Jackaby (19 page)

T
ime passed in uneven flashes as I drifted in and out of consciousness. In one moment I was on the cold forest floor, and in the next I was lying atop the desk in Jackaby’s front room. Jenny was hovering over me, looking gentle and reassuring. The same ghostly face that had sent me tumbling backward over my chair two days before now filled me with a sense of relief and normalcy.

In a blink, Jenny was gone. Jackaby and someone else—old Hatun, I realized—were setting Charlie onto the broad wooden bench on the opposite wall. Somewhere between the darkness of the forest and the paving stones of Augur Lane, he had returned to a human shape. He was naked except for the blood-caked strips of fabric that had once been a blouse. His face was nearly as white as Jenny’s, and he was drenched with sweat. My head swam and I stared, unable to look away from the terrible damage. Without fur to hide them, the deep red gashes from Swift’s claws were visible all over him. Worst of all was his shoulder. In his human state, it appeared Charlie had been stabbed just under his right clavicle, barely above his lung. I winced and closed my eyes, fighting back tears as I realized he would be lucky to survive the night.

I was surprised to awaken to the early-morning rays of sunlight cutting across the room. My head rested on a pillow, and a soft blanket lay over me. Charlie, still looking harmless and human, slept on the bench. Douglas perched over him like a feathered sentinel. A pillow had been tucked under Charlie’s head as well, and a quilt had been draped over his lower half. A little color had returned to his cheeks, and a proper bandage of white gauze was wrapped expertly around his chest and back, though beads of sweat still glistened on his brow and his skin looked clammy.

I watched his chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. A bruise was beginning to blossom along his side in yellows and blues, and the cuts were everywhere, red and angry. As my eyes passed over each mark, the blows replayed in my memory. My breath caught in my throat, and I felt my chest throb in a dull ache.

My own small scar was tender as I reached a hand to the injury, but the sensation was something deeper. The thought of Charlie, as either man or beast, falling victim to that horrible monster on my behalf was a dreadful barb, caught beneath my ribs. Now, as he lay barely breathing beside me, I had to add guilt to the already confusing emotions I felt for the man. Hushed voices from the hallway drew my mind back into the room. I craned my neck and listened.

“You really shouldn’t have moved him in that condition,” a woman whispered. It was not Hatun or Jenny, but the cadence and Irish accent were familiar.

Jackaby answered her. “I realized the risk, but Inspector Marlowe made it quite clear that after last night, leaving him where the police force would be responsible for him would be far more hazardous to the poor fellow’s health. Thank you for coming so quickly. This has been a rather bizarre situation, and not an easy one for you to be thrust into.”

“If what you said last night truly happened, then I owe him at least this much for the part he played in all this.”

“How soon do you think it would be safe to move him again?”

“Let him rest as long as you can, but all things considered, he’s healing remarkably well.”

“I’m sure the lunar cycle has had a little to do with that. We can only hope his convalescence continues so well from here on. Thank you again, Miss O’Connor.”

Light poured in as the hallway door slid open. Mona O’Connor, the nurse from the Emerald Arch, came through first. She looked exhausted, with curly strands of red hair escaping from where they had been pushed behind her ears, and dark, rust red stains smattered across her apron. She gave me a nod.

“I see you’re awake, dear. Good,” she said. “Drink plenty of liquids in the next few days, and try to rest while you heal up, understand?”

I nodded.

“Lovely. You’ll be fine. A nice, soft bed would do you more good than this slab, if you feel up to stairs.”

She collected her coat and hat, and Jackaby saw her out. He turned back to me after he had closed the door.

“She really is quite talented,” Jackaby said casually. “She has competent hands, although I found her bedside manner somewhat rough. Then again, I imagine most of her patients don’t unconsciously metamorphose into animals and then back in the middle of her care. She had to be a little creative with her use of force.”

“He’ll be all right, then?” I asked. My chest felt tight and sore as I spoke, but the pain had dulled considerably. I propped myself up on my pillow carefully, keeping the soft blanket wrapped around my shoulders for both warmth and dignity.

“He will heal, but the real question is whether we can get him safely away from here before Marlowe decides to come looking for him.”

“Marlowe?”

“The man’s prejudice is infuriating. After the fine service the good detective rendered, the self-sacrifice and personal injury he sustained, that stubborn oaf still wants to call Mr. Cane a werewolf and a public enemy and have him trussed up in chains!”

“Well, can you entirely blame him? If Charlie isn’t a werewolf, then what . . . ?”

“ ‘Caini,’ they call themselves. ‘The Dogs.’ In Romania they are sometimes called the ‘Om-Caini,’ or the ‘Caine Barbati.’ They are a nomadic tribe—therianthropic, yes, but not lycanthropic—and not malevolent, although much maligned.”

I blinked. “Come again?”

My employer sighed heavily and dragged his hand across his face. “Charlie is a member of a very old, very reclusive family of shape-shifters. The House of Caine has no permanent home, rarely settling anywhere for long, and you can see why. They are gypsies, feared and misunderstood, and constantly on the move. The Caini are less fiercely powerful than werewolves, but more fiercely loyal.

