candlelight bleeding into the gloom from the gaps in a boarded-up window.
A flash of red passed through the light.
Along one dark passageway after another they pursued the short, cowled figures, only ever catching fleeting glimpses, never seeming to close with their quarry.
'By heck!' panted Penniforth. 'They're fast! Who are they? Why are we chasin' them?'
'I don't know! There's just something odd about them! There!' Burton pointed ahead to where the four flowing shapes passed through an aura of light cast by a solitary gas lamp.
They pounded along until they reached the patch of brightness and there Burton skidded to a halt. He bent and quickly examined the mud. There were four sets of footprints in it.
'They're running barefoot on the balls of their feet and-look at this! triangular pads and four toes, and, if I'm not mistaken, these indentations indicate claws! They're the loups-garous, Monty!'
A terrified shout suddenly echoed from somewhere close.
Without another word, Burton plunged ahead. Monty followed, pulling the pistol from inside his greatcoat.
They emerged into a cobbled square with the vague mist-shrouded mouths of alleyways opening into each of its sides.
A man and a boy stood in its centre. The four robed figures were circling them with a predatory lope. Liquid snarling reached Burton's ears.
'For God's sake, 'elp us!' pleaded the man. 'They're going to-'
One of the things swooped forward and leaped onto his chest, momentarily obscuring him with its red robe. Then it dropped back and stalked away, leaving him standing there, his throat missing.
A fountain of blood arced out and splashed onto the cobbles.
The boy let loose a wailing cry.
The man dropped to his knees then keeled over onto his face, blood pooling around him.
Penniforth raised his pistol and fired.
The detonation sounded terrific as it echoed from the walls.
The shot missed its target-Burton clearly saw the edge of a red brick explode as the bullet hit it-but, unexpectedly, as if set off by the noise, one of the creatures suddenly burst into flames which raged with such intensity that, within seconds, the figure was reduced to ashes before their eyes.
The remaining three creatures, in unison, sprang upon the boy. He screeched and struggled.
Penniforth fired again, hitting one of the creatures in the arm.
It howled and released its grip on the youngster, whirled, and bounded toward the big cabbie. As it did so, its hood fell back.
Burton jumped forward to intercept it and saw a diabolical face with a furrowed brow, deeply set bloodshot eyes gleaming above a wrinkled snout, a huge drooling mouth filled with long sharp canines, and a shaggy head of tangled hair out of which pointed ears projected.
The pistol banged again, its flash reflected in the thing's eyes as it ducked down, jumped up, and swiped at Burton. He felt an impact on the side of his head. The square somersaulted. Bells rang in his ears. He thudded into the ground and, through a shrinking tunnel of darkness, saw the writhing, screaming boy carried out of sight; saw a pistol fall and clatter onto the cobbles; saw a shower of red; saw-nothing.
'Hold on to this,' whispered a heavily accented voice in his ear. A scrap of paper was pushed into his hand. His fingers closed around it automatically. For a moment he thought it had been handed to him by Arthur Findlay, and he knew the words written upon it.
John Speke had shot himself in the head.
Footsteps milling around.
Voices.
'Where you going, Gus?'
'Anywhere that I don't have to look at that mess!'
Hands lifting him, holding him upright; fingers wandering from pocket to pocket.
'Steady, old-timer,' said a hoarse voice.
Something moving in his belt.
'Bugger me, lookit this-anuvver pistol!' Deep voice.
'Let's see that!' Hoarse voice.
'Check if it's loaded.' Whiny voice.
The sound of running footsteps as someone departed in a hurry.
'Oy! Come back wiv that, you thievin' git!' Whiny voice.
'Ah, let the silly sod scarper; we'll catch up wiv 'im later.' Deep voice.
'Hey, Dad, you wiv us?' Whiny voice.
Burton opened his eyes.
A fat, greasy individual was supporting him by the left arm; a small pockmarked man, with legs distorted by rickets, held his right. People were standing around, holding candles or oil lamps, some looking at him, others staring at the mess on the cobbles where a butcher's cart had dropped its load of offal.
Except-
Burton doubled over and vomited for the fourth time that night.
The two men, Hoarse Voice and Whiny Voice, backed away, cursing.
The king's agent, remembering his disguise, straightened but kept his back hunched. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked again at the ripped and shredded intestines and organs that were spread messily across the cobbles. His eyes followed their long, bloody trail, past the outspread legs, across the torn thigh with its bone glinting wetly in the lamplight, and into the hollowed-out rib cage.
Above tattered scraps of coat and shirt and skin, the glazed eyes of Montague Penniforth stared up through the fog at whatever lay beyond.
'It were the dog things,' hissed Whiny Voice.
A gaunt, elderly man limped forward. He had a peg leg and three fingers missing from his right hand.
'Where are you from, Mister?' he said, in a surprisingly gentle voice.
'Mile End,' mumbled Burton.
'You've been lucky-the dogs didn't kill you.'
'They weren't dogs. And they took a little kid,' said the king's agent, noticing the corpse of the child's companion.
'They always do. Why don't you get off 'ome? We'll sort this lot out.'
'Sort it out? What do yer mean?'
'I mean we'll get rid o' the stiffs; beggin yer pardin if that fella was yer boy.'
'What'll yer do with them?'
'The usual.'
Burton knew what that meant: what was left of Monty would be thrown into the Thames.
He put a hand to his forehead. How many deaths must he have on his conscience? First Lieutenant Stroyan in Berbera; then Speke, who must surely have died by now; and, tonight, Montague Penniforth.
He felt sick; he hadn't bargained for this, but what could he do? He couldn't call the police-or even an undertaker to come and collect Monty's remains. No matter how much he wanted the big cabbie to receive a decent burial-and Lord knows he'd willingly pay for it himself-there was no way to get the cadaver out of the East End without arousing suspicion; and if his disguise failed him, he himself would probably end up in the river.
His head throbbed. He felt wet blood in his hair.
He dropped his hand and clenched it, fingernails digging into his palm. In the other hand, something got in their way. The note from Findlay!
No, wait, not from Findlay-so, from whom?
He waited until Throaty Voice, Whiny Voice, and Peg-Leg were distracted, then surreptitiously unscrewed the paper and glanced at the words on it: Mes yeux discernent mieux les choses que la puplart ici. Je vois a travers votre masque. Rencontrez moi vers la Thames, an bout de Mews Street dans moins dune heure.
My eyes are more discerning than most here, Burton translated rapidly. I see through your mask. Meet me at the Thames end of Mews Street within the hour.
