Ghostly Echoes (10 page)

Chapter Seventeen

A few minutes later Cordelia Hoole was sipping her tea with trembling hands. She and Jackaby sat on either side of the front desk, with Owen Finstern lying motionless on the bench beside them. I had deposited Finstern's bulky machine in the laboratory and brewed a quick pot of tea before rejoining them. Jenny Cavanaugh did not reveal herself, and I wondered if she was just keeping out of sight because of our visitor, or if my ghostly friend still had not rematerialized since the incident in the street.

“You know that you're in danger?” Jackaby asked the widow Hoole as I took up a position beside him at the desk.

“Yes. Yes, of course,” she replied. “That's why I've been in hiding.” Her cup rattled against the saucer. “After what happened to Alice . . . I—I knew her.”

“Alice McCaffery?”

She nodded. “She and Julian were so nice to me. I didn't know very many people in my husband's social circles—but the McCafferys were always so kind. It was bad enough when Lawrence didn't come home that night, but then I heard about Julian disappearing and—and about what they did to Alice . . .” She trailed off, her breath coming in shallow gulps.

“It's all right, Mrs. Hoole,” I said. “You're safe here.”

“How did you hear about them?” Jackaby asked. “Our contact in the police department said you were gone before word could reach you about the grisly state of your husband's corpse.”

“Sir,” I said, “some sensitivity.”

“Excuse me,” he said. “The grisly state of your
late
husband's corpse. Alice McCaffery's body was discovered the same day—how did you hear about it before police could reach you?”

“Miss W-W-Wick.” Mrs. Hoole sniffed and set her cup and saucer down on the desk. “Our housekeeper. She tells me everything. I think she heard it from the McCaffery's maid. She was worried for me. I packed a bag and left at once. Miss Wick stayed to put things in order before joining me.”

“Hm,” Jackaby said. “Miss Wick was still at the house when we came to call on you. Until she wasn't. She was not as forthright as I might have hoped about our investigation.”

“You speak Polish?” I asked Mrs. Hoole.

She shook her head. “No, but I've known Miss Wick for many years. She speaks more English than she lets on. It's sort of her little secret.”

“Indeed,” said Jackaby. “Your housekeeper is good at keeping secrets. Her baby, for example. Was the child with you when we came calling on her?”

Mrs. Hoole bit her lip. “Please, detective. Leave them alone. They've been through enough. I came here to help you. I want to put a stop to this before anyone else gets hurt. I'll tell you anything you want to know, but just leave them out of this. It's my fault they're involved at all.”

“Hm,” said Jackaby again. He looked unsatisfied, but he moved on. “Tell me about your husband's work.”

Mrs. Hoole took a slow sip of tea before she spoke. “My Lawrence was a genius,” she said at last. “He designed locomotives that could run on half the fuel for twice the distance and adding machines that could solve complex equations in a matter of minutes. He contrived such wonderful inventions.”

“Which of them was he working on when he died?”

“None of them. He wasn't building anything of his own design—he was rebuilding someone else's. He said it was a brilliant but broken concept. He was very excited at first. It had something to do with electricity and conduction, but it was all Greek to me when he got talking about the details. Oh, it's my fault, I know it. He was content just tinkering away on his own projects. I pushed him to take the job. I just thought it w-w-would be his chance to be r-r-recognized.”

“Can you tell us anything more specific about what he was constructing?” Jackaby urged. “Think hard now.”

Cordelia shook her head. “Lawrence never spoke at length about his machines with me. Sometimes he would try, but he would get frustrated trying to simplify it all—or else he would get distracted by an idea and just start tinkering away at it right then and there and forget we were speaking. I used to tease him that I would have to register for one of his classes if I hoped to hear the end of a sentence. All of those clever ideas. It's s-s-such a waste. He never wrote half of them down. It was like his pen couldn't keep up with his brain. Whatever he was working on, he t-t-took it with him, I'm afraid.”

Jackaby grimaced with dissatisfaction.

“And now he's gone and they're probably going to k-k-kill me, and I don't even know why!” Cordelia Hoole's shoulders shook as she finally broke. I hurried to offer her a handkerchief and she took it gratefully, burying her face in it as she sobbed.

“Mrs. Hoole,” said Jackaby in an even tone, “if we are to keep you safe, you will need to be completely honest with us.”

“Honest?” she wiped her eyes and sniffled. “I have been honest with you, detective.”

“Honest—but not completely. I have a talent that allows me to see certain truths, and the truth is that you are concealing something. I can see willful obfuscation spread over you like marmalade on toast. I do not care for marmalade, madam, and I care less for secrets.”

