Midnight was approaching and Kingsley was yawning when the train rolled into Waterloo Station. With some difficulty because of the crowds of international visitors milling about the station looking for their Olympic billets, they caught a cab. The traffic was light as they crossed Westminster Bridge and rounded the Palace, where a few lonely windows were lit. Hyde Park, past Marble Arch and then into Bayswater Road.

Kingsley was trapped in his thoughts and started when Evadne touched his hand. ‘I think someone’s following us.’ She tapped her spectacles. In the light of a streetlamp Kingsley saw that they were tinted yellow. ‘That hansom back there has had the same passenger since the station.’

‘Are you normally this suspicious?’

‘I’d call it alert rather than suspicious.’

Kingsley directed the cab into Porchester Terrace. The houses on either side – three- and four-storey stuccoed villas, for the most part – made the street darker than the relative openness of Bayswater Road. The streetlamps were lonely splashes of light stretching away from them, illuminated stepping stones in a river of blackness.

Kingsley flung some money at the driver and bounded from the cab. As soon as Evadne alighted, the cab hurried off.

A light shone through the fan window over the front door. ‘Brown said he’d wait up for me, with Mrs Walters,’ Kingsley said. ‘The housekeeper,’ he explained.

‘There should be more lights on, then,’ Evadne said.

‘That’s what I thought.’ Kingsley glanced up and down the street. ‘Wait here.’

‘I think not.’ Evadne reached into the pocket of her coat. Light glinted on metal.

Kingsley had to look twice at the brass and wood device she held. ‘It that a pistol?’

‘It’s a distant relative.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I made it.’

Kingsley had trouble imagining Evadne Stephens as a weapon maker and optometrist, but the alternative was to imagine her as a bald-faced liar – and he had more pressing concerns. ‘Follow me, then.’

It had been nearly six months since Kingsley had left home. With some reluctance, he’d decided that if he had no real past – for his foster father was loath to talk about how he came to be responsible for the foundling Kingsley – he’d at least make a real future for himself on the stage.

Once inside, Kingsley loosened his tie and left his jacket on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. He avoided the fourth stair from the top, knowing its penchant for creaking, and paused on the landing, signalling so Evadne would avoid the noisy stair. The landscape on the wall was even more depressing than usual. The storm threatening the lusty farm workers looked actively malign.

‘My goodness,’ Evadne whispered, ‘you can move quietly.’

Kingsley didn’t reply. He glanced through the window at the landing, the one overlooking the street. Gaslight filtered through the plane trees. Kingsley put a hand against the panelling and listened, hard, then he sniffed. His hackles rose at what he smelled, and it was only by clenching his jaw that he prevented a low growl escaping from his throat.

‘I can see a light up there,’ Evadne whispered.

‘It’s coming from the study.’ Kingsley sniffed again.

‘What can you smell? Gas?’

‘No, but it’s coming from the study, too.’ Kingsley glanced over his shoulder, then crouched, hissing.

Evadne flattened herself against the wall. ‘What?’

‘That man. The one we saw at the theatre. He’s out there.’

Evadne inched to the window. ‘He’s not being very secretive about it, standing in the middle of the road like that.’

Kingsley licked his lips. His wolfishness was on the rise – he could feel it in his shoulders, the long muscles of his legs. Threats, real or imagined, tended to do that. Grimly, he imagined helping someone write a pithy monograph titled ‘The Wolf at Bay: Some Personal Insights’.

He was torn. The man out there or the study? He shifted from one foot to the other in mute demonstration of his indecision until Evadne rolled her eyes. ‘You go on. I’ll see what our theatre-lover wants.’

She left, silently, and Kingsley recommenced his ascent. He stood at the head of the stairs for a moment and, in the shadows, he had the unsettling impression that everything he’d grown up with had been taken away and replaced by duplicates. The carpet, the slightly worn spots outside each door, the side table with the nick in one leg from where he’d swung a golf club a little too carelessly, it was all there but with a layer of unfamiliarity that made his soul ache.

He closed his eyes, willing the awful sensation to go away, and when he opened them his surroundings were once again familiar – but he could still hear noises coming from the study. They were the furtive, muffled sounds of someone who didn’t want to be heard.

Kingsley paused outside the door to the study. It was open a crack. Light spilled from it. ‘Mrs Walters?’

Nothing.

Kingsley swallowed. He pushed the door back.

Afterwards, he was never sure how long he stood on the threshold, unwilling to enter, assaulted by the sight, the smell, the disarray. Books had been dragged down from the shelves and strewn about. Chairs had been overturned. The two prints of farm scenes had been ripped from the walls.

Torn apart by wild beasts. The phrase repeated itself in Kingsley’s head again and again as he gazed at Mrs Walters’ remains. She’d been good to him, indulgent even, tolerating the mess he’d made when his magical practice went wrong. Torn apart by wild beasts.

