Beastly Bones Read online

  “It’s your file,” Jackaby said. “It has your name on it and everything. Just open it.”

  Jenny scowled darkly at the detective. “Where are my gloves?”

  “I’ve told you before, you don’t need them. In fact, I think I can prove it.” He picked up the new gold-rimmed teacup from the desk and plucked another one from the tray. “Here, this is from your heirloom tea set.” He tossed the pastel blue cup, and Jenny’s eyes widened as she swept out her hands and caught the fine china projectile. “And this one I picked up at the market this morning while I was out.” Without giving her time to think, he pitched the new gold-rimmed cup toward her. Instinctively, Jenny held out a hand, but the new one passed directly through it and smashed against the bookcase.

  She cradled the first cup in her hands and frowned at Jackaby. “Stop trying to destroy my belongings. You haven’t proven anything! We already know that I can only touch things that are mine to touch. You’re just tormenting me, now—and will you stop smiling while I’m being cross with you!”

  Jackaby shook his head but kept smiling. “You can only touch things you believe you have a right to touch. After all, that isn’t your teacup you’re holding. Don’t you recognize the set Mrs. Simmons gave me for that gnome business I cleared up last year?”

  Jenny stared down at it, and the little blue cup started to sink through her fingers. She fumbled frantically to save it, but it clattered to the floor in half a dozen pastel pieces.

  “Similar colors, of course, but believing was all it took. State of mind, Miss Cavanaugh. It’s all in your head.” He slid the file across the desk toward Jenny, who looked up from the broken shards. “It’s your case. All you have to do is open it.”

  Jenny stared at the file. I watched breathlessly as she reached a hand toward the desk. Her fingers paused on the folder, and for an instant I was certain the papers beneath bent to her touch—but then her hand sank to the wrist through the file, past the blotter, and into the desk itself. She recoiled as though bitten and held her hand to her chest, her expression addled and uncertain.

  “Try again.” Jackaby’s voice was surprisingly gentle.

  Jenny looked up at the detective, and then at me, and then back to the file. She shook her head and backed away uneasily, melting into the bookcase as she withdrew.

  “Jenny, wait!” I said, but she had gone again.

  “I think that went rather well, don’t you?” Jackaby stuffed the empty basket on a cluttered bookshelf. “I wasn’t entirely certain that my theory would hold ground in practice, but I would say the experiment was a resounding success.”

  “Mr. Jackaby, really! Jenny isn’t some scientific oddity—she’s your friend!”

  Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “In point of fact, Miss Rook, she’s both, and that’s nothing to be ashamed of. All exceptional people are, by definition, exceptions to the norm. If we insist on being ordinary, we can never be truly extraordinary.”

  “That is a very well-rehearsed and eloquent excuse for being an absolute brute to a sad, sweet woman.”

  “She’s fine. I assure you, you’ll know when she’s been pushed too far. It’s not a pretty sight. When I was having her old kitchen renovated into the laboratory, she even began to echo.”

  “Echo?”

  “Many spirits can do nothing else. Many spirits are nothing else. When a spirit echoes, she is nothing but the shadow of her last living moments—a clumsy, overlapping mess of emotion and pain—caught, like an echo in a canyon, reliving her final thoughts.”

  “You mean things like, ‘You shouldn’t be here’?” I asked.

  Jackaby’s confident expression faltered.

  “And something about working with her fiancé?” I added.

  “Did the temperature drop noticeably?”

  “There was ice. And a sort of a whirlwind.”

  He blanched.

  “Do you think I should try talking to her again?” I said.

  Jackaby swallowed and glanced up at the ceiling. Jenny’s bedroom sat directly above his office. “No—no, our little expedition may have come at just the right time. I think it’s best we give our dear Miss Cavanaugh a wide berth—for a few days, anyway. You know—to allow her some peace and quiet and all that.” The temperature in the room began to drop, and my arms prickled with goose bumps.

  I nodded. “I think you might be right, sir.”

