Read Online A Hunt By Moonlight (Werewolves and Gaslight Book 1) by Shawna Reppert - Free Book Online
Authors: Shawna Reppert
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the angry proprietor.
That Willie had once been one of their own had carried weight for a while in his encounters with the law. That he was Jacob Godwin’s son won him a little more grace. Not that Godwin would have wanted anyone to show favoritism to his estranged son. But no constable and no inspector wanted to be the one to break the old man’s heart just a little more.
If the bar in question had a name, it was not painted on the door or hung on a sign. No matter, Royston knew exactly where it was. He’d been called there enough times as a constable to break up fights, and more recently, to take Willie home. It stood half-way down an alley that stank of urine. The darkness and narrowness made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Locals did not particularly care for law enforcement, and occasionally constables ended up beaten to death or had their throats slit. Nobody ever saw anything. His Webley British Bulldog, loaded and ready, made a comfortable weight beneath his jacket. Parker, he noted, kept one hand on the billy club at his belt. Good man.
He pushed the rough-hewn door to the bar open and strode with deliberate confidence across a floor sticky with layers of spilled beer. The loud, raucous laughter and conversation stopped as soon as the patrons saw Parker’s uniform. The day laborers and layabouts that clustered around the bar and the two small tables glared. One of them spat on the floor.
The proprietor came out drying his hands on his filthy bar towel. “Ah, there you are, lads. I was just about to send for constables by more official channels. Next time I will, see if I won’t.”
“I’m grateful for your discretion,” Royston said. “I’ll make sure that the tab gets paid as well as any damages.” Even if it had to come out of his own pocket, which doubtless at least some of it would.
He found Willie slumped at a table in the corner, a bruise already starting on his cheek. His bloodied knuckles had doubtless been cut on some brawler’s teeth. “Come on, Willie, home you go,” Royston said with false cheer. “Still living in the same place?”
His childhood friend reeked of alcohol and poor hygiene.
“Yer a good friend, Royston-lad,” Willie slurred. “And a good man. ‘S why m’Da always liked you better.”
Royston stayed in Willie’s flat long enough to ensure that his friend wasn’t going to choke on his own vomit and die. By the time he got home, he had less than six hours before he had to be back at the Yard, and he really, really needed a bath.
Before he could finish stripping, a constable was pounding on his door, telling him that another dead girl had been found.
Five
Catherine sat at her easel, oils drying on her palette. The scent of turpentine mingling with the scent of roses usually put her into a pleasant painter’s trance. Today all she could think of was the headlines of the day’s paper and the grainy photograph of the coroner’s wagon.
Once it might have been her in that wagon.
A hand fell on her shoulder. She shrieked.
“Catherine, love…” Her dear Richard’s voice.
She turned to him, and the love and concern in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. She felt uncharacteristic tears burning in her eyes. Richard knelt to be on her level, careless of what the damp soil would do to his trousers. George, his manservant, would be most put out.
He put a hand on her knee. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, unable to speak for a moment then took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Damn Blackpoole,” she said at last. “Ever since Pemberton’s ball, I can’t be in a garden alone at night. I can’t even be in my own garden alone unless I am within sight from the house. Damn it, my own beloved touches me unexpectedly, and I scream. Why am I so weak? Nothing happened, you got there in time. Nothing happened.”
He took her hand. “He grabbed you. He would have killed you. You went through a terrible fright. It’s understandable that
That Willie had once been one of their own had carried weight for a while in his encounters with the law. That he was Jacob Godwin’s son won him a little more grace. Not that Godwin would have wanted anyone to show favoritism to his estranged son. But no constable and no inspector wanted to be the one to break the old man’s heart just a little more.
If the bar in question had a name, it was not painted on the door or hung on a sign. No matter, Royston knew exactly where it was. He’d been called there enough times as a constable to break up fights, and more recently, to take Willie home. It stood half-way down an alley that stank of urine. The darkness and narrowness made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Locals did not particularly care for law enforcement, and occasionally constables ended up beaten to death or had their throats slit. Nobody ever saw anything. His Webley British Bulldog, loaded and ready, made a comfortable weight beneath his jacket. Parker, he noted, kept one hand on the billy club at his belt. Good man.
He pushed the rough-hewn door to the bar open and strode with deliberate confidence across a floor sticky with layers of spilled beer. The loud, raucous laughter and conversation stopped as soon as the patrons saw Parker’s uniform. The day laborers and layabouts that clustered around the bar and the two small tables glared. One of them spat on the floor.
The proprietor came out drying his hands on his filthy bar towel. “Ah, there you are, lads. I was just about to send for constables by more official channels. Next time I will, see if I won’t.”
“I’m grateful for your discretion,” Royston said. “I’ll make sure that the tab gets paid as well as any damages.” Even if it had to come out of his own pocket, which doubtless at least some of it would.
He found Willie slumped at a table in the corner, a bruise already starting on his cheek. His bloodied knuckles had doubtless been cut on some brawler’s teeth. “Come on, Willie, home you go,” Royston said with false cheer. “Still living in the same place?”
His childhood friend reeked of alcohol and poor hygiene.
“Yer a good friend, Royston-lad,” Willie slurred. “And a good man. ‘S why m’Da always liked you better.”
Royston stayed in Willie’s flat long enough to ensure that his friend wasn’t going to choke on his own vomit and die. By the time he got home, he had less than six hours before he had to be back at the Yard, and he really, really needed a bath.
Before he could finish stripping, a constable was pounding on his door, telling him that another dead girl had been found.
Five
Catherine sat at her easel, oils drying on her palette. The scent of turpentine mingling with the scent of roses usually put her into a pleasant painter’s trance. Today all she could think of was the headlines of the day’s paper and the grainy photograph of the coroner’s wagon.
Once it might have been her in that wagon.
A hand fell on her shoulder. She shrieked.
“Catherine, love…” Her dear Richard’s voice.
She turned to him, and the love and concern in his eyes was almost more than she could bear. She felt uncharacteristic tears burning in her eyes. Richard knelt to be on her level, careless of what the damp soil would do to his trousers. George, his manservant, would be most put out.
He put a hand on her knee. “What’s wrong?”
She shook her head, unable to speak for a moment then took a deep, shuddering breath.
“Damn Blackpoole,” she said at last. “Ever since Pemberton’s ball, I can’t be in a garden alone at night. I can’t even be in my own garden alone unless I am within sight from the house. Damn it, my own beloved touches me unexpectedly, and I scream. Why am I so weak? Nothing happened, you got there in time. Nothing happened.”
He took her hand. “He grabbed you. He would have killed you. You went through a terrible fright. It’s understandable that
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