The home of Bert Long, the cab driver, turned out to be rented lodgings in a grubby part of town. Nestled within a ramshackle building, he owned few possessions to clutter the tight space. An unmarried working man needed little in life, and could afford even less. Mr Long crossed the bare boards, leaning on a crutch to support his bandaged limb.

"How's your leg?" asked Jim.

He tucked the crutch under his arm and sat in the only seat in the room. "Bloomin' painful. But at least I still 'ave a leg, eh?"

With nowhere to sit, Jim and Westman stood beside the dust-streaked window.

Long propped his foot on a sack of potatoes. "What's this magazine you write for, then?"

"Penderry's Bizarre Magazine," said Jim. "We explore myth, legend and the supernatural. Do you believe in any of that?"

He puffed his cheeks and expelled a long breath. "Well, I believe in what I saw last night. The police reckon it was a dog with rabies, but you were there, Mr Penderry. If that was a dog, I'm a monkey's uncle."

"You were fortunate. I mean, according to the park ranger's account, the creature had you at a disadvantage. It could've killed you, but it didn't. That's strange, isn't it?"

Long squinted in recollection and nodded. "I thought it strange m'self. But I'll tell you somethin'. That wolf was clever. I mean, it seemed like it wanted to stop the cab and scare me away, to get at the people inside. It hid in the trees until they got out."

"A calculated attack?" Westman's brow furrowed. "Did it go after anyone in particular?"

"It chased Mr Carte. He made away in my cab. Flamin' coward. Left the girls all alone and probably thought I was dead. But then it gave up the chase and came after Miss Spencer. That's when you showed up."

"I see." Jim wrote the details on his notepad.

Westman folded his arms and peered through the dirty windowpane. "We suspect it's still out there somewhere. I'd recommend you stay home for a while, especially after dark."

Long tapped his knee. "I'll be takin' it easy for a while until this leg's healed. But I can't hide away forever. I've got a livin' to earn or the landlady will kick me out. Not to mention I owe the cab company for the carriage."

"Ah, yes," said Jim. "Mr Carte claims he abandoned your vehicle soon after escaping the park."

"The spineless jellyfish. He's lucky the horses know these streets off by heart. And they know where to go when their stomachs start growlin'. They found their way back to the stables. At least it's only repairs I have to fork out for and not a whole cab. That creature tore the side to shreds."

Jim slipped the notepad into his pocket. "Might we take a look at the carriage?"

"Be my guest. It's down at Hart Road. They're a good bunch over there. Rare thing these days."

They thanked Long for his time and left for the carriage house. On arrival, a helpful stablehand took them inside a wide shed where muck and straw crunched underfoot. They passed through the pungent smell of horses before the hand left them in the carriage yard. The hackney cab was easy to identify by three ugly gashes across the door.

Westman's brow furrowed. "And to think that beast is still at large."

"Hm. Look at this." Jim unhooked a clump of stringy black hair from the twisted metal. "Fur. I dare say we're looking for a black-haired individual. Most likely over the age of thirty. Do you see the silvery grey hairs running through the black?"

Westman peered at the tuft between Jim's fingers. "Well, that's something to go on, I suppose. Here." He drew a small glass phial from his pocket and passed it to Jim.

"Good idea. We'll take this for evidence." Jim filled the bottle then looked through the carriage window. "The luggage is still here."

"Is it indeed?"

"We should take it to Miss Spencer."

Westman hummed in agreement, one eyebrow raised. "First an invitation to lunch and now you're her baggage boy?"

"What? I'm just extending a professional courtesy."

Westman turned away, amusement in his tone. "I see."

Clearly his friend imagined an ulterior motive. Couldn't a fellow help a pretty girl and take her to a restaurant without raising suspicions? Jim grinned to himself and continued inspecting the rest of the carriage. He checked for further clues, but found nothing of note.

Westman opened the door and dragged out the trunk. "So, are you going to tell me what happened on Mr Carte's doorstep?"

Jim helped him lower the luggage to the floor, sobering at the reminder. "We may have had a small altercation."

"What sort of altercation?"

"I called him a bully and a coward."

Westman straightened up, his eyes wide. "You did what?"

"He asked for it. You didn't hear the vile rubbish that came out of his mouth."

"Damnation, Jim. We're supposed to be professionals." He raked a hand through his thick hair. "You do realise that he's the son of a lord?"