  Chapter Twelve

  By half past five, Jackaby had finished making various arrangements and tending to the terrarium of chameleomorphs. He explained their care and keeping to Douglas while I watched the little kittens through the glass. One of them batted playfully at a water strider with its big fluffy paw, and then pounced and polished the thing off. It might have been my imagination in the dimness of the gaslights, but already they looked a little smaller and skinnier. I would be happy to miss watching their transformation from felines into insects. Fins on fur had been disturbing enough—I did not like to imagine the process they had ahead of them. It was still hard to fathom that the mackerel circling lazily in the pool toward the back was the same species as the wide-eyed little fur balls tumbling around in front.

  Jackaby pulled on his coat, which clinked and tinkled as the contents of its myriad pockets rattled into place. He slung his satchel over one shoulder. “Well, Miss Rook, shall we?”

  I nodded and followed my employer, casting a glance up the stairs as we stepped into the hallway.

  “Do you think she’ll be all right?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” said Jackaby. “I think she will be dead. Generally speaking that falls outside the realm of all right. I do not, however, think she will be any worse for our absence.” He stepped into the front room and pulled on his multicolored knit cap.

  “I still feel dreadful,” I said. “I wish I could do something. Jenny had been giving me some good advice about . . .” I looked at Jackaby, swimming in his bulky coat with the ridiculous hat stuffed over his messy hair, and decided not to go into the details of our conversation. “Well, anyway, she was being rather kind, and reminding me that fortune favors the bold.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Jackaby. “Fortune favors the prepared. Unless you’re talking about the Fates, in which case fortune generally favors Zeus. Were you talking about the Fates?”

  “No. We weren’t talking about the Fates. Never mind. I went and botched it, that’s all—not that you helped anything this morning with that teacup business. I know you might think it pointless, but I just wish I could fix it. It’s bad enough to bungle things professionally and . . . well . . . romantically. It would be nice if I could at least get a friendship right.”

  “I don’t think it’s pointless,” said Jackaby. “I don’t think it’s pointless at all. I think it’s a marvelous sentiment.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. Atonement and reconciliation after an argument demonstrate strength of character and bolster the atmosphere of the workplace.”

  “Oh. Well, yes. Mostly I just wanted her to feel better.”

  “And mostly I just want to be sure you don’t come to me to discuss your romantic entanglements. I much prefer that you remain on comfortable terms with Miss Cavanaugh. Although, should she ever be unavailable,” Jackaby said earnestly, “I want you to know”—he put a hand gently on my shoulder—“that Douglas is an excellent listener.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll bear that in mind.”

  “Please do. In the meantime, try not to dwell on Miss Cavanaugh. She has more going through her metaphysical mind than you or I could ever fully comprehend, and in the end she must cross certain mental bridges alone. She needs time more than she needs flowers or kind words right now. When we return, you can regale her with glamorous accounts of tracking a bloodsucking murderer, maybe even tuck in a few rousing tales about digging up rocks, and I’m sure everything will go back to—well not normal, but whatever it was before.”

  Jackaby might have had the social graces of a brick, but I did fe
el fractionally better. The least I could do was take Jenny’s advice, and try to be bold on my little adventure. Today was about investigating my very own mystery, about helping unearth historic discoveries, and, admittedly, just a little bit about seeing a really sweet boy who made me feel sort of wobbly inside. I picked up my valise and pulled open the bright red door.

  The train station was not more than a dozen blocks from Augur Lane, although accounting for distances precisely was never an easy task along New Fiddleham’s unorthodox roadways, and no less complicated in the dim predawn light. I would never fully come to understand the logic behind the city planning. Some streets ended abruptly after only a few blocks, while others mysteriously changed names and ambled off. Roads meandered and intersected at odd angles, necessitating creative mosaics of masonry where conflicting cobblestones converged. Gradually growing familiar with at least a few of the city’s quirks felt like becoming privy to an inside joke, and I had started to feel the subtle pride of being in on it.

