Jackaby Page 9

  “I’m sure I’ll manage. Thank you, sir.”

  “Also, there was an incident with the sugar last month. You’ll find a few lumps in the dish, but they have been thoroughly caramelized. I’m afraid the thermochemical decomposition is irreversible, but they’re still technically sugar.” Several squiggly, molasses brown tendrils stuck out of the sugar bowl, frozen stiff at odd angles as though a minute octopus had been beaten into stillness by the dainty silver spoon.

  “Quite all right,” I said. “Is there anything I ought to be doing to help?”

  Jackaby had already planted himself in his thick leather chair and begun scanning through the first book on the stack. Making no indication he had heard me, he nibbled absently on a curl of browned sugar, and was otherwise entirely immersed in his research. I sat a bit awkwardly on the chair opposite and sipped at my cup, finding comfort in the familiar habit, as he riffled through pages, tucking scraps of paper here and there as makeshift bookmarks.

  My idle eyes scanned the books and decorations around the room. For all the interesting artifacts and volumes they held, I realized there was one thing missing. Not a single photograph, nor portrait painting—not even a simple silhouette—adorned the walls. Even Arthur Bragg’s lonely bachelor apartment had held a photograph of a woman. The woman he loved. The woman who loved him. The woman who sobbed in the street when he was gone. The memory caught in my throat. I wondered which was sadder, leaving someone to cry after you when you were gone, or not having anyone who would miss you in the first place.

  My gaze landed again on the bail jar, stuffed with bank notes, which pulled me away from feeling sorry for others and reminded me to feel sorry for myself, as well. Meeting with Hatun had bluntly reminded me of my current state of homelessness, and I tried to consider the best way to broach the topic of cash before we completely lost daylight and parted ways for the night. Whether from the potent tea or the helpless idleness, I began to feel a bit jittery, waiting for Jackaby to come up for air from his reading.

  I poured a second bitter cup from the beautiful teapot and slid back into my seat. A glimmer of light on the wall caught my eye, and I looked around to see what might be reflecting it. When I glanced back, the glimmer had grown, expanding beyond the surface. I stared. My brain ground into action and made sense of what I was looking at: a face. It was a woman’s face, silvery and pale, and then a smooth, slender neck, and then a body, clad in a simple gown, every inch of her incandescent and immaterial. She slipped from the wall like a swimmer rising from a pool, only it was her form and not the surface behind her that rippled delicately in the wake of the motion. Gently, fluidly, a ghost entered the study.

  I froze, and the cup dropped from my fingers. My mouth gaped, but I found I had forgotten how to make a sound. Fortunately, the scalding sting of hot tea across my thigh pushed its way through my stunned stupor, reminding me. The sound that I made was “Aaayeeaarrgh!”

  This caught Jackaby’s attention.

  The detective quickly pressed a chalky rag into my hands and righted the armchair. I did not recall standing but had apparently done so with great haste, the toppled furniture lying in evidence. I dabbed at my sore, damp leg, staring at the spectral figure as she drifted halfway through the desk to scoop up the teacup that had bounced beneath.

  “If you’re going to have guests,” the ghost said with a sigh, “would it be so hard to give me a little advance warning?” Her eyes were dark with heavy lids. She had soft cheekbones and gentle features, framed neatly by twin locks of hair, which swept her cheeks on either side. The rest was tucked behind her ears and spilled down her back and shoulders in silvery waves, like a mercurial waterfall. She had a slim, spritely figure, and her movements were as smooth as smoke in a soft breeze. She placed the cup on the tray with a gentle clink, and drifted to a seat on the windowsill. Through her opaque figure, I could see the swaying branches of a weeping willow in the yard.

  “How rude of me. Jenny, this is my new assistant, Abigail Rook. Miss Rook, this is Jenny Cavanaugh. I do apologize for not formally introducing you sooner, but Miss Rook and I are currently engaged in matters of life or death, you understand.”

  “I do,” she said wistfully. “More so than you, I imagine. We actually met, while you were out. Well—sort of met. I take it you didn’t tell her about me, either? Not ashamed of me, are you, Jackaby?”