"So?"

"You can't insult a man like Carte and not expect reprisals."

Jim shrugged, the corner of his mouth curling. "I dare say you'd have done the same. Come on, Freddie. Let's shift this luggage and go for lunch."

***

Plunkett's seemed a respectable establishment, even with faded decor and a mismatched assortment of old wooden chairs. Business appeared to be thriving. Customers occupied every linen-covered table, cutlery clinking against their plates. Bunny and Anju scanned the cosy dining-house and found Jim at the back, joined by the same gentleman from earlier. They stood when she arrived and pulled out a chair each.

"Hello again," Jim greeted them.

No doubt the questions would begin soon, but Bunny's mind was more pleasantly engaged with the cooking aromas. She picked up a dog-eared menu, but one glance at the list of dishes overwhelmed her.

"Rarebit, Toad in the Hole, Pease Pudding?" she said, glancing at Anju who raised her eyebrows and shrugged. "I'm not familiar with any of these."

"Not to worry. I'll choose for you both." Jim signalled to the serving staff.

"No meat, please," said Anju.

"Very well. And you, Miss Spencer?"

"Oh, I love meat." She gazed around the quaint restaurant, and when he'd finished placing their order, she said, "You wanted to ask us some questions?"

"Yes." He tugged off his knitted fingerless-gloves and stuffed them in his pockets. "That was quite a misadventure yesterday, was it not? Welcome to England, by the way."

He spread his arms open and offered a lopsided grin. Even when referring to yesterday's frightening event, there was an easy air about him. Perhaps this sort of thing happened to him all the time.

She smiled at his strangeness. "Are you really, what did you call it, a monster hunter?"

"In a manner of speaking. We're journalists, investigating the supernatural. My uncle runs the magazine."

"And that creature last night, it was supernatural?"

"That was what we call a werewolf. A man capable of transforming into a wolf-like beast."

"Alright. I believe you. Heaven knows, I have no other explanation for what I saw."

Jim flipped open his notepad. "Let's start from the beginning, shall we? Your version of events?"

She recounted the incident, telling him everything she'd told the police. Their arrival at port, how Carte insisted on sharing a carriage. When she described the wolf and its behaviour, Anju listened intently and swallowed. Then she described wasting her only bullet, and how Carte abandoned them to face their doom.

"Well, that matches everything the park ranger and Mr Long told us," said Westman.

"M-hm." Jim finished writing and tucked away his notebook. "We have everything we need for the story. I'm only sorry the creature got away."

"You shot it, Mr Penderry," Bunny reminded him. "Maybe it's dead."

"I hope you're right. But still, take care out there, Miss Spencer. Both of you."

Ice trickled down her spine and she nodded, noticing Anju's anxious expression. "We will. Don't worry, Mr Penderry. As soon as I can, I'll buy a new supply of bullets. If I ever meet that abomination again, I'll show it what a new fur wrap looks like. Papa's punkhah-wallah taught me how to shoot the flea off a tiger's back."

"Punkhah-wallah?"

"You know, the servant in charge of the palm-leaf fan." She demonstrated, holding an imaginary stick and beating the air in front of him.

His smile stretched. "Were you in India long?"

"I grew up there. Well, I lived in London for the first seven years of my life, but when my mother died Papa took me with him to India. He's a captain in the British army."

"Ah, now I understand."

"Understand what?"

"Your bricky attitude. I mean, the way you stood up to Mr Carte today was refreshing. Is this a fleeting visit to London, or a permanent arrangement?"

His flattery made her cheeks warm. "Oh, well, I'm not entirely sure how long we'll be here. Honestly, I was content to stay where I was, but Papa decided it was time for me to discover my heritage and homeland. He asked his brother to take me in. Uncle Appleby is supposed to arrange instruction for me. You know, etiquette lessons, to prepare me for British society, I suppose. I don't know why it's so important. I mean, there's nothing wrong with my manners."

She slouched in her seat, dangling one arm over the back.

Appleby, she thought. The man could do with a few lessons in social grace himself. Her spirits sank at the thought of returning to his house.

Lunch arrived. And when the food appeared in front of her, she decided that letting Jim order had been a dreadful mistake. A grey snake-like thing stared at her from a bed of mashed potatoes.

She tried not to sound put off. "What's this?"

