and keep London safe.
 

“I think you engineered the Dr. Death cases to mimic the Ladykiller.”

If anyone in this room were capable of such ruthless ambition, it would be Browne, but even he could not be capable of such calculated obscenity.
 

“Enamored of the upper class, to which you claim unwarranted association by your given name and the outrageous lies your mother told to explain her own weakness, you targeted Winchell and Downey as an excuse to rub elbows with the gentry during your investigation.”

Were he not manacled, Royston would hide his head in his hands for shame at such idiocy coming from a colleague, shame and despair. “Have you even bothered to look at the evidence against either of them?”

“I didn’t need to. Such savagery as the Doctor Death killings could clearly only come from the criminal classes.”

“Listen to me, Browne. You can hang me, and it might make you feel better, but it’s not going to help Miss Chatham, and it’s not going to help the next victim. At least take a look at the bloody files. I compiled them for a reason!”

 
“I don’t need to look at the files to know that you targeted Winchell and Downey out of the hatred you bear your betters.”

“Wait, am I meant to be hating the upper class, or thinking myself one of them? I’m not following you
, Inspector
Browne.” Royston was already damned, no point in holding his tongue.

Two constables stood by the door, men Jones hadn’t worked with before. They stared straight ahead, professional, with no expression to betray what they thought of Browne’s lunacy.

Browne continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “I know you walked out with Adela, with Miss Chatham. I know it was she who broke it off. You were angry, jealous.”

“Then what about the others? Patterns, man. Think it through.” Even under the circumstances, he couldn’t resist trying to teach Browne his job.

Somebody had to.

Browne paused, eyebrows furrowing in a look of concentration. Ah, so Royston was getting through to him. There was hope after all.

Then Browne’s face cleared, and he launched into his counterargument. “At least one of the other girls was known to you. I saw you flirt with the fish-and-chips girl often enough. Did she scorn you as well? Did you know the others as well; did they reject your advances?” Browne leaned in closer, towering over him. “Or do you simply hate all womankind? Perhaps you blame them all for your notorious lack of success with the fairer sex.”

That stung. “My poor luck is hardly notorious. I wouldn’t even call it remarkable. I just haven’t met the right girl.”

Browne sniffed as though the right girl for a rather short, plain man of no prospects would be a long time coming. “And so, angry at Miss Chatham for having spurned you in favor of one more suitable, and angry at her father for your well-deserved demotion, you kidnapped Miss Chatham and wrote the notes yourself in an attempt to force the Commissioner to bring you back on the case.”

Jones laughed. Inappropriate, but he couldn’t help it. “Browne, you’re wasted on the force. You should be writing detective serials.”

Browne caught him by the collar and shook him. “How dare you! How dare you, while Adela is locked up somewhere and scared witless or maybe lying dead. Where is she? What have you done to her?”

Oh dear God, the idiot actually believes I’m Doctor Death!
Jones struggled to breathe. If he struck out against Browne’s strangling hands he’d make his position that much worse, but if Browne didn’t contain himself. . .

“Sir, sir, stop! You have to stop!” It took both constables to pull Browne off him.

“The law,” one of them said. “We must follow the law, or where will we be?”

“If you kill him, he can’t tell us where Miss Chatham is,” said the other.

Browne was panting, eyes red and murderous. Jones had seen such a look only once before, just before a drunk down on the wharf mistook him for the Devil and tried to open him with a knife designed for gutting fish.

“Get him out of here,” Browne said. “Take him to a holding cell. Clearly he’s not man enough to admit to his crimes.”

The taller of the two constables took Royston by the arm, pulling him roughly even though he hadn’t tried to resist.
 

“One last thing, Jones,” Browne said just as he reached the door. “You accuse me of not having reasoned this out. Tell me then, why won’t you reveal the name of the source that led you to the warehouse and to the artist’s studio? Tell me that, and maybe I’ll be willing to listen to the rest of your story.”

They locked him in a small cell away from the general population. For his own protection or to protect the other inmates from a crazed killer? At least he was alone in his misery. A servant of justice, he still didn’t have much faith in the courts. He had sat through too many trials for that. A good solicitor could make mincemeat of Browne’s case, but Royston had no money for a solicitor. Browne was too crazed with worry to think straight, his thoughts likely further clouded by the guilt and humiliation of having his love literally stolen from his arms. The Commissioner was under a lot of pressure to produce a killer and had always been more than ready to believe the worst of Royston. Perhaps if the crimes continued after his execution, he would be declared innocent post mortem. Perhaps not.

And meanwhile, poor Miss Chatham was. . .wherever she was. Dead maybe. If she were found, and the coroner placed the time of death at a time when he was already in custody—dear God, no. Miss Chatham may have chosen another, but she had always been kind and sweet-spoken. He could not think of her death as anything other than the tragedy it would be.

Tell me then, why won’t you reveal the name of the source that led you to the warehouse and to the artist’s studio? Tell me that, and maybe I’ll be willing to listen to the rest of your story.
If he revealed Bandon for what he was, the man would be forced to testify under oath. There would be enough evidence to clear him of Molly’s murder, at least.

Would the courts accept the testimony of a werewolf, even one of Bandon’s stature? Or would they try to name him Royston’s accomplice? They both might end up hanged. Either way, Bandon’s life would be ruined, and likely Miss Fairchild’s as well.