“I saw him at once for what he was, of course, and was immediately impressed to find he had made a life here in New Fiddleham. I did my best not to expose the fellow, but I suppose it’s too late for that, now. The Caini’s powers wax and wane with the cycles of the moon, but a full grown Dog like Charlie should have been able to maintain either form at will at any time of the month. It was his own stubborn loyalty that pushed him into overexertion after the banshee was killed, and you saw what came of that. I knew he was losing control, the fool. Now, thanks to his devotion to this ignorant town and its superstitious people, it seems Charlie Cane must follow in his ancestors’ footsteps and flee.”

I watched as Charlie shifted fitfully in his sleep. The quilt over his legs wiggled as his feet twitched unconsciously. He reminded me of a puppy, pawing softly at the floor as he dreamt.

“So . . . he isn’t really a monster, after all,” I said, weakly. “Good. That’s good.”

Jackaby regarded me for several long moments. “Do you see those paintings by the door?” he asked.

I followed his gesture and nodded. On the left hung the knight slaying a dragon, and on the right was the ship being towed through stormy seas by a massive, golden fish. I had seen them on my first day exploring the house.

“Do you know the stories?” Jackaby asked.

“I recognize Saint George, but no—not really.”

“Saint George. The Golden Legend,” said Jackaby, walking under the image of the knight. “A city besieged by plagues brought on by a terrible dragon. Livestock and then human children were sacrificed to appease the beast. When the king’s own daughter was offered up, Saint George intervened, saving the girl’s life. He wounded the creature and bound it, bringing it back to the city to slay before the eyes of the townsfolk.”

Jackaby stepped over to the other painting. “What about this one?”

When I shook my head, he went on.

“This is the story of Manu and the Fish, from Hindu tradition. As the legend goes, a small fish came to Manu for protection. Manu took pity, and kept the thing safe in a jar until it could grow large enough to fend for itself. The fish grew larger and larger, and was enormous when Manu finally released it back into the river. Because of Manu’s kindness, the fish warned him that a great flood was coming, and told Manu to prepare. The fish returned in the midst of the flood to help tow Manu to a safe place to wait for the waters to recede.”

At this point, Jackaby returned to stand beside me. “Saint George’s legend tells of the dangers of mythical creatures, and the value of man asserting dominance over them. Manu’s tale, quite conversely, stresses the value of mercy, coexistence, and peaceful symbiosis.”

He paused, watching Charlie breathing slowly in and out for a few moments. “Were it not for the assistance of our young ‘monster,’ here, you almost certainly would not have survived Swift’s attack. Marlowe is a good man,” Jackaby added, thoughtfully, “but he only knows how to slay dragons. This world is full of dragon-slayers. What we need are a few more people who aren’t too proud to listen to a fish.”

I felt my chest tighten. I had failed to listen. “Jackaby,” I said, “I think Hatun knew what was going to happen.”

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“I think she knew I was going to be attacked. Although she made it sound as though I was going to die.”

“She said you were going to die?”

“Basically,” I answered. “She said that my demise would be imminent if I followed you. I guess you were right about her being unreliable. A lucky thing, too—I much prefer damaged to dead. She was trying to warn me to stay away, but I didn’t listen.”

Jackaby did not respond. He was surveying me with a brooding, sober expression. I was just starting to grow uncomfortable when he broke out of the moment with a wave. “Yes, well, anyway,” he said, the storm clouds vanishing instantly from his eyes. “Nice to have the whole affair behind us. I’ll be whipping up a bit of breakfast. Toddle on over to the laboratory when you’re ready.”

Douglas, from his perch atop the bench, shook his feathery head in a silent caution. I nodded as Jackaby bustled off down the hall. In the distance I could hear him calling, “Jenny! Have you seen that saucepan? The one from that set your grandmother left you?”

“You mean the one you riddled with buckshot dents last month?” came the spirit’s muffled reply. “Or the one you melted last summer with that alchemy nonsense?”

“The first one!”

I eased up to a seated position. The motion was difficult, but not overwhelming, and I found myself smiling as I took in my outrageous surroundings again. It was good to be home.

B
y midday, Charlie had regained his color, and many of the nasty red scratches had somehow already faded to pale scars. I watched his chest rise and fall again until Jenny came to help me into a fresh, loose blouse. I found it in me to finish a cup of tea and a bit of toast, but still Charlie slept.

Now that I was awake, Douglas had relieved himself of his post and flapped off into the house somewhere, leaving me alone with the injured man. I stepped gingerly to the bench where he lay. He looked every bit as sweet and unassuming as he always had, perhaps even a little more so when his brow crinkled ever so slightly and his muscles tensed in his sleep. I hated to think he might be reliving his savage battle, and dearly wished there was something I could do to ease his turmoil. I reached out a hand to brush a curl of dark hair from his forehead, and then hesitated.

My heart thumped, beating hot against my scar. In the storybooks, a beautiful princess would revive him with a kiss, and the pair would live happily every after—but I was not a beautiful princess. I was a girl from Hampshire who liked to play in the dirt.

