Beastly Bones Read online

  Also by William Ritter

  Jackaby

  Beastly

  Bones

  A Jackaby Novel

  WILLIAM RITTER

  ALGONQUIN 2015

  For Russ,

  who has taught me that the wood knows best what shape it ought to be,

  & for Eleanor,

  who has always followed her own path

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Supplemental Material

  Acknowledgments

  Reader’s Guide

  About the Author

  About Algonquin

  Chapter One

  Follow my lead, Miss Rook,” Jackaby said, rapping on the ornately trimmed door to 1206 Campbell Street. Were my employer a standard private investigator, those might have been simple instructions, but in the time I’ve been his assistant, I’ve found very little about Jackaby to be standard. Following his lead tends to call for a somewhat flexible relationship with reality.

  Tall and lanky, Jackaby swam in his long, brown coat. It looked like it might have once been an expensive garment, but it was now battered and affixed inside and out with myriad clinking, jingling pockets and pouches, each loaded with trinkets and tools he insisted were essential to his work. Around his neck he had wound a ludicrously long scarf, the ends of which brushed the cobblestones as he walked.

  On his head, stuffed over a dark mess of wild hair, was the main offender. Jackaby’s cap, the knit monstrosity, was a patternless composite of uneven stitches and colors. The threads clashed with his scarf. They clashed with his coat. They even clashed with one another. Alone on a hat rack, the thing would have looked mismatched.

  Jackaby was not an ugly man. He kept himself clean-shaven, and always seemed to smell of cloves and cinnamon. In a fine suit and tie he might have been downright attractive to the right sort of girl, but in his preferred garb he looked like an eccentric lunatic. He was fond of reminding me that “appearances aren’t everything,” but I dare say they aren’t nothing, either. My employer can be single-minded about some things. Most things, in fact.

  The woman who answered the door appeared far too overwhelmed by her own concerns to bother about silly hats, anyway. Jackaby and I soon found ourselves ushered past the threshold and into an elegantly furnished sitting room. The house looked like so many of the regal English manors to which my mother had dragged me as a child. My father was a bit of an explorer—you may have read about the intrepid Daniel Rook—but my mother much preferred tradition and civility. Mother took full advantage of my father’s notoriety to find her way into countless London garden parties, and she brought me along in the hopes that a little exposure would make me wish to be a proper lady as well. It generally made me wish instead that I could go outside and play in the dirt, like my father.

  In some ways, there was really nothing new about New England. Our current hostess looked as though she would have fit very comfortably into my mother’s social circles. She introduced herself as Florence Beaumont and offered to take our coats. Jackaby flatly declined for both of us. I would have preferred he hadn’t, as the heat of the chamber was a sharp contrast to the breeze outside. The spring of 1892 had arrived in New Fiddleham, but it had not yet fully chased away the last of the winter winds.

  Mrs. Beaumont led us to a small alcove at the rear of the room. Within the recess were a pile of blankets, a little pink collar with a bell on the front, and a set of silver bowls perched on white doilies. In one bowl was a bit of what looked to be leftover tuna, and in the other were water, a great deal of cat hair, and a live fish. The fish circled uncomfortably, being nearly as wide as the bowl itself.

  Jackaby squatted, resting his forearms on his knees and staring into the water. He watched the fish take a few cramped laps, studying its movements, and then he plucked a bit of damp cat hair from the rim, sniffed it, tasted it, and tucked it into a pocket somewhere in the depths of his coat.

  I whipped out the little black notepad Jackaby had given me upon the completion of our first case, trying not to let Mrs. Beaumont see that I was still on the very first page. “Your message said something about a sick cat?” I prompted the woman while my employer poked at the sticky pile of leftovers in the other bowl. “I’m sure Mr. Jackaby will want to see the animal.”

  The woman’s lip quivered. “Mrs. W-W-Wiggles.”

  “Yes, and where is Mrs. Wiggles now?”

  Mrs. Beaumont tried to answer, but she managed only a sort of squeak I could not decipher and gestured toward the alcove.

  Jackaby stood. “Mrs. Wiggles is right here, isn’t she?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Mrs. Wiggles is the fish, isn’t she?”

  She nodded again. “Only since recently,” she sniffed.

  “I see,” Jackaby said.

  His matter-of-fact response seemed to burst a dam within the woman. “You must think me mad! I didn’t know to whom I could turn, but your name has come up from time to time. I entertain, you see. Very prominent people come to my soirees. Mayor Spade had tea here, just last week. Some of the people I dine with tell me that you specialize in things that are . . . that are . . . different.”

  “To put it mildly,” I submitted.

  “Nice to hear I’ve come so highly recommended, madam,” Jackaby said, turning his attention back to the big fish in the little bowl.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t call them recommendations, exactly,” she added. “More like anecdotes, some of them warnings, actually . . .”

  “Yes, yes, very nice.” Jackaby’s attention had migrated back to his investigation. He dropped to his hands and knees, peeking at the pile of blankets.

