Jackaby Read online

  “I didn’t notice a pond . . . Is it around back?”

  “No. Third floor. You can’t miss it.” Jackaby planted a foot on the wobbling pyramid, and quickly mounted the makeshift staircase.

  “Wait, what are you doing?” I grabbed the top box with both arms, bracing it as the whole lot threatened to tumble.

  Jackaby grabbed hold of a metal railing and swung himself up onto the narrow balcony. “I need to revisit room 301. If Arthur Bragg was a reporter in the middle of a story, and he wound up with a hole in his chest and short several pints of blood . . .” He let the sentence hang in the air.

  “Of course,” I called up, “He was probably killed for something he was writing about. But . . . why don’t you want me with you?”

  “Because”—Jackaby had planted one foot atop the thin, metal railing and was pulling himself up to the next balcony, his shoes scraping gawkily at the brickwork as he ascended—“you have—oof—been with me all morning and have not fainted, struck me with anything, or metamorphosed into an aquatic bird. I should very much like this to remain the state of things, at least for your first day.”

  “Ah,” I replied. I was beginning to find it was easier to merely accept what the detective told me than to ask for explanations. “See you back at your office, then?”

  Jackaby had planted his feet firmly on the third-floor balcony and begun to lift open the window. He stopped, eying the windowsill intently and mumbling something. “What is it?” I called up.

  “Nothing. This is the window at the end of the hallway, I can see Mr. Henderson’s door just there.” He pulled the window open the rest of the way and slid a leg inside.

  “Don’t get nicked!” I cautioned in my loudest urgent whisper.

  “That reminds me,” he said, pausing. “There’s a jar in my office marked ‘Bail.’ If you don’t hear from me by tonight, just bring it down to the Mason Street station, would you? I’m usually in the first or second cell. There’s a good girl. See you in a bit!”

  The rest of Jackaby disappeared through the window, and an old, familiar sensation tickled its way up my spine. Until that moment, the events of the day had all been new and remarkable, but being left behind was one area in which I had countless hours of experience.

  My father was highly respected in certain scientific circles, and his notoriety kept him perpetually away on business. I had my mother, of course, but her wildest ambitions involved parasols and cucumber sandwiches. Most little girls would probably have preferred playing dress-up with mommy to learning about their father’s work—but most little girls did not have the intrepid Daniel Rook for a father. For him, “work” meant dashing off to exotic locales with groups of daring, khaki-clad adventurers. I could not count the times I begged him to let me see a real dig site, but to no avail. While he explored lost civilizations and unearthed the bones of monstrous beasts, I explored the garden and pulled weeds for a two-penny allowance.

  I was not in my mother’s garden, now. I was standing beneath a balcony in an alley that smelled faintly of old wash-water and dead fish, feeling my mind spinning from the day’s events and teetering like an unbalanced top. This was different. I had in the span of the past hour experienced more genuine adventure than in all my time at home or my travels abroad. Inspector Marlowe had sounded just like my father. “This business is not for the female temperament,” he had said—but Jackaby had not hesitated to point me toward the worst of it and ask for my opinions. It made me inexplicably excited that I would be working with this mad detective again. Looking back, I suppose I ought to have been less afraid of being left safely behind, and more afraid of the looming precipice ahead.

  I walked back to the street and tried to get my bearings. The straightest path back to the odd little building on Augur Lane, I realized, would take me past the police barricade again. I decided that Marlowe would hardly notice or mind my muddling my way through the onlookers, so I chanced it, keeping close enough to the front of the crowd to watch the windows for any sign of my strange, new employer.

  I caught no sight of him, but I did hope he would move quickly. Chief Inspector Marlowe was already walking back toward the front door, his cuffs beating their metronomic clink against his leg. He kept pace with a new figure, who must have been the commissioner. The man wore an expensive-looking suit, which demanded attention. It was just a bit old-fashioned, with notes of formal uniform to the fitted cut. The long coat was charcoal black and decorated with military epaulettes and red trim. On his head sat a velvety red derby with a slightly wide brim and a gaudy feather tucked in the dark sash. He carried a polished metal cane and walked with his chest puffed out and his chin propped up. The overall affect of the man was just a shade subtler than a sandwich board with the words BETTER THAN YOU written out in big block letters.