  We made good time, and although the sky was aglow in anticipation, the sun still had yet to make an appearance when the thick marble pillars of the station house rose before us. I took a seat on a bench inside and watched the milling crowd while Jackaby went to purchase tickets. The station opened onto two broad platforms framed by heavy roman columns. The main building had a high roof with an ornate tin ceiling, which helped the space feel open in spite of the growing crowd of waiting passengers.

  A group of well-dressed businessmen shuffled along, arguing about something or other, and as they passed, my eyes locked on a figure beyond them. Standing just outside the doorway to the first platform was a stout man dressed in a black coat with a dark waistcoat and a wooly scarf. His skin was sickly pale, and his chin had the bluish stubble of a day-old shave. There was no mistaking it; he was the man I had seen from my window, and he was staring right at me. Between the Jenny situation and our leaving for the valley, I had completely forgotten to tell Jackaby about him. The man caught me looking but did not drop his gaze. He only turned up the corner of his lips in a slow smirk that made my skin crawl. A family with six or seven noisy children cut between us, and when they had passed, the pale man was gone.

  Curiosity burned through my chest, and before the man could get far this time, I hopped up from my seat and rushed to the door. The platform ran along the length of the building, and I caught sight of a dark coat rounding the far corner as I emerged. I glanced back, but Jackaby was still waiting in line at the counter, his back to me. Scowling, I rocked back and forth on the balls of my feet for just a moment, and then took off out the door and down the platform.

  Passersby gave me affronted looks as I wove between and around them to hurry down the length of the building. I came skidding to a stop as I reached the end of the station house and rounded the corner, narrowly avoiding plowing into a little old lady in ragged clothes who was rummaging through the refuse bins. I stood, panting and peering from building to building, but the pale man was nowhere in sight. The sun was just creeping above the line of the horizon, and its reflection bounced blindingly off the nearby windows.

  “Abigail Rook!” The ragged woman smiled up at me like a pleased old auntie.

  I caught my breath. “Oh goodness—Hatun. How nice to see you again.” Hatun was one of Jackaby’s occasional contacts on the streets of New Fiddleham. “Did you happen to see a man run through here?”

  She thought hard for a few seconds. Her face crinkled up in concentration.

  “Just now?” I prompted. “Did you see someone run through here just now?”

  Her face brightened “That’s what it is!” She clapped her hands happily. “You’re alive! That’s what’s different about you.”

  I blinked. “Yes. Erm. I was alive the last time you saw me, too.”

  Hatun waved her hand dismissively. “Right, right. Sometimes I see things a little out of order is all. All the same, I’m glad you’re not dead just yet.”

  “Well, thank you for that, I suppose.”

  “You’re leaving town?” she asked.

  “Yes. For Gadston, on the next train. You didn’t see anyone?”

  “Well thank goodness. Hate to see you go, but it’s for the best. I am fond of the fellow, but remember what I told you about following Mr. Jackaby. I’ve seen it.” She leaned in and whispered loudly, “Death.”

  Hatun did not look like much, but she was exceptional in her own right. While Jackaby had a unique vision of the world, Hatun saw the world through a sort of kaleidoscope of angles, some of which were more helpful than others. Her premonitions were generally on the less-reliable side, ranging from talking teakettles to an apocalypse of eggplants, but they were on the right track often enough to generally merit a listen. She had once told me that I would follow Jackaby to my demise, a prophecy that turned out—very fortunately—to be exaggerated. I had only nearly died, although I had the scar above my heart to remember it by.

  “Oh—right, that. No, I’m not leaving leaving. I am still working for Jackaby. That business you were worried about, though—I came out of it only a little worse for wear. That’s all over.”

  “Is it, now?” The way Hatun looked straight at me—as though she were looking much, much farther than my eyes—made me more uncomfortable than I care to admit.

  “Rook!” Jackaby called from the doorway. The train had begun to rattle loudly into the station, and he had to yell over the sound of the hissing steam. “Rook! What on earth are you up to?”

  I waved him over. “Just saying hello to an old friend.”