  “I’ve always taken such good care of Mrs. Wiggles,” the woman continued. “I keep her brushed and washed, and I buy her the most expensive cat food. I even get her fresh fish from Chandler’s Market from time to time. At first I thought she was just feeling a bit off due to her—well—her state. But then she began to sprout s-s-scales, and now . . . now . . .” Mrs. Beaumont broke down again, her voice wavering into uncomfortable octaves.

  “Due to her state?” I asked, trying to press forward. “What state was Mrs. Wiggles in?”

  “She was pregnant,” Jackaby answered for Mrs. Beaumont.

  The woman nodded.

  “How did you know that?” I asked.

  Jackaby pulled up the corner of the blanket to reveal a pile of adorable, sleeping kittens. Here and there a patch of scales peeked through the fur. The smallest had fuzzy gills, which puffed up and down as it snored, but they were precious nonetheless.

  “Do I deduce correctly that, until recently, Mrs. Wiggles has had significantly more freedom to roam about a
t night?” Jackaby asked.

  The woman blinked back to self-control. “Yes, yes, that’s true. I generally leave the window open at night, and Mrs. Wiggles likes to pop out, but she would always be back home in the morning. I decided it was best to keep her in this past month, at least until she had her litter. It’s been freezing cold out, anyway. Didn’t want the poor thing—”

  “Yes, that’s all very good,” Jackaby interrupted. “You mentioned you purchase fish for her from the market, occasionally. Is it also correct to assume you have been treating her to such morsels more often of late?”

  “I just wanted her to be happier, cooped up indoors like—”

  “Always the same sort of fish?”

  “Er . . . yes. Mackerel from Chandler’s Market. Was that wrong?”

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Belmont—”

  “Beaumont,” she corrected quietly.

  “On the contrary, Mrs. Beaumont, it may have been just the thing. Don’t worry. We will see to it the animals receive adequate care.”

  “You’re taking the kittens, too?” She sniffled. Her eyes welled up, and her lip quivered.

  Jackaby sighed. “Give me just a moment to confer with my esteemed colleague.” He gestured me closer as Mrs. Beaumont wrung her hands.

  Jackaby leaned in and adopted the sort of hushed, secretive tones that one nearby cannot help but overhear. “Miss Rook, on a scale of one to pomegranate, how dangerous would you say this situation has become?”

  “Dangerous?” I faltered.

  “Yes, Miss Rook,” prompted Jackaby, “in your expert opinion.”

  “On a scale of one to pomegranate?” I followed his lead, checking over the notes I had scribbled in my notepad and speaking in my most audible, serious whisper. “I should think . . . acorn? Possibly badger. Time alone will tell.”

  My employer nodded solemnly.

  “What? What is it? Can you make them . . . better?” Mrs. Beaumont fidgeted, worrying the lace on her collar as Jackaby considered his response.

  “Contamination, madam. Viral infection, no doubt. You’ve been thoroughly exposed, but don’t worry, you’re probably just a carrier. It is most unlikely you will display any symptoms yourself. What’s important now is to be sure the litter does not further contaminate the neighborhood.”

  “Is it really as bad as all that?” she asked. “Sh-should we tell the police or . . . or the animal control officer?”

  “If you like.” Jackaby looked thoughtful. “Of course, it might be best if we simply take Mrs. Wiggles and her litter to our facility and keep the whole thing quiet. I’m no expert in entertaining, but I do not imagine one’s social standing would weather well the news that one is a carrier to an exotic, viral plague. How is Mayor Spade, by the way?”

  Mrs. Beaumont sniffed and digested the detective’s words for a moment. “Let me fetch you a bigger bowl,” she squeaked. “I want Mrs. Wiggles to be comfortable, at least.” With one last sniffle, she ducked away into the house.

  Some girls work in shops or sell flowers. Some girls find husbands and play house. I assist a mad detective in investigating unexplained phenomena—like fish that ought to be cats but seem to have forgotten how. My name is Abigail Rook, and this is what I do.

  Chapter Two

  In a few short minutes, my employer and I found ourselves back on the cobbled road, now with one box of somewhat fishy felines and a bulky, crystal punch bowl full of fresh water and a slightly hairy mackerel. Jackaby nobly opted to carry the kittens. The cool New England breeze was picking up in sporadic bursts, whistling through the narrow alleyways and making me keenly aware of the small patch of damp developing on my shirtwaist where the bowl occasionally sloshed.

  “What was that show about back there, sir?” I asked, straining not to completely soak my blouse with fishy water.

  “Show?” Jackaby raised an eyebrow.

  “One to pomegranate? And I’m an expert, now?”

  “As I understand it, you are a bit of an expert, albeit in the rather monotonous field of digging up and studying old rocks. I found the title convenient at the time.”

  “Paleontology, not geology. I was studying fossils before we met, not old rocks, thank you.”

  “Ah, yes, fossils. In other words, bones that, over a great deal of time, have mineralized and turned to . . . what?”

  “To stone.”

  “Stone. As in . . . rocks?”

  “Oh, fine. I don’t know if a handful of classes and one failed expedition qualify me as an expert, but all the same, I’d prefer that you not use my scant few credentials to lie to old ladies.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when next I find it necessary.”

  “Thank you for that. Speaking of which, shouldn’t she be quarantined or something?” I asked, glancing back at the stately old house.

