It was a lovely autumn day in London, but Simon found it difficult to enjoy, still conflicted and sore from the fracas of the night before. A leisurely coffee at the Lich Gate, his favorite shop near Soho Square, was an attempt to create a sense of calm. He had first come here with Beatrice years ago, and the familiar sounds and smells gave him a discomforting sense of melancholy.
The gossip among the patrons enlightened him as to the versions of the horrific events at the home of Viscount Gillingham that circulated in the city this morning. The overwhelmingly accepted account of the story was the sudden and unfortunate onset of mental ague by an aristocrat who had a history of unusual behavior and oddly radical politics. There was a whisper of the word “monster,” but it was said either with a smirk or a serious tone, which would be discounted by any but the insane or the few truly informed. Simon would have to attend the various rumors that would certainly circulate later. But rumors were rumors; they meant little.
He mourned his failure to prevent further loss of life but took some comfort in the fact that it could have been so much worse. Had the werewolf found its way to the main floor of the party, the bloodshed would have been catastrophic. The nation might have been facing the death of the prime minister and his beloved wife, as well as many notable members of Parliament and the court.
Then an odd smile played over Simon’s lips as he thought of Kate Anstruther standing toe to toe with the hulking creature with nothing more than a bulb of noxious perfume to defend herself. How remarkable.
Simon watched leaves drift down the street and consulted his watch. He had received a message from Penny Carter to come to her shop in the early afternoon. Apparently the Scottish werewolf hunter was due to pick up his repaired weapon. With a smug smile, Simon could not help but admit he looked forward to relating the demise of the hunter’s kill. It was a matter of pride after all. Werewolves were rare beasts in Britain.
Carter’s Wonder Repository was busy at this time of the day though none of the browsers seemed the occult sort, just everyday customers attracted by the wonders on display in the window. One man was in need of a watch repair, while an elderly woman was looking for a gift for her niece and was fascinated by an intricate music box that had two articulated figures that danced and pirouetted to a lively tune. Penny worked behind the counter efficiently though clearly she was uncomfortable undertaking the public job her brother usually performed.
Simon lifted his hat. “Good afternoon, Penny. Where is Charles this fine day?”
“Hello, Mr. Archer,” the young woman greeted. The smile directed at him was genuine. “Visiting relatives in the east.”
“Am I in time?” he asked.
She nodded. “I expect him within the hour.”
“Excellent.” Simon smiled. “I’ll just have a seat.”
“He’s not punctual, but my textbooks might help pass the time. You’re a man who appreciates a wide range of learning.” Before Penny could say more, a customer distracted her.
The shop boasted a pleasant alcove by the front window filled with books, most of them on engineering and steam theory. Simon had a smoke, watching the crowd ebb until he was alone in the shop.
It was more than an hour later when the doorbell tinkled and in walked the dark Scotsman. The man was tall and rugged and draped in a black woolen, double-breasted greatcoat. His long hair was pulled back tight and tied up in twine. His face was harsh and lean in the stark light though he was probably no more than thirty years of age.
Simon raised an eyebrow as he set aside a mechanical sparrow. “We meet again.”
The Scotsman stared at Simon as if trying to place him. Then recognition seeped in. “Ach, it’s you.” He leaned against the counter, placing the thundering great pistol with four odd barrels onto it. There was a leather harness under the man’s greatcoat that held twin holsters and at least one dagger.
Penny’s head poked out from the back and she waved a hand. “Be right with you, Malcolm.”
First-name basis, Simon noted. The Scotsman came here a great deal then, and it wasn’t for the fanciful toys either.
“Glad to see you well,” Simon said. “I have news about our friend from the other night.”
“Have you?” came the clipped retort.
“Yes. If you’ve lost the trail, don’t dismay.”
The Scotsman practically growled. “What do you mean by that, sir?”
“He won’t trouble us again. As of last night, he is no more.”
The man’s eyes bored into Simon. “I doubt that. I had sign of it along the river all night.”
“Then I must question your tracking skills.” Simon’s lips held a light smile.
The Scotsman wasn’t amused. “Maybe you merely think you killed the beastie. And in fact merely dispatched a stray dog in the dark.”