  “Oh bother. Of course not—other things on my mind. Did you get on well?” Jackaby’s attention had returned to the volumes on his desk, and he began absently rolling out one of the charts. Jenny’s shadowy eyes remained fixed on the window.

  “We did not get on well, for your information,” Jenny said. “Nor poorly. We didn’t get on at all, because a lady doesn’t fraternize with strangers who come unannounced into her bedroom. She’s lucky I didn’t take her for a thief.” Then, with that special tone usually reserved for old, accustomed arguments, she added, “Although I wouldn’t have minded if she were a common thief. Maybe then she would have stayed across the hall and made off with some of the rubbish you’ve allowed to take over the guest room before she came traipsing into mine.”

  “It’s not rubbish. I have things exactly where I like them, thank you.”

  My eyes, apparently the only ones actually looking at anybody, bounced back and forth between them as they bantered as casually as neighbors over a hedge.

  “Right. Because there’s no better place for my grandmother’s settee than under a dirty tarpaulin covered with crumbling rocks.”

  “Runestones,” corrected Jackaby, still without bothering to look up. “I’ve told you, they’re a rare and significant record of the ancient Scandinavian gods.”

  “Really? Because the last one you bothered to translate was a dirty joke about a group of rowdy drunkards.”

  “Yes, those are the ones. The Norse really knew how to pick their deities. Those crumbling rocks, I should point out, are making more use of that sofa than either you or your late grandmother, just at the moment.”

  There followed an awkward pause, punctuated only by the occasional flip of a page or shifting of books on Jackaby’s desk. After a short while, it seemed the detective had forgotten he had been conversing at all. His lips formed words occasionally, silently mouthing private thoughts meant to remain between him and his dusty papers.

  The ghost, Jenny, stayed perched on the windowsill, watching the world beyond growing dim. Behind her silvery complexion lay a very human woman. By her features, she could not have been much older than I was. For all her bluster, she looked tired and quietly sad.

  “I’m sorry about the room,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

  She turned her head just a fraction in my direction. “It’s fine.”

  “And about the tea. You just—I wasn’t expecting . . . you.”

  “I know. That’s why I did it.” She dropped to the ground, or just above it, and began to drift toward Jackaby’s door. “You wouldn’t have seen me at all, if I didn’t want you to, dear. I didn’t let the last one see me for a week.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did. That is—I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Cavanaugh.”

  She paused at the threshold and looked back over her shoulder. Her gaze flickered to Jackaby, who remained engrossed in his work, and then turned to me. “Are you, really?”

  Now that the initial shock had subsided, I found her growing less frightening and more intriguing. Once one got past her shimmering translucence and weightlessness, it was difficult to find anything really disturbing about the striking, opalescent lady. I wondered, perhaps a little jealously, if she had looked as beautiful in life. Her flowing gown made me acutely aware of my own plain dress, with its muddy green hem and fresh tea stain. For the first time since England, I wished I had chosen to wear something less practical—something with a corset and ribbons. If I had a figure like Jenny’s, I might actually enjoy dressing up and would certainly never need to worry about being treated like a child.

  I realized I was staring
and held out a hand. “I am charmed.”

  She did not return the gesture, but turned away instead and slid through the door. Because it stood ajar, she only truly slid through a small part of it. From the hallway, she gestured for me to follow.

  I glanced at Jackaby, whose dark hair peeked over the top of a particularly massive leather tome with Celtic knotwork on the cover.

  “Oh, he’ll be at it for hours,” she said wistfully. “Come on.”

  I stepped into the hallway, and she continued toward the spiral staircase. “Have you met Douglas?” she asked as she swept up the steps.

  “Who?”

  She paused halfway around the turn, and a smile danced across her eyes. “You should meet Douglas.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Jenny led me straight to the third floor. I stopped abruptly as I reached the landing, marveling at the space before me. Where the stairs on the previous two floors had opened into thin, dimly lit hallways, this level was wide-open. Interior walls had been knocked out on either side, leaving only the occasional column to support a high ceiling. Broad windows on every wall allowed light to pour in, and the scene they illuminated was astonishing.

