It was a diary piece, written to amuse, and it went:

If you lack for entertainment, go out to Arnmouth and spend a few pennies in the bar of the Harbor Inn. For the price of a pint of the local ale, horse breeder Edward Eccles will tell you his tale of a beastly encounter on the moors; and a fine tale it is, that grows in embellishment with every retelling. In fact, we are confident that by the summer’s end, the Beast of Arnmouth will have sprouted a brood of fine children and be Mayor of the Borough. Tootle pip!

Edward Eccles, breeder of horses; almost certainly the father of the foul-mouthed Grace. At the foot of the column was a humorous note from the editor, offering a cash prize to any visitor or local able to provide a picture or other conclusive proof of the Arnmouth Beast’s existence.

Four young girls, separated by time. Two survived, two now gone.

All torn by some beast.

The police were leaving, the bodies were gone … the grieving relatives had ended their summer early and returned to the capital. Stephen Reed nursed his doubts, and a tinker sat in a police cell. The law was satisfied, even if others were not.

On the pavement outside the post office, Sebastian said, “Don’t give up. I’ll find Evangeline in London, and I’ll press her for whatever was said. And I’ll take the printed copy of the moving-picture film and see what it can yield.”

Stephen Reed said, “Good luck with that. I have duties now. I’ll be lucky if I even get to say good-bye to my dad.”

SEBASTIAN COLLECTED his bag from the inn and made his way to the pickup point for the railway’s station wagon, marked by a folding board on the pavement outside the apothecary’s store. The wagon arrived a few minutes later. Its driver was not the sullen ostler who’d brought him here, but the blue-eyed young railwayman. He was in a clean collar and scrubbed of his layer of soot.

Sebastian shared the ride out with three newspapermen returning to London, and on the ten-minute journey he almost dozed. At the end of the ride, the newspapermen went into the waiting room and raised a fog of tobacco smoke while Sebastian stayed out in the fresh air.

He walked to the end of the platform and stood looking at the coal yard beyond it. There was a coalman’s shed, with an iron roof and a stone chimney. It was a building that might easily have been a poacher’s cottage in the country were it not for the fact that its kitchen garden was in walled sections, each section containing a heaped-up mountain of glittering black spoil.

When Sebastian came back down the platform, the young railwayman was lining up dry goods and mailbags for loading onto the branch line service.

He was a hard worker. Sebastian found himself thinking back to the half hour when the fairgrounds began to empty and the stalls to shut down, when he’d made his way to the Electric Coliseum and waited out the final show. Once again, the plumber ran from the lunatics. His antics never changed. But nor did he age, or get drunk on the job. And, Sebastian supposed, he performed nightly and forever for his single day’s wage.

Sebastian said, “Do you know much about Sir Owain Lancaster?”

The young man didn’t pause in his work. He said, “Anyone who grew up around here knows Sir Owain.”

“And what do they think of him?”

“A kind man, and a generous one,” the railwayman said. “We don’t care what they say in London. There are things in this world that no one can dispute with any certainty. If he says he saw monsters in the jungle, then I for one am happy to believe him.”

Attn: S Greenhough Smith Esq

George Newnes

,

Ltd 3–13 Southampton Street

London WC2

Dear sir

,

I write to you at the suggestion of my employer, Sir James Crichton-Browne, whom I serve in the capacity of Special Investigator. This concerns my son, Robert, who is eighteen years old. I will be grateful if you will consider him for a position in your archive or editorial departments, should one become available. Although his temperament is not well suited to responsibility, his grasp and retention of detail will, I believe, make him an asset to your editorial staff in matters of proofreading or record keeping

.

I will welcome any opportunity to discuss the matter with you

.

Sincerely

Sebastian Becker

SOUTHWARK, THAT “VAST AND MELANCHOLY PROPERTY” SOUTH of the Thames, would never have been Sebastian’s first choice for an area in which to lodge his family. In any ranking of desirable London boroughs, it could not be placed much above the lowest. But at least it wasn’t the East End. And for a weekly rent that might just have covered the meanest garret in Bloomsbury, they had a suite of rooms with clean water and relatively honest neighbors. Compared to the squalid courts and alleys and the tenement blocks that surrounded them, they had hygiene and comfort. But that was only in comparison. One day he hoped to move the household to some better address across the river.

One day.

Sebastian tried not to look too far ahead. Ambition was a young man’s game. These days he was more concerned with the continuing survival and security of those he loved. It was no longer so much a matter of dreaming of how high he might climb, as of always keeping in mind how far they might fall.

Every morning, beginning at around five A.M., the population of Southwark began to move. To the breweries and the printing shops, to the wharves and the warehouses. To the vinegar works, to the iron manufacturers in Union Street, to the leather factories in neighboring Bermondsey, and across the bridges into central London and the City.

They were all kinds of people. Butchers, laborers, compositors, office cleaners, and artisans. Their hours were long and their pay was small. At the end of the day, when all were coming home, the Thames bridges grew so dense with bodies that it was hard for one person to cross against the flow.

Most were honest. Many were not. Almost all shared the same thought: to better themselves, and to leave.

On his way home that evening, Sebastian stopped by the pie stand under the railway bridge on Southwark Bridge Road. Though he had an office of sorts in the nearby Bethlem asylum, the accommodation was in a basement room that he shared with the unclaimed belongings of deceased inmates. He visited it as infrequently as possible. The pie stand opened all hours to cater to the cab trade, and he had an arrangement to pick up his messages there. He was given three, including a note from Sir James Crichton-Browne.

Crichton-Browne was one of three Lord Chancellor’s Visitors—two eminent doctors, and one lawyer—who carried out a yearly examination of every detained psychiatric patient of significant means. Their remit covered those in institutions as well as those, like Owain Lancaster, in private care. Any deemed incompetent to manage their own affairs were placed under the control of a Master of Lunacy appointed by the Lord Chancellor. Sir James was the busiest of the Visitors; even at the age of seventy-two, he kept a punishing schedule.

Sebastian was the first of the family to arrive home that evening. Their rooms over the shop were empty. The fire was laid, so he lit it.

Frances and Robert arrived shortly after. Frances acknowledged his greeting and then busied herself preparing the evening meal, leaving Sebastian alone with his son.