No. Bandon might be a toff, but he had risked himself trying to hunt down the killer. If Royston was to die, he would die innocent of betrayal as well as innocent of the crimes of which he was accused. Godwin would know the truth—please, God, the man had to have enough sense to know Royston was innocent. His poor mother was not alive to see the disgrace. If the rest of the world wanted to believe that the bastard had shown his true nature, let them.
 

Time passed slowly. How slowly he couldn’t know—they’d taken his watch and chain ‘for safety’. He only hoped his mother’s French coin that he wore as a watch token didn’t get ‘lost’. But then, if things went the way he suspected they would, it wouldn’t much matter.

There would be a trial, but the accused was not allowed to speak and he had no one else to speak for him.

He’d heard that in America, a man was allowed to take the stand in his own defense, if he chose. A novel concept. Royston wondered if it would ever be implemented in British courts.

Boredom and despair were powerful sedatives, and it had been weeks since Royston had gotten adequate sleep. He dozed fitfully, leaning against the wall, his rest disturbed by dreams of accusing stares, pointing fingers, and dead girls.

He startled awake when the door clanged open at the end of the hall. Browne come back for another round of interrogation? Not Browne. Royston could scarcely believe whom he saw strolling down the hallway, unaccompanied by a constable, grinning his insouciant grin. “Willie, what are you doing here?” Royston hissed when Willie got close enough.

Willie grinned wider. “Bribed the constable, didn’t I? Sad how little an honest fellow gets paid. This is quite the turnaround, isn’t it? You in the cell, me out here.”

“Damn it, Willie, this isn’t funny.”

“No, I suppose it isn’t. Browne always was an idiot. He’s the one who got me busted for drinking on duty.”

“That was different,” Royston said. “You
were
drinking on duty.”

Willie chuckled. “Ah, let’s not argue.” He reached though the bars to pull Royston closer. Royston leaned into the rough embrace. Willie stepped back after a moment. “Here, I’ve brought you something to cheer you up.” He reached into his jacket and brought out a flask. “Irish whisky.”

Reaching through the bars, Willie made to hand him the flask. Royston stepped back and crossed his arms against the temptation. “Willie, you’re crazy. You know I’m not allowed that in here!”

Willie laughed. “Poor Royston, still the good boy. Tell me, Roy-boy, how much worse trouble can you get into than what you’re in now?” He shook the flask, tempting.

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Save it to toast my memory.
Too morbid to say aloud, though, and besides he hadn’t quite given up to that degree. “Looks like I might miss your next performance,” he said instead.

“What? Oh, that. I quit.”

“Oh, Willie. Why?”

“They wouldn’t give me the part I wanted. Tried to give me Mercutio instead, can you imagine? Cast some skinny little pretty-boy as Romeo.”

Willie was, in fact, a bit old to be playing the young lover, and would have been perfect as the hot-headed Mercutio. Royston held his tongue. There was never any point to disagreeing with Willie.

“I’ve got to go,” Willie said. “I was only able to buy a few minutes. I’m really not supposed to be here.”

“I know,” Royston said.

Only Willie would be crazy enough to bribe a constable in order to see a man accused of being Doctor Death. Only Willie would get away with it. Rapscallion. Who would look after him if Royston didn’t get himself out of this mess? After Willie left, Royston had nothing to do but sit in a corner and watch the shadows deepen. A constable brought him dinner—rough bread and a small bowl of some kind of stew—without quite meeting Royston’s eyes.

With nothing else to do, Royston slept again, fitfully and restlessly, waking fully when the door clanged open once more. Breakfast was a thin porridge, and with it came the news that he would go before the magistrate to be arraigned that noon.

Two constables he didn’t know came as Big Ben struck half eleven to bring him before the magistrate. It would have been nice to see a friendly face, but at least he didn’t face the humiliation of being manacled and escorted by men he used to work with.

The galleys were packed as though for a cheap variety show on Haymarket. An angry murmur rippled through the crowd, rising in volume until the magistrate pounded his gavel for order. In the reluctant silence, hate radiated from the throng, a palpable force. Royston had been in this courtroom many times as an observer and in a professional capacity as a witness for the prosecution. He had never before realized how much the room with the magistrate on a dais in front and the audience looking down from the raised seating area resembled a Roman coliseum.

We who are about to die. . .

He broke out in a cold sweat. It all seemed so unreal, as though this were a dream and at any moment the public in the galley would transform into his childhood tormenters, and Willie would step in to save him.
 

Only this was all too real, and neither Willie nor Jacob Godwin could help him now.

He was innocent, and the case against him flimsy enough to be laughable. Too much to hope that the magistrate would go against both the Yard and the demands of the public, the crowd who had never met him but who wanted him to be guilty so that they could sleep more soundly believing that Doctor Death was in custody and awaiting execution.

Before the hearing could start, a tall, thin man dashed into the court, solicitor’s robes flapping like the wings of some great bat. He stopped just as the bailiff was stirring out of his shock and with the great dignity of his profession asked to approach the bench. Royston could not hear what was said, but the muted conversation raised both curiosity and trepidation. The whole thing was highly irregular, and he couldn’t imagine how it boded any good for him.

The judge scowled and waived a dismissive hand toward the dock where Royston sat. As the solicitor approached, Royston stiffened and drew his shoulders back, schooling his face to the expressionless stoicism of a constable-in-training about to be dressed down by a superior. He didn’t recognize the tall, gray-haired man that stood before him. He had to be a top man in his profession, or at least among the best-paid of his profession, judging by the quality of his dress.