  “What on earth for?” Jackaby tickled a soft orange nose as it poked gingerly out of the box. “Oh, that whole plague business. No, no—there isn’t any virus. Nothing to worry about. I simply felt it would be much less jarring to the poor woman than the truth.”

  “And what’s the truth, then?”

  “Pervasive, carnivorous shape-shifters. Oh, look. This one has a fluffy dorsal fin! Hello there, little fellow.”

  I stopped in the street. The water sloshed over the far edge of the punch bowl, and the mackerel circled, obliviously.

  “Would you run that last bit by me again, sir?”

  “Don’t be so bothered,” Jackaby said. “I’m happy to explain. The dorsal refers to the ridge along his back. I was merely observing that—”

  “Not about the fin! They’re carnivorous shape-shifters?”

  “Oh yes! It’s a somatic camouflage. Isn’t it marvelous? These little beasties are aggressive mimics of an exceptional degree. They physically adapt to take on the appearance of a local food source, infiltrating their prey and allowing their unwitting hosts to provide them with comfort, protection, and supplemental nutrients. Then, when they have won their trust, they devour them. It seems Mrs. Wiggles was fond of snacking on cats, up until she got herself cooped up.”

  “But that’s horrific!”

  “Not at all. That’s nature. Cuckoos are aggressive mimics as well—brood parasites—and those little scamps get immortalized on finely crafted clocks.”

  “I . . . suppose.” I continued walking, eying the mackerel more closely as we crossed the street. “Still, rather disturbing to think of a cat out there cannibalizing other cats.”

  “It isn’t cannibalism if it’s only camouflage, Rook. In your hands is proof enough that the beast wasn’t feline at all. As soon as she was forced to identify a new, regular food source, her body adapted.”

  “So these . . . things can just magically turn into whatever creature they eat?”

  “It isn’t magic, Rook. It’s science. The abilities of certain creatures to adapt spontaneously to fit in to their surroundings are well documented. Aristotle himself wrote an account of the camouflage mechanism of octopuses. They can change color spontaneously.”

  “Like chameleons?”

  “Precisely. The biological mechanism at work here is more complicated, obviously, but not unlike a chameleon changing its skin. In fact, Darwin dubbed these little creatures chameleomorphs, in reference to the little lizards with their colorful camouflage. A misnomer, of course, as the term chameleon refers not to the adaptation, but rather to the Latin for ‘lion of the ground,’ but such is the tradition of naming one beast after another.”

  “That can’t possibly be right. Charles Darwin never discovered shape-changing animals. He’d have written about it.”

  “Oh?” We crested the hill at the top of Market Street, and Jackaby gave me a sly smile as we started back down. “Didn’t he?”

  There was something about Jackaby that made me want to impress him. It might have been his earnest arrogance, or the way he spoke frankly and didn’t pander or talk down to me. True, Jackaby could be brash and outright insulting—but being tr
eated with kid gloves always felt like a greater insult. I wanted nothing more than to prove myself, and Jackaby gave me that chance. I would like to say, therefore, that I countered my employer’s smirk with a witty rebuttal, or at least that I carried my weight in the ensuing conversation. Unfortunately, one does not always get what one would like.

  Instead, just as I opened my mouth to speak, my heel caught on a broken piece of brickwork, and I pitched forward in a graceless stumble, drenching myself in fishy water before launching the crystal punch bowl—and its unhappy inhabitant—down the slope of bustling Market Street.

  The crystal miraculously withstood the jarring drop and bumpy ride for the better part of a block, bouncing down the cobbled road like a runaway sled. New Fiddleham streets are never empty, and half a dozen passersby stood watching until the road bent off to the right and the bowl slammed into the curb. Pedestrians jumped aside as the container exploded at their feet, spraying the storefront of a small leather shop with expensive shrapnel. The last glittering shards had not yet spun to a stop before I was back on my feet and after it.

  The startled mackerel flopped and waggled across the damp cobbles, and from half a block away I could see it balancing on the edge of the storm drain. I cursed under my breath and willed the fish to just hold still. Was it too much to ask that, just once, one of my failures be a simple little thing, instead of compounding itself into a big ordeal? Time slowed as the scaly little rascal flipped itself up in a clean arc directly over the grate.

  The very moment it seemed that my failure was absolute, my salvation arrived in the form of a broad bear of a man. His thick fingers swept down with remarkable skill, snatching the fish up by its tail in midhop. He palmed the mackerel in one hand and helped steady me to a stop with the other. When my feet were firmly beneath me, the man laughed a deep, throaty laugh and patted me firmly on the shoulder.

  “Hah! Gotcha!” His wide smile sat nestled in a thick, bristly, auburn beard.

  “Catch of the day, Hudson,” came my employer’s voice from directly behind me.

  “Bah. The mackerel’s not bad—but I don’t think this one’s fully grown. I’ll have to toss her back! Hah!” The man laughed again, loudly, and slapped me on the back so enthusiastically, I nearly toppled. “Figures that the fish start flying and yer the one behind it! Good to see ya, R. F. Oh, hey—speaking of which, let’s get this fella a drink. Hold on.”