The Inspector of Strange and Unexplained Deaths

I
Nothing in all Creation exerts such power over
me as the face of a beautiful woman.
Casanova

Night swarmed through the streets of Paris, casting its black
veil over the carriage standing motionless in the middle of the
deserted thoroughfare. Buttoned tightly in his dark coat, the
driver kept a close rein on the horses as they jostled nervously.
A slender, cloaked silhouette climbed down from the coach.
The hood, pulled low, concealed the features of a young girl.
Shadows stole over the surrounding walls, extending hooked
fingers in her direction. A horse tossed its mane. The driver
stared straight ahead, imperturbable.
‘It’s late. Take care, child: good people cleave to daylight,
but the wicked come out at night!’
The voice came from inside the carriage. Tired, but with
a rich timbre that was pleasing to the ear. As if in response
to some invisible signal, the vehicle shuddered into life with
a clatter of wood and iron. The unknown girl trembled. She
stood alone, her white fingers clenched as if preparing to strike
out with her fist. The darkness made everything unfamiliar.
Fantastical forms suggested themselves to her searching eyes.
Unwittingly, throughout her childhood, her mother’s bedtime
stories had peopled her nights with werewolves, thieves and
ghosts. For an instant, she thought she heard footsteps, and
froze to listen. But there was nothing. Only silence.
At that moment, the clouds shredded and pale moonlight
flooded the street, revealing the entrance to a small courtyard,
and the red glow of a bread oven on its far side. The young
girl started forward, happy and relieved. A tinkling, crystal
laugh rose unbidden in her throat, and she strode quickly in
the direction of the wavering light.
A sudden movement pierced the night. A shadow loomed
and spread over the walls, in the girl’s pursuit. Presently, a
scream tore through the dark.