“Of course there are things about me you don't know.” She sniffed and her brow furrowed indignantly. “I don't know anything about you, but I came, didn't I?”

“I suppose you did.”

“And I c-c-came inside when you bade me, even after I found you carrying that man into your house. I've put more than my share of trust on the table, thank you very much, Mr. Jackaby. I think I'm entitled to my privacy where I see fit.” She glanced back at the figure occupying the bench. Owen Finstern was breathing evenly. Every once in a while his cheek twitched as he slept off the effects of the jolt his machine had given him. “Who is he, anyway?”

“He is an inventor, like your late husband,” Jackaby answered. “He's called Finstern. He is wanted by some thoroughly unpleasant individuals, the same individuals responsible for Lawrence's death. Beyond that we know very little.” He shook his head, eying the prone figure. “There's something about him I don't like,” he added.

“Could it be the fact that he tried to suck the life out of your steadfast and lovely assistant?” I suggested.

Jackaby glanced in my direction. “The question is: why didn't he succeed?”

“Your concern is overwhelming,” I said.

“It just doesn't make sense,” Jackaby groused. “Your vital energies should have been completely—” He stopped, staring straight ahead.

“This is madness!” Mrs. Hoole's eyes were pink and puffy. “I should never have come.”

“Please, Mrs. Hoole,” I soothed, “you're safe here.”

“No,” said Jackaby, his gray eyes locked on the front door. “She's not.” A moment later the horseshoe knocker rapped out three loud clacks from the other side. “It's him.” Jackaby's voice was grave. “I know that aura. A foul, anathematic shade with a faint halo of lavender. It's him. It's Pavel. The wretch is on our doorstep.”

My eyes shot between the widow Hoole and the dormant Finstern. Of course Pavel was here. We could not have painted the house with two larger targets. “What do we do?”

“The polite thing”—Pavel's voice came muffled through the wood—“would be to stop acting as though I can't hear you and invite me in. Maybe put the kettle on?”

Chapter Eighteen

“Don't open it!” I said.

Jackaby crossed the room. “It's all right. There are rules about this sort of thing and safeguards in place. Stay back, ladies. I think it is high time I met Mr. Pavel face to face.”

The pale man looked exactly as before. He smiled his crooked, arrogant smile up at Jackaby as the door swung open, and I could see the dark gap of his missing fang. I heard a gasp from Mrs. Hoole.

“Detective Jackaby. An honor to meet you at last. I am a big fan of your work,” the vampire said. “I must admit, I was not expecting such quick results. And what's this?” He waggled a finger at Mrs. Hoole. “You caught the slippery little fish that got away from us, as well! You truly have a gift, my friend. We're all very impressed.”

“I take it you've come to make good on your agreement with my assistant?” Jackaby said. I swallowed.

“That's right. Be a chum and invite me in, would you? I'll take the wandering woman and sleeping beauty off your hands before you can say boo, and then you two can get back to your relaxing evening.”

“That was not the deal you struck.” Jackaby stood up a little straighter. “It is my understanding—and Miss Rook is very good about conveying all the pertinent details—that your arrangement was that Miss Rook would receive information from you regarding certain persons of interest in exchange for our finding Mr. Finstern, is that correct?”

“That's right.”

“Well, we found Mr. Finstern. Our end of the bargain is complete. Delivery of the gentleman into your custody was never stipulated. Now then, I believe you have something to share?”

Pavel's eyes narrowed and his expression turned icy. “You don't know me very well,” he said softly, “and you
really
don't know my superiors, if you think I'll be leaving this house empty-handed.” He cracked his neck and composed himself. “I'll tell you what, Detective. In the interest of keeping our relationship professional, why don't you just turn them both over to me, and I will consider not murdering your pretty little assistant in her sleep.”

“You're right, I don't know you,” said Jackaby. “But I do know stories, and that's not how yours works. That thing at your feet? That's a threshold. You are a vampire. Huff and puff all you like, you may not come in.”

Pavel stared daggers at Jackaby through narrow, powder-white eyelids. “Hold on,” he said at length. “I've seen your face somewhere before, haven't I?”

Jackaby stood his ground, glaring back at the pale man. “I expect you've seen quite a lot of me. You seem to be doing more than your fair share of lurking.”

Pavel shook his head. “No. Not the famous R. F. Jackaby. You're right, I have been watching. I know a great deal about R. F. Jackaby. I know, for instance, that R. F. Jackaby did not exist twenty years ago. You look older than twenty, detective. Twenty-seven? Thirty? Forty-two? Years are difficult to judge when you start counting in centuries.”

