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.
"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