  I stood on a hardwood landing that extended ten or fifteen feet, but which seemed then to warp slightly, melting abruptly into grass and mud. The rest of the floor was a rolling, living landscape. Where the hallway should have been, there remained a solid path of wood, laid with a few narrow oriental runners. A slender margin on either side of the carpeting showed floorboards, but then quickly gave way to damp earth on the left and right. Some of the columns, I realized, were sprouting thin branches, and I wondered momentarily if they bore leaves in the spring.

  The dominant feature of the space was the massive pond occupying the majority of the floor. It lay just left of the pathway, an oblong pool of greens and blues, bent slightly like a kidney bean, with a little island in the middle. The island was covered in shrubbery and held what appeared to be a tall armchair with dark plum upholstery. The pond must have been twenty feet across at its widest, and from the look of it, several feet deeper than was physically possible, given the dimensions of the building and the height of the ceiling on the floor below. A few golden orange fish darted about beneath the surface.

  Here and there around the earthen floor sat desks and cabinets, half enveloped by vines and weeds. Chairs, chests of drawers, and even paintings on the walls were fringed with moss, as though nature had crept in through an open window and caught them by surprise during the night. They simply became a part of one lush, well-furnished landscape.

  “I was against it, at first.” Jenny’s voice came from just over my shoulder. “Jackaby didn’t exactly consult me. He has a way of acquiring a lot of favors, especially from his more unconventional clientele. Now, though, I can’t imagine the place without it. On a clear night you can throw back the drapes and let the stars catch in the ripples, and the water bounces their light right back up to the ceiling. It’s really quite beautiful. For a man who professes to be entirely rational and scientific, he can’t seem to steer clear of the impossible and magical.”

  The last rays of the setting sun were bleeding red and orange across the sky, and faint waves of the warm light played across the ceiling above the pond. It made the room feel serene and ethereal. My gaze gradually found its way back to Jenny, who was watching me with pursed lips.

  “Do you have feelings for him?” she asked.

  “Feelings for who?” The image of a certain young policeman popped involuntarily into my mind, and my cheeks flushed as I pushed the thought away.

  “For Jackaby, of course.”

  “Oh—goodness, no!” I had not intended my response to sound quite so aghast, but the question had caught me by surprise. My reaction seemed to please the ghost, however, and her expression softened.

  “You needn’t be quite so shocked at the idea. He is a good man . . . and a not unattractive one.”

  “I suppose,” I said, with some difficulty. “Perhaps if he could be convinced to burn that atrocious hat.”

  Jenny laughed, a bubbling, honest laugh. “Oh, I know! I know! I’ve given up on that battle. Don’t worry—he’ll wear it less often come spring.” Her pretty giggle was infectious, and I found myself chuckling, too. “There is someone, though, isn’t there?” Jenny asked.

  “I—well, I haven’t—no. Not really.” Strong cheekbones, deep brown eyes, and curls of jet-black hair beneath a police cap snuck back into my mind, and my cheeks grew hot again. “No.”

  Jenny sighed. “Don’t waste time. Life is too short for unrequited love. Take it from an expert.” She swept across the woodwork and greenery toward the center of the room. Her weightless steps stirred the blades of grass like a faint breeze. “Fetch a bit of bread from the chest, would you?” she called back.

  I glanced behind me and found, against the wall, a simple wooden crate containing a few loaves of dry bread. I selected one and trotted along the path to catch up. The floorboards tapered off into a grassy mound, where the ghostly lady sat perched on a wrought-iron park bench facing the pond. She patted the seat for me to join her.

  “Why did you come here, then?” she asked as I sat down.

  “It was your idea,” I said. “It is nice, though, you’re right. Very peaceful.”

  “Not to the pond, silly. Why did you come to work for Jackaby?”

  “Oh, that—well. It happened rather quickly, I guess,” I said. “I’ve been in eastern Europe for much of this past year, and only recently docked in the States. Just looking for work, I suppose. Any job would do, so long as it paid for a roof over my head. And there was a posting . . .”

  A mallard fluttered over the surface of the pond toward us, etching a shallow wake with one webbed toe before landing at the water’s edge. I broke a chunk off the loaf and tore it up as I spoke, tossing the crumbs into the nearby grass.