Jackaby said nothing.

“No. Wait a moment. Now that I see you closer, I do remember. Yes, I have seen that face, long before this ridiculous character that you invented. Helpless scrap of a thing, weren't you? What did they call you back then? It's on the tip of my tongue.”

Jackaby's fists were clenched tight. His knuckles were turning white.

Pavel smiled. “Oh, that's an interesting thought, now, isn't it? Clever little boy hides his true name from the world because words have power, is that right? They do, of course. You were right to hide your name. The thing is, sometimes you need that power.”

He slid closer until the scuffed leather tips of his shoes were right on the edge of the threshold. “I wonder, Detective, whose name is on the deed to this old place?” His milky white hands felt the air in front of him as if he were brushing an invisible curtain. “R. F. Jackaby owns this place, doesn't he? Only—and here's where it gets interesting—we both know that R. F. Jackaby does not exist.” He planted one foot and then the other inside the door, and Jackaby staggered backward a step.

“You're still just a helpless scrap of a thing. Now then, if you don't mind—” Pavel swept past Jackaby and toward Cordelia Hoole. His movements were effortless and inhumanly fluid. Mrs. Hoole threw herself backward with a squeak, but her checkered dress got caught up in her chair, and she toppled to the ground.

I fumbled a rosary off of the hook beside the desk and leapt over to her, holding it up like a shield. The little wooden cross danced as my hand trembled.

“That's cute,” Pavel said. “I'm Jewish—at least I was a very long time ago. I must admit, I haven't exactly been keeping kosher.” He winked and then batted my hand away. My wrist instantly stung, as though I had been bitten. “The thing about faith is that it only works when you have it. Now, you're beginning to make me grumpy. Are you going to get out of my way, or will I have the distinct pleasure of going through you?” His eyes were rimmed with red.

“Y-You can't!” I stammered. “Your benefactors!” Pavel flinched. “They want us alive! Remember? What do you think they'll do to you if—”

“First of all, my benefactors want
him
alive.” Pavel nodded at Jackaby. “So don't get too full of yourself, girlie. Second, there are oh-so-many creative things I can make the detective watch me do to you”—his expression darkened—“if either of you decides to be difficult.”

He made a sudden motion as if to lunge at me, but then drew up short. His sickly white hand, the one with just a stump of a pinky, slowed to a crawl as it extended toward me. Far from his fluid, effortless actions a moment ago, his whole body was now moving as if through heavy syrup—and then he froze completely, his face contorted in a mask of confusion and anger.

“How are you doing this?” he snapped. His eyes darted toward Jackaby, although my employer looked as baffled as he was. “You have no power over me! This is not your house!”

“No.” A shimmer of light rippled in the air between Jackaby and the vampire. “But it is mine.” Jenny's eyes were ice and her glare was iron as she coalesced. She was fury incarnate, her long silvery hair whipping around her. “You,” she said. “You worked with my fiancé.” The temperature in the room plummeted and Pavel's body abruptly stiffened. He made a strangled wheezing sound as though he were suddenly being squeezed very tightly. His feet lifted off the ground until just the tips of his brogues scraped the floorboards. “You shouldn't be here,” Jenny whispered darkly.

With a mad vampire frozen in midair and a vengeful ghost hovering in front of her, I fully expected Mrs. Hoole to bid farewell to her last nerve and collapse at my feet as unconscious as Owen Finstern, but the widow proved surprisingly more resolute. She made the sensible and reasonable decision, instead, to clamber frantically behind the desk, hug her knees to her chest, and huddle in a tight ball taking very deep breaths. I could not fault her. In fact, I considered joining her.

“You're a dead thing!” Pavel croaked. He spun slowly in place an inch off the ground. “You're like me! You shouldn't be able—grkk!”

“I have been feeling much more
able
of late.” Jenny's voice was cold. “I don't like being told what I can't do. My brick. My house. My whole wide world.”

Paper spun off the desk in a sudden flurry, but Jenny remained solid and composed. Crystals had begun to form on the windowsill and Ogden the frog was burying himself into a pile of shredded newspaper in the corner of his terrarium.

Jackaby righted the chair that Mrs. Hoole had toppled. He planted it next to the captive vampire and plopped casually into it. “Words do have power,” he said, “and my dear friend Jenny keeps hers. She made me a promise once, right here in this very room. I asked her never to give up on the place. She never has. You crossed a line, Mr. Pavel, and now you're in her world. I believe you were about to tell us a story?”