"An eel, freshly harvested this morning from the bountiful Thames river traps," he said. "Try it. It's delicious."

With suspicion, Anju prodded the wrinkled eel on Bunny's plate with her spoon. "It has teeth."

Westman, who hadn't ordered eel for lunch, found Jim's remark debatable. "It's probably safe for human consumption. As far as I'm aware, they've only pulled one dead body from the river today."

Bunny gasped and recoiled from the dish.

"Don't listen to him," said Jim. "I thought you might like to sample the local gastronomic delights that London has to offer."

She leaned in and sniffed the ugly fare. "I can't say I came to this country to sample any manner of delights, gastronomic or otherwise."

"What a pity," he said, amused. "Here, Freddie, swap your pie for Miss Spencer's eel."

"You must be addled in the head," said Westman. "I wouldn't feed that thing to the dog."

A whine sounded from the floor and Bunny leaned over Anju. A black and white Collie sat beside Westman's chair.

"Where did he come from?"

"You see?" Westman said when the dog covered its face with a paw. "Even he has more sense than to eat something fished out of a cholera-infested river."

"Cholera?"

Lunch was sounding worse and worse.

Jim waved the remark away. "That was years ago. Why, we haven't had an outbreak in at least a decade. It's perfectly safe."

Anju gave her an encouraging nod. "It is rude to refuse," she whispered.

Stomach aching with hunger, Bunny drew a long breath and steeled herself. "Very well. I will try it."

But only because I'm starving.

While she decided where to begin, she sampled the mashed potato. Dry and bland. Where were the spices and butter? The aroma of Anju's vegetable broth tickled her nose, and she glanced at the bowl with longing. Reluctantly, she sawed off a stringy chunk of eel. But the moment the dark and oily meat squelched between her teeth, she froze. If an old stocking, soaked in mud and cooked over a bonfire at low tide had a flavour, this would be it.

Her cutlery clattered on the table and she clamped a hand over her mouth. Each chew made her stomach heave, and it took every ounce of willpower she possessed to swallow it. Her suffering didn't go unnoticed. Anju rubbed her back, Westman cut his pie and smirked, and Jim passed her a drink of warm punch. She poured the sweet liquid down her throat, washing away every trace of the malevolent River Thames.

"I can't." She panted and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "It's awful."

Anju stood and coaxed her to her feet. "Let's order something else."

They left the table and headed for the service counter.

Jim called after her. "Sorry. I had no idea it was an acquired taste."

***

When Miss Spencer was out of earshot, Jim shook his head. "You were doing that purpose."

Westman took a sip of his drink. "I don't know what you mean."

"All that talk of dead bodies and cholera. You weren't being very helpful."

"I do apologise. I didn't realise you required my help." He smiled over the rim of his mug.

Jim returned the smile, despite his friend's teasing. "I don't understand it. Eel usually goes down well. Nancy enjoyed it. And that client I interviewed about the goblin in her attic."

"If you hoped to impress her you should have ordered the lobster."

"Does that work?"

"I wouldn't know. But lobster has to be infinitely preferable to eel."

Jim gazed after her, smiling. "She is rather intriguing, isn't she?"

"Hm, yes. If by intriguing you mean she possesses a gun and a colourful way with words."

"Well, I think she's positively charming."

Westman's gaze wandered to the windows that overlooked the street and he frowned. "Oh, splendid."

"What is it?"

"Do you remember what we spoke about earlier?"

"Which part?"

"Reprisals."

Jim took a swig of punch and followed his friend's stare to the window. Sure enough, Mr Carte and three rough-looking fellows stood outside the restaurant. They peered through the glass, then Carte pointed in their direction.

Westman drained his mug. "Well. I hope you have a good apology ready."

Jack sat up and growled at the entrance.

Confound it.

Jim tipped his head back and expelled a sigh. It was no great secret that he lived next-door at fifty nine Jermyn Street. He'd given Carte his business card, after all. And his maid, Esme, had probably pointed him toward the supper-house.

"Apologise?" Jim looked at Westman.

"Yes, if you wish to leave with your bones intact. Somehow, I don't think Carte invited his friends along for the cucumber sandwiches."

Jim folded his arms. "I won't apologise."

He'd fought with some of the most disagreeable and dangerous monsters imaginable. The prospect of confronting one pompous son of the nobility and some hired muscle held little to fear.

