London Shadows (#1 Penderry's Bizarre)

Chapter Two

"The what?"

"Never mind." He opened the bag beside him and handed her a magazine, hopeful it would answer all her questions. "Penderry's Bizarre. It's a monthly magazine commissioned by an acquaintance of mine, Professor Broom Penderry. It leans towards the supernatural. I often contribute."

"I only looks at the fashion magazines, for the latest styles. Very nice drawings. Mrs Toop recommends it."

"And Mrs Toop is?"

"My employer, sir, at Toop's Fashion Emporium in Cheapside. I'm a seamstress there. If you ever need a nice gift for a lady, come and see me. I'll sort you out with a good price, sir."

"I'll keep that in mind. Finished?" He indicated to her cup and held out his hand.

She drained the rest of the drink and he returned the battered tin cups to the vendor. When he came back, he found her with her nose buried in his magazine.

"Lawks! These sketches are horrifying," she exclaimed.

He leaned over to see that she was staring in fascination at an article about Werewolves. The grisly looking creature - skilfully drawn in ink - was tearing into the throat of some poor fellow. He plucked the magazine from her fingers and tucked it under his arm.

"Enough to give you nightmares, I should think," he said.

"After what happened tonight, I don't think I'll ever sleep soundly again."

"That's all over now. Tell Blinks your address and we'll see you home safely." He climbed into the carriage.

Tabitha curled up beside Jack, rubbing her cheek against his fur. Her lodgings weren't far - in a poor part of town - and when they arrived Westman got out. He cast a critical eye around the damp, stinking street with its dark and dubious looking back alleys.

"Thank you for the cocoa, Mr Westman. I'll buy your magazine next month." She gave him a wide smile.

He doubted she could afford a copy. "Sounds like a fair deal."

"Nobody ain't ever bought me cocoa before."

"I can tell. You're as skinny as a dockside cat."

Unfazed by his remark, she giggled and her scrawny shoulders bobbed beneath her shawl. "Thank you for saving my life."

Westman wasn't sure how to respond to a statement like that, especially when it was she who had saved his neck. "I helped you, you helped me. That makes us even. Just keep out of the alleys when you're walking home."

"Will I be in your magazine?"

"Possibly. Do you wish to comment on this evening's events?" He reached into his coat for his notebook and pencil.

Tabitha looked thoughtful. "All I have t'say is this; it was the most terrifying thing I ever saw, but at least I got a hot cocoa at the end."

Westman paused mid-scribble and gave her a cynical look. As witness statements went, it was hardly sensational.  "Cocoa," he finished writing. "Noted."

"And my name's Tabitha Nethercott, sir."

"In cases such as this, it's better for the witness to stay incognito."

"You mean a fake name? Can I pick it, then, sir? I always liked Marie."

"Hm. I think Gertrude suits you far better." An awful sounding name in his opinion and to his satisfaction, a sentiment apparently shared by his young acquaintance.

Tabitha's expression contorted in displeasure. "Oh no, that's an ugly name. You wouldn't be that cruel, sir?"

Westman smirked to himself and got back into the carriage. There was no need to tell her that she would be known by her initial, Miss T; this being the usual practice within the world of the press.

"Go home now, Gertrude," he teased. "Blinks, let's go."

She looked reluctant, but managed a glum smile. "Goodbye, Mr Westman."

When the cab finally rolled away, Westman turned his thoughts to the glass phial of green dust in his pocket. Tonight he had almost met his Maker hunting down that vile monster. There was no room for blunders in this business - focus was imperative - and after this evening's slip up, he'd be more careful in the future. He lifted the magazine off the seat and read the familiar heading.

PENDERRY'S BIZARRE

An informative journal sponsored by a leading oxford professor. Research of a scientific nature, exploring myth, legend and the supernatural.

The magazine contained all manner of articles; some genuine fact; others speculative. The professor's nephew, Jim, usually produced impressive evidence about the paranormal and his latest piece on the Werewolf was rather compelling. Westman and Jim had worked together on many occasions - one might have described them as best friends - but a quarrel had led to a breakdown in their friendship. Indeed, those glory days were now in the past. They hadn't spoken in two years.

He took the glass phial from his coat pocket and held it up to the dim carriage lamp. Professor Penderry would be delighted with this new addition to his collection. The scientist paid Westman well for his reports on popular myth, especially well if he offered up a strange specimen to back his findings.

The roof hatch slid open and Westman heard Blinks' distinctive voice, softened by a hint of the North, calling to him. "What happened out there tonight, sir?"

"Never fight a demon with dessert. It's most ineffective."

"A demon?"

"Two words, Blinks. Creeping blasted Clem."

The servant cleared his throat. "That's three words, sir."

Westman gave the phial a little shake, examining the ashes closely.

"Another story for the professor's magazine?" Blinks asked.

"Indeed. But I will likely leave out the part about the plum pudding." Westman slipped his watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted the face. It was nearly eleven o'clock. "The hour grows late."

"Home is it, then?"

"Yes, home. I have an article to write."

The hatch was letting in a draught, prompting Westman to pull his coat tightly around himself. His muscles ached in protest. No doubt he would find numerous bruises on his body from the fight with Creeping Clem.

"Close the hatch, would you, Blinks? It's freezing."

The servant complied and a short while later they entered Hanover Square, drawing to a halt outside a handsome town house. Westman bid Blinks good night before the servant drove off toward the fog-shrouded carriage house on the North side of the square.

"Come, Jack," Westman said, making his way up the front steps.

The housekeeper anticipated their arrival and opened the door. "Good evening, Mr Westman." She assisted him out of his coat.

"Good evening, Mrs Wickspittles."

She quirked an eyebrow at the bloodied rag around his head, but made no comment. After six months in his employ, she had come to realise that he was not a conventional person. She withdrew a folded sheet of paper from her apron pocket.

"A letter came for you while you were out, about a half hour ago."

He frowned. "At this hour?"

"An errand boy delivered it."

Red wax, stamped with the Penderry family's distinctive 'P' insignia, sealed the envelope.

"Thank you. Good night, Mrs Wickspittles."

He dismissed the housekeeper for the evening and went into his office. When he broke the seal and removed the letter, a blood-red feather fell out. It spun to the floor and he picked it up, regarding it for a moment, then read the letter. His eyes narrowed at the words inscribed in bold.

"Damnation," he murmured.

Westman,

Jim is missing. Your help is urgently required.

Sincerely,

Professor Penderry