  He was classically pompous . . . except, I realized, for his gait. The long coat and dense crowd blocked his legs from view at first, but as I moved in for a closer look, I could see there was something strange about the manner in which he walked. He leaned a bit too heavily on the cane for it to be merely a showpiece, for starters, but there was also a rigidity to the swing of his legs. I was nearly at the police rope before he passed, and I saw them at last. They had been painted black to blend nearly perfectly with his trousers, but the commissioner wore a pair of leg braces, which caught a faint hint of sunlight as he marched by.

  I had seen a similar pair before, on a German boy during my time abroad. Although the disease was still fairly rare here in the States, the polio epidemic was already wreaking havoc across Europe. Whether out of strength or pride, the man refused to show any weakness, maintaining a rapid pace in spite of his impediment. Marlowe had to double-step occasionally to keep up.

  “Don’t think you do realize, Inspector,” Commissioner Swift was barking. His voice was deep and angry. “In my town, right under my nose! Do you have any idea what Spade’s campaign boys will do if I try to put my hat in the ring in the middle of this? I want suspects in cells, and I want them there yesterday . . .”

  The tirade paused as Swift awkwardly negotiated the small step up to the doorway, batting Marlowe’s hand away as the inspector instinctively reached to help. I realized, with a little guilty relief, that Jackaby would have more time than I had feared. The commissioner had three unpleasant flights ahead of him.

  With that thought, I left the warmth of the gathering throng behind to wind my way back up the frosty cobbled streets toward Augur Lane.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time I found my way back to 926 Augur Lane, the sun was directly overhead and the snow had slunk back to hide in the shadiest corners of the streets. I stepped with greater confidence toward the building I would be calling my workplace.

  The front door was even brighter red in the full midday light, and I was happy to find it unlocked, as before. Inside, the faint sulfurous stink had all but faded away, and the open windows had replaced it with crisp, fresh air. I hung my hat and coat on the rack, noting that my suitcase was still just where I had left it, and looked around the room for the second time. Sharing a wall with the doorway was a battered wooden bench, which could easily have been salvaged from a doctor’s waiting room, but had about it a certain quality that suggested it might have been stolen from a church, instead. At the opposite wall sat the unoccupied desk, stacked with papers and overstuffed folders. To my right was the row of books and artifacts, including the terrarium, which my eyes now carefully avoided.

  Toward the back of the room on the left wall stood a doorway flanked by two framed paintings. One painting featured a mounted knight driving a lance through a lizard the size of a small dog, an image I recognized as Saint George slaying the dragon. The other depicted a tumultuous sea in which a wooden ship was being towed through the waves by an enormous golden orange fish. Although painted in entirely different styles with nearly opposite color schemes, the two pictures seemed to belong together, held in unity, like the house itself, by some stronger force than
aesthetic logic.

  I crossed toward the door, but paused as I passed the desk. In a little valley of usable desktop, between the stacks of jumbled paperwork, lay an uncapped fountain pen. I took the two-step detour to scoop it up, not wanting it to dry out, and my eyes passed over the document on which it rested. The page was dated several months prior, written in tidy cursive, and read as follows:

  Mr. Jackaby is quite certain that the whole affair will culminate in some unholy ritual this evening. He has been, as usual, unforthcoming about the details of the case. The only link I have discerned between the incidents is the coincidental involvement of Father Grafton and a few members of his parish. My suggestion that we direct our inquiries toward the church was not met with enthusiasm.