  “Now that I’ve gotten involved—I don’t know. It’s all rather exciting, of course, and more than a bit unbelievable. I should very much like to help solve mysteries and save lives. I fancy there are worse ways to earn a day’s wages.”

  “He’s quite mad, you know. But adventure can be very appealing.”

  I nodded, watching the duck waddle up the bank and begin nibbling at the crumbs. “My father was a bit of an adventurer,” I found myself telling her. “Although I’m not sure he would fully approve of my current situation.”

  I chose not to mention that I had carefully avoided knowing what my parents thought for the past several months. Since making the decision to abscond with the tuition money to fund my travels, I had deliberately kept out of touch. I had sent an occasional postcard, assuring them of my safety and well-being, but never with a return address, nor any way to trace my current whereabouts with any real precision.

  My mother worried, I knew, but my father . . . For my entire life, I had revered the man, and for my entire life, I had heeded his command to stay behind as the dutiful daughter while he marched into discovery. It was not that his word no longer held its power over me, but just the opposite. Secretly, I feared that if he gained the chance to summon me back home to safe monotony, I could only oblige.

  Jenny’s voice gently broke the silence I had left. “Spending too much time around Jackaby can be . . . dangerous. That doesn’t frighten you?”

  “Well, yes, it does a bit, I suppose,” I admitted. I had been getting similar warnings all day, from that unpleasant woman at the telegraph office to Inspector Marlowe—even Jackaby didn’t seem to think I could handle the job. “But today—I don’t know how to explain it. It was so easy to get caught up in it. It felt so natural. Like how you think things ought to be when you’re a child and you’ve been reading storybooks and listening to fairy tales. I guess I forgot about being frightened because it felt good to finally be in the adventure.”

  Jenny sighed and tossed her head back. She said something very softly, which might have been, “And that’s what makes him so dangerous.�
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  The duck polished off the bread crumbs and sauntered up for more. He was a stately fellow, with a deeply black head and back, accented in greens and purples. His wings were brown and hung like a prim vest over his white underbelly. His chest was a dappled, reddish color, and it puffed out slightly, like a cravat, tapering away into the white beneath. He came within a few feet and waited, expectantly. I tossed him another handful of crumbs.

  “There was a woman,” I recalled. “After Jackaby and I left, there was a woman crying. The victim had a picture of her in his room. The whole thing wasn’t sad—I mean, it was grisly and tragic—but it wasn’t really sad until there was that woman crying. That part didn’t feel like the adventures you read about in books. Jackaby says it isn’t over, either. We met a man today who Jackaby believes will be dead by morning.”

  Jenny nodded solemnly, and we watched the duck peck at the bread crumbs for a bit. “You aren’t the first assistant he’s worked with, you know.”

  I nodded. “He told me. A handful of them quit on him . . . and wasn’t there someone who stayed on?” I remembered the cryptic journal page I had stumbled upon downstairs, and a grim thought occurred to me. “Is that you, then? You didn’t—you know—during one of his cases, did you?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Die? No, that happened long before I met Mr. Jackaby. And I never worked for the man, if that’s what you thought. This place was my family’s. A number of occupants attempted to move in before he did, but apparently having a resident ghost isn’t good for property values, and word spreads. The lot fell to the city, and that Mayor Spade fellow called on Jackaby in the hopes he could do some sort of exorcism. That was how we met.” She smiled at the memory.

  “I take it he didn’t exorcise you?”

  She laughed softly. “No, he didn’t exorcise me. He spoke to me. Like a person. He made a pot of tea—even asked my permission to use the kitchen first, and just made a pot of tea. We sat at the table and chatted. It was the first proper chat I’d had in a decade. He poured me a cup and just let it get cold in front of me while we talked about this and that. He was very straightforward. He had no qualms about Spade trying to sell the place, told me the man had every right to. ‘If every dead person decided to keep their property, we’d have nowhere for the living to live,’ he said, which was fair. But he told Spade that I had every right to stay as well. ‘No malevolent spirits, no call for eviction,’ I think he said. And that was that. A week later, Spade gave the place to him.”