"Blast. Well, I suppose that settles it, then." There was an air of finality in Westman's tone. "It looks like it's an old-fashioned brawl instead."

So much for professionalism.

Carte entered the restaurant and his voice tolled above the chatter, attracting several stares. "Mr Penderry."

Jim exchanged a knowing look with Westman before they rose from their chairs. They stepped away from the table to face Carte and the three big, strapping fellows at his side.

"Mr Carte," said Jim.

Orson Carte smiled back in a thin, humourless way. "Ah, the impertinent journalist of Penderry's Bizarre."

"You are too kind."

"Shall we forgo the pleasantries?"

"Please do."

"I assume you know why I'm here?"

"The cucumber sandwiches?"

Carte narrowed his eyes. "No. I seek to restore my honour, one way or another. I'm certain that even you can comprehend what that means."

Jim brushed open his coat and set his knuckles on his waist. "I do. And you'll get no apology from me. I stand by what I said earlier."

Chairs scraped over the flagstone floor as diners abandoned their tables.

"Very well," said Carte. "If you prefer to settle this the unpleasant way, so be it."

Carte stepped aside to make way for his brutish acquaintances. The first thug stepped forward – a good head taller than Jim – and cracked his knuckles.

Jim peered up at him.

Bloody hell. This is going to hurt.

Steeling himself, he ducked the incoming blow, and a whoosh of air skimmed the top of his head. Adrenalin flooded his veins, and he snatched the chance to drive his fist into the big oaf's stomach. With a grunt, the other man doubled over, making it easy for Westman to bring a chair down upon his back. The crest rail smashed on impact, sending him to the floor beneath a shower of broken spindles. Jim couldn't have planned it better. But before he could thank his friend, the other two assailants lunged at them.

A pair of meaty hands seized the lapels of Jim's coat, yanking him forward. Jack's angry barks cut the air and somewhere across the room, a female diner screamed. Panic gripped the restaurant. Shoes clattered over the floor, and the swish of skirts and frock coats rushed past them.

"Is it too late to discuss this over a cup of tea?" asked Jim.

The thug grinned and released one fistful of coat to draw back his hand like a spring-loaded pin.

"That ship has sailed, Mr Penderry," said Carte from behind his human shield. "Unless you're ready to apologise."

Jim grabbed the man's wrist and countered with a blow of his own, his fist smashing into a whiskery jaw. The man reeled, and a hard shove sent him stumbling into the stampeding customers. Jim straightened his wrinkled cravat, ignoring the pain swelling in his hand.

Two opponents down, and Westman had the last in a neck-lock.

"Who's next?" he asked, unable to suppress a wicked smile when Carte backed away.

Distracted, Jim didn't notice the thug pick himself up until it was too late. From out of nowhere, a fist knotted with muscle ploughed into his face and propelled him backward. Wood splintered and gave way beneath his weight, crockery shattered, and stars burst in front of his eyes. He lay amidst the broken table and food fodder, dazed.

Carte's hired thug descended on him, grabbing a handful of his collar. "Nighty night, sugarplum," he said with a gruff chuckle.

At that moment, a bottle crashed over the man's head, raining glass around his ears. The oaf wobbled, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then he crumpled to the floor like a sack of cabbages. Jim's gaze whipped up to find Miss Spencer holding the neck of a broken bottle in her hand.

"Is fist-fighting one of those London delights you spoke of?" She tossed away the remains of the vessel, and it landed on the stone floor with a smash.

Carte stared at her with wide-eyed disgust. "Miss Spencer. What are you doing here?"

She turned at the sound of his voice and tensed. "Trying to eat lunch. But oddly enough, I've just lost my appetite."

Before Carte could blink, she bent and snatched a greasy black appendage from the debris. Wielding the eel, she lashed his face with a slap, and he stumbled backward, tripping over a fallen chair.

Still flat on his back in the ruins of their lunch, Jim gazed at Miss Spencer's wild, magnificent form.

She puffed a wisp of hair off her eye. "Someone please fetch a horse and cart for Mr Orson Carte."

Westman appeared over him, eclipsing the view. His thick eyebrows rose in worry. "Well? I see you took a blow. Are you sensible?"

Jim smiled. "I'm in love."

Westman frowned deeply and shook his head, annoyed for wasting his concern on him. "Get up, Penderry. You're making the room look untidy."