London Shadows (#1 Penderry's Bizarre)

Chapter Two

Westman found the carriage where he'd left it and banged on the side of the vehicle.

"Wake up, Blinks," he called.

His gangly driver awoke with a start, almost falling from the box. He made an admirable recovery, though, and sat up straight, wedging his old tri-corn hat back on his head.

"Mr Westman, sir, you didn't half make me jump." With a squint of his good eye - the other covered by a black patch - Blinks stared at his master's grass-stained suit and the flowery bandage around his head. "Blimey, what happened to you? I thought you were buying a plum duff."

"That particular quest took an unexpected turn. In fact, I regret to tell you that the plum pudding was forced to make an honourable sacrifice for a greater cause."

Blinks was partial to a slice of plum pudding. The news crushed him - at least it seemed that way by the sagging of his shoulders and the look of sheer disappointment on his face. Then he noticed the girl.

"What's this, sir? She looks white as a sheet. She's not going to faint, is she?"

"I should hope not."

Westman opened the door and ushered the girl inside, shaking her off his arm since she was reluctant to let go. Jack preceded her into the carriage, still licking his muzzle clean.

"We'll be making a detour through Commercial Street. And try to avoid the pot-holes this time."

He always made the pot-hole request, but Blinks never seemed to listen. After a bumpy, but short, drive they found a street vendor and bought cocoa which they drank in the shelter of the carriage.

"Are you really a journalist?" Tabitha asked, scratching behind Jack's ear.

"Yes."

"Well, you don't act like one."

Westman wondered how she thought reporters should act, but she started talking again before he could enquire.

"Have you killed many monsters?"

"No." He answered this carefully - it was only a white lie - and regarded her over the rim of his cup. "Now, drink up, then you'd best be off home." As far as he was concerned, she was quite recovered from her ordeal.

"What sort of journalist hunts monsters?"

"What sort of little girl wanders the streets at night?"

"I ain't little. I'm twelve years old, I is."

Vaguely amused by the girl's obstinate tone, he decided to humour her. "Twelve, hm? Well, I had no idea you were so ancient. My apologies."

Tabitha continued to press the subject of the monster. "What was those words you was saying? They wasn't English. And what happened to that monster? He turned to smoke and dust! Do they always do that when you kills them? How exactly do you kill a monster? Can you teach me?"

Westman's head ached; partly because of his injury, but mostly because of Tabitha's interrogation. Good lord, she didn't even pause for breath.

"Slow down, will you? You talk uncommonly much."

"You frown uncommonly much," she retorted. "Are you always so grumpy-looking?"

He knitted his brows again for good measure. "Yes, especially when I've just been walloped, half strangled and almost roasted by a beast from the underworld. This isn't the best time for so many questions."

"Which newspaper do you write for?"

"Have you considered joining the Spanish Inquisition?" he suggested, holding his poor head.