  He marched along the platform toward us, a pair of tickets clutched in his hand. Along the way he seemed to catch sight of something in the air. He slowed and reached one hand out to gently feel ahead of him, as one might reach over the side of a boat to brush the waves. A puff of steam engulfed him. He waved it away and continued on to the end of the platform.

  “Jackaby. You’re looking well,” Hatun said.

  “Good day, Hatun. I don’t suppose either of you noticed something peculiar hanging about in the air around here? Sort of a purplish, ashen color? Vaguely funereal? No?”

  “Yes!” I said. “Well, no. I saw a man. He was terribly creepy, and I’ve seen him before, Mr. Jackaby. He was outside the house this morning.”

  “Hmm.” Jackaby’s expression darkened. “I’ve seen that aura before as well.”

  I swallowed. “Campbell Street?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “Fire,” said Hatun, barely above a whisper.

  “Come again?” Jackaby asked.

  The little old woman stepped toward Jackaby. Her eyes were closed to slits and she breathed in deeply through her nose. “So much fire.”

  Jackaby and I exchanged concerned glances.

  “Or possibly fireflies,” Hatun amended, blinking. “Or flint. Feathers? Something with an F. What were we talking about?”

  “We were just leaving. Always a pleasure, though, Hatun.” Jackaby handed me my ticket.

  Hatun bid good-bye to Jackaby but then shot me a concerned glance.

  “Don’t worry—in a way, he’s technically following me on this one,” I assured her. “No death this time, I promise.”

  She nodded and gave me an unconvinced smile as we parted. Looking back, I can’t blame her—it was a promise I was in no position to keep. In retrospect, there would be quite a lot of death.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By request of my employer, the contents of chapter thirteen have not only been omitted; they have been pulled directly from my typewriter, shredded, and used as terrarium liner for a particularly pungent frog.

  —ABIGAIL ROOK

  Chapter Fourteen

  Through the window in our train car I watched the streetlamps and brick buildings give way to trees and hilly horizons. “How far is it to Gadston?” I asked.

  “About three hours until we reach town,” answered Jackaby. As soon as we had slid into the cabin, Jackaby had set to work packing a little l
eather pouch with a string of rosary beads, a handful of dried herbs, and a fat blue bauble that looked like an eye. He stood on his seat to hang the lumpy bag above the door with a pin, dropping back down to the cushion with a whump when the task was managed. “Gadston is only the mouth of the valley, so it will be another hour or two by carriage before we’ve properly reached our destination.”

  The city was truly behind us, and we were now rattling through the natural, rolling New England landscape. Signs of spring crept up on all sides, with bright fields of flowers and fresh green hillsides. Free of the looming buildings and shady alleyways of New Fiddleham, I could let the uneasiness that had begun to settle over me give way to a tingle of excitement. Ahead lay not only the thrill of a new, important case, but also the prehistoric discovery I had been chasing since the day I left the shores of England.

  Gadston was not a large town. A few houses dotted our approach, each situated on a wide stretch of mostly wild landscape. As we grew nearer, the properties pulled themselves together to form something more closely resembling a neighborhood, but even the smallest lots still looked as though they covered at least a healthy half acre. Gradually the buildings shuffled closer and closer until, by the time the train was hissing and slowing down for the modest station house, something resembling a town center had appeared, although none of the buildings was more than two or three stories tall. We rolled past a cheery red schoolhouse and a weathered grange hall, and as we lurched to a final stop, I could just see a white church steeple peeking over the nearest rooftops.

  We collected our things and disembarked. I was met by the smell of dust and horses as I stepped out of the station house, along with something sweeter drifting on the breeze from a bakery across the street. It was a cozy, pleasant little town. I don’t know precisely what I had suspected—dimly lit saloons, I suppose, and gritty cowboys having pistol duels at high noon. A local couple passed by, startling me out of my thoughts with friendly greetings and a hearty welcome. I smiled and nodded cordially. Their cheery goodwill only made me more keenly aware that I had left the big city, where sidewalk courtesy rarely extended beyond avoiding eye contact and not intentionally pushing fellow pedestrians from the curb.