  When I pressed the matter, Mr. Jackaby informed me that my services will not be necessary in his current line of investigation, and insisted that, since I am so curious about it, I should go and ask my own “silly little questions” without him. I must admit to some nervousness, given the heinous nature of the case, but I suppose Mr. Jackaby would not send me on alone if he sensed any danger.

  I shall be sure to record the results of my first independent investigation as soon as I return.

  The author had not, in fact, recorded anything further at all. I found a few more pages in the same handwriting, but all of them from earlier dates. I brushed the nib of the pen with my finger, and a few flakes of long-dry ink crumbled off. I capped the pen and returned it to the desk, trying very hard not to read the whole thing as ominous. There were enough voices in my life telling me I couldn’t this, or shouldn’t that, or that I wasn’t up to the task—the last thing I intended to do was start agreeing with them.

  I shook the nervous thoughts from my mind and returned my attention to the door. With a push, it opened onto a hallway that zigged and zagged until it came to four doorways, two on either side, and a spiral staircase at the far end. I peeked into the first door.

  Rows of books reached to the ceiling and lined the walls of a beautiful library. Central bookshelves had been arranged to allow light to pour down the aisles from alcove window seats, and the space felt warm and comfortable. I could have spent hours curled up on a soft chair in that room, but slipped back into the hallway to investigate the others.

  The adjacent room was an office. It was well lit, but a mess of files and books. As I leaned in, the eerie sensation of being watched came tingling up my spine. Spinning around, I found the hallway as barren as ever. I pulled the office door closed, beginning to feel a bit like a trespasser. I considered leaving the other rooms alone altogether, but when I saw the last door was already open a crack, my curiosity got the better of me.

  The door yielded to my gentle nudge, then struck something hard and would open no farther. I poked my head in the gap. It was a laboratory. Along the walls and windowsills, beakers and test tubes filled with myriad colors were nestled in complicated brass fixtures. Sunlight shone through them to paint the walls in calico spots. The carpet comprised more stains than original patterns, and was singed in quite a few places. The room smelled oddly sweet and acrid—like bananas and burnt hair.

  I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling that I was not alone, though the sole inhabitant of the laboratory appeared to be a battered, armless mannequin, propped up on one side of the room. I craned my head to see around the door and found myself suddenly attacked, two massive rows of gleaming white teeth gaping over my face. I pulled back sharply, my shriek cut short as I bounced the back of my head off the door frame and then rapped my forehead on the door before retreating successfully into the hallway.

  I breathed heavily, staring at the gap, waiting for the creature to appear. Nothing happened. Still rubbing the back of my head, I peeked in again to find the seven-foot skeleton of an alligator, suspended on cables from the ceiling. I had let Mr. Jackaby’s talk of the supernatural infiltrate my imagination. The bony beast above me was no more dangerous than the ones in the natural history museum back home.

  I pulled the laboratory’s door shut with a squeak and turned to the spiral staircase. Willing myself to calm down and breathe evenly, I climbed the steps up to a poorly lit hallway on the second floor.

  Feeling even more like a prowler in the semidarkness, I tried the first door on my right, hoping for a little light from the windows. I found, instead, precarious towers of treasures, trash, and bric-a-brac. A mounted stag’s head had been propped up against an expensive, newfangled phonograph, an assortment of silk neckties draped over the bell. Chess sets toppled into tea sets, and tea sets into toolboxes. A bed was nearly hidden beneath the bulk of the collection. Some light, at least, petered past the towering clutter, so I left the door open as I crossed to the room opposite.

  This door opened to a bedroom that must have been the same size, but it felt easily twice as large because it was immaculately tidy. The bed had fresh linens and was topped with a plush comforter. Curtains with lace edging hung closed at the window, and as I crossed the floor to open them, I was startled by a sharp gasp. I turned to look for its source, my eyes straining to make out anything in the darkness. I threw back the curtains and whipped around. I was alone in the room, but the tingling in my spine was back, and rapidly creeping up my neck. My heart pounded.

  “Hello?” I squeaked. “Is someone there?”