All the blood, pooled and spattered, was the source of the awful smell he’d been aware of ever since he’d stepped inside. It caught and held him so much that he barely saw the two hulking figures with their backs to him, pawing at his foster father’s bookshelves.

One of the brutes looked back over his shoulder. He grunted, slapped his partner on the back, and confronted Kingsley, who was grimly aware that he’d let out a sob.

The intruder was even larger than Kingsley had thought, a nightmarish, troll-like creature with a flat face and heavy brows. Not tall, but he had the build of two wrestlers pressed into one body. His arms bulged with muscle under his leather jacket. Wild red hair stuck out from his head, complemented by a bushy red beard that surrounded a face that was broad and hard. He chuckled and it sounded like a bag full of stones. He reached for Kingsley with a meaty hand.

Kingsley slapped it away.

The intruder’s eyes narrowed. He grunted at his partner, who was piling books into a wooden crate, then he advanced on Kingsley again.

Overwhelmed – the blood, the loss, the chaos of the night – Kingsley couldn’t control himself. His wild self burst free, snarled, lashed out and kicked the intruder in his vast stomach.

The intruder staggered back a step or two, then laughed, which only added to Kingsley’s rage. His wild self was truly roused. It knew what to do with an outsider who had brought death to the pack. It had to be taken down and dealt with.

Kingsley’s hands curled into claws. His chest heaved. He wanted to cast himself on the brute and take his throat, to throw him to the ground, to make him cry for mercy that wouldn’t come.

He bared his teeth.

The intruder paused. For a moment, they were both still. Kingsley was looking for an opening – did the brute favour his left side? – and then the intruder backed away.

Kingsley was astonished, but then he saw the intruder’s partner was almost out of the window, a crate of books under one arm. Kingsley lunged, but the first brute smashed him with a fist, a mighty buffet that caught his arm and spun him aside. He slipped on the blood, fell against the firescreen, and rolled to collide with the body of poor Mrs Walters.

The intruder bounded for the window and followed his partner. Horrified and bloody, Kingsley was up, but he knew from experience and the heavy sound of feet that the intruders had landed on the roof of the old stable that led to the lane at the back of the property.

Kingsley bolted out of the room and down the stairs. He flung himself out of the front door and immediately cannoned into two police officers.

Kingsley tumbled into the garden bed amid the anemones and foxgloves. Growling with frustration and rage, he picked himself up to see one of the young police officers stretched out, unconscious, his head against the stairs leading to the gate. The second constable was backing away, eyes wide as he groped for his whistle. ‘Don’t move!’ His voice was shrill with fear. ‘Just stay where you are!’

Dimly, Kingsley realised what the police officer was seeing – a bloody young man, clothing askew, wild-faced and growling, a tabloid newspaper image of a murderer.

The knowledge cut through his wildness, sobering him immediately. Kingsley was suddenly calm as his wild self fled, but before he could explain, the constable found his whistle. He blew it long and hard, and was rewarded by a similar blast not far away.

Evadne ghosted to Kingsley’s side.

‘Be careful, miss!’ the constable cried. ‘He’s a dangerous one, just look at him!’

‘I don’t think so,’ Evadne said. With no fuss, she raised her pistol and shot the constable.

Kingsley gaped. The police officer crumpled and joined his comrade on the stairs. ‘What did you do that for?’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve rendered him unconscious, that’s all.’ She held up her pistol. ‘Sleep-inducing darts.’

‘I –’ Kingsley swallowed. ‘Up there. Monsters. Mrs Walters. Dead.’

Evadne grimaced. ‘The Neanderthals killed someone?’

‘Neanderthals?’

‘I saw them escaping over the rooftops.’

‘But . . . I . . .’ Kingsley sagged. He wanted to sit, or lie down, or for this horrible nightmare to go away. Cavemen? In Bayswater?

‘Yes, Neanderthals. Most people think they died out a few hundred thousand years ago, but a few survived, hidden away and keeping to themselves.’ Evadne pocketed her pistol. ‘Look at you. I think it best to let things calm down before we see the police again. You might like to choose the occasion that happens, preferably when you’re presentable and flanked by a pet barrister. I’d recommend a QC.’ She cocked her head at him. ‘Your family has a trusty law firm on the books?’

‘Leaving is a capital idea.’ At the gate, a figure stepped into the pool of light cast by the nearest gas lamp. His round spectacles glinted and he touched the brim of his hat. ‘I have a motor car nearby.’

It was the man from the theatre – short, slight, with rounded shoulders, a tiny moustache and an air of precise watchfulness. Evadne’s eyes widened and she lowered the pistol she’d raised at the stranger’s approach. ‘I know you,’ she said to him. ‘You’re that writer, Kipling, aren’t you?

The man gave a hasty smile. ‘I am indeed Rudyard Kipling, and I hope to be at your service immediately.’