  Across the hallway, one of the piles shifted. A silver saucer slid away from its service and to the floorboards with a clang. It rolled past the doorway and just out of view down the hall, where it revolved to a ringing stop.

  There had been no gasp, just the sound of shifting clutter. I stepped into the hallway to retrieve the dish. The bedroom door slammed shut at my heels, and I spun. The light beneath the door vanished, exactly as though the curtains beyond had been pulled quickly shut, and I was caught by an icy chill.

  In my rush to return to the well-lit office on ground level, I discovered that it is exceedingly difficult to bound both rapidly and gracefully down a spiral staircase while wearing a dress. As a result, my return to the first floor was executed in a thoroughly undignified somersault. My shoulder aching and my hair a tangled mess, I found my feet at last, and retreated to the safety of the office.

  I took the seat behind the desk and waited for the tingles to leave my spine and my pulse to return to normal. A dusty chalkboard stood against the wall. I tried to make out any words, but they had been smeared to obscurity, if they had ever been legible at all. Several notes had been circled and connected in a sort of web, but all that remained now were the ghosts of the lines.

  Ghosts.

  I glanced up at the ceiling. Directly above me sat the impeccably tidy room with its polished floors and neatly tucked bed. And something else.

  I shook my head. It wasn’t that I did not believe in ghosts; it was that I believed in them in the same noncommittal way that I believed in giant squids or lucky coins or Belgium. They were things that probably existed, but I had never had any occasion to really care one way or another. I had never given ghosts much thought—except, perhaps, as a frightened child gazing into shadows at bedtime.

  Jackaby, I was rapidly discovering, had a way of opening that corner of my brain. It was a quiet little corner in which I had lived when I was younger. It was a corner in which anything was possible, where magic was not an improbable daydream, but an obvious fact—if still only just out of reach. In those days I had known there must be monsters in the world, but I would happily accept them, knowing that, by the same logic, there must also be wizards and wands and flying carpets. I had never really closed that part of my mind, just slowly stopped visiting it as I grew older. I had left it unlocked like the jumbled treasure room upstairs, waiting for someone to come poking about.

  Where was Jackaby? Surely he should have returned by now. I thought about Swift and all those steps, but even the hobbling commissioner must have reached the room after such a wait. I found the mason jar, which Jackaby—or one of his previous assistants—had indiscreetly labeled BAIL
MONEY in bold letters, and pulled it off the shelf. Stuffed in wads and rolls, there must have been over two hundred dollars in the thing! I gawped at the sum. How much should I bring? I had never bailed anyone out of jail before. I wouldn’t feel safe walking down the street with half a year’s wages in my pockets.

  Fortunately, before I had to make a decision, I heard the lobby door bang shut. I tucked the jar back on the shelf and zigzagged quickly down the crooked hallway. Jackaby had just hung his hat beside mine on the rack when I poked my head into the lobby.

  “Oh, hello, Miss Rook. Had a chance to look around a bit?”

  “Just a bit,” I hedged.

  “Good, good.” He hung up the scarf, which dangled nearly to the floor, but kept his bulky coat on for the time being. “While you’ve been relaxing, I have descried invaluable evidentiary information that may prove essential to our investigation.”

  “What?”

  “I found something. Come with me.”

  Chapter Ten

  Jackaby filled me in on the details of his return to room 301 as we walked back down the crooked hallway. He had been able to successfully slip in and out without detection, and had uncovered a few papers of interest.

  Arthur Bragg had produced reams of scribbled notes, most kept in his own shorthand. Amid the papers on his desk were details of recent political debates and annotated minutes from city hall meetings. He had notes from interviews with Mayor Spade and with Commissioner Swift. Both men, as best Jackaby could tell from his quick glance at Bragg’s shorthand, were discussing the upcoming mayoral election.

  “Sounds like Detective Cane was right,” I said. “Bragg must have been Commissioner Swift’s connection at the newspaper.”

  “So it would seem.”