A cold breeze brushed my elbow, and a moment later Jenny’s soft voice came from over my shoulder. “How are you feeling, Abigail?”

“Helpless,” I answered, honestly. “I don’t like feeling helpless.”

She stood beside me, looking over Charlie. “He’s doing quite well, all things considered.”

I nodded. He was improving impossibly quickly, it was true. In a peculiar way, that was a part of my frustration. I wanted to balance the scales, but I had no special gifts to lend to his recovery—he had to manage that all on his own, and he was. I was surrounded by the spectacular. Charlie, Jackaby, Jenny—they could all do such astounding things, and I was just Abigail Rook, assistant.

“He saved my life,” I said, “and all I could do was watch while he was sliced to ribbons.”

“That isn’t how Jackaby tells it,” Jenny said. “As I understand, you were pretty heroic yourself last night. I think he was downright impressed.”

“Jackaby said that?”

“Well, he might have focused a bit more on the hurling about of antiques . . . and I believe the term he used most was ‘foolhardy,’ but you learn to tell with Jackaby. Did you really fight off a redcap with a handful of books?”

“Something like that,” I mumbled.

“Sounds like you did the saving, then.”

“I suppose we took turns.” I returned to the sleeping junior detective and brushed back the loose lock of dark hair. He stirred ever so slightly at my touch, breathing in deeply. His tense brow relaxed and he softened into a more peaceful slumber.

It was well into the afternoon before Charlie was fully awoken by the sound of Jackaby banging in through the front door. “You’re awake! Good. About time. How are you feeling, young man?”

“I have been better. Swift . . . is he . . . ?” Charlie began.

“Dead? Yes. It’s over.”

Charlie stiffly eased himself to sitting and accepted a cup of tea. “There is much I still don’t understand,” Charlie said. “Why now? Why them? And if you could see me for what I am, why did you not recognize Swift right away?”

Jackaby nodded and looked out the window as he gave his reply. “The last question is the easiest. Swift had repeatedly avoided meeting with me, and I with him. I never actually saw the man, or
creature,
until last night—possibly a coincidence, but it is likely he had heard of my reputation as a seer and did not want to risk the rumors being true. For my own part, I don’t make a habit of engaging police bureaucracy if I can avoid it. I find those nearer the bottom of the chain are more inclined to collaboration—and are also less likely to expel me from matters of interest.

“Regarding the scoundrel’s victims, they fell as follows: Mr. Bragg, the journalist, clearly stumbled upon the pattern of Swift’s killings, and must have made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning the discovery to the commissioner, probably during an interview for some silly political piece. Swift couldn’t have the newsman alerting the public to his villainy, so he dispatched the fellow, then followed centuries of instinct and practice by soaking up the blood in his grisly red cap. Having murdered Bragg, Swift had to make his escape. He hastened first to the window, but Hatun was in the alley below, so he retreated down the stairwell instead. In his hurry, he allowed his iron shoes to leave their impressions in the wood.

“That might have been the end of the bloodshed in New Fiddleham, but it was you, Mr. Cane, who unwittingly sealed the next target’s fate. To avoid mentioning our visit with the banshee, you fed Marlowe a convenient lie about Mr. Henderson having had some information regarding the killer. This proved truly inconvenient for Henderson, because the commissioner was close at hand, privy to every word. Swift could not risk his identity being exposed by a victim’s nosy neighbor. Thus, even though the poor man knew nothing to endanger Swift, Henderson became victim number two.”

Charlie swallowed hard and looked to the bottom of his teacup. Jackaby continued. “Henderson’s demise was far more rushed than Bragg’s. Your standing guard in the hallway forced Swift to make his entrance and exit through the window. Either because of your presence, or possibly because Swift’s hat was still freshly damp from the night before, this time the commissioner barely brushed the corpse before hurrying away. He left the telltale smear, but he abandoned most of the blood to pool on the floorboards. If it weren’t for Marlowe’s bullheadedness, you might have tracked him then.

“Swift’s third victim, alas, is on our hands. Miss Rook and I both testified openly about the identity of Mrs. Morrigan, the banshee, and it was shortly after Swift looked over our statements that she began her own final lament.”

“But why kill the old woman?” he asked. “She didn’t even know about the redcap.”

“It wasn’t for her blood, not that time—she wasn’t human, after all. I believe Swift perceived her as a warning system, an alarm before each kill—too great a liability for him to leave in peace. Bragg, Henderson, Morrigan—one by one Swift snuffed out the threats to his secret, but the whole thing was unraveling too quickly.”

“I see.” Charlie looked up again. “And . . . last night? I’m afraid it’s rather a blur.”

“After we left you, Marlowe helped me put the last piece in the puzzle. His nonsense about not questioning the chain of command told me precisely where a brazen monster would hide: the top. I recalled Miss Rook’s detailed descriptions of the commissioner, and the answer plowed into me. Now I knew what I was up against, I looked for a means to stop the fiend. The most infamous of their brood, one Robin Redcap, was coated in lead and then burned along with his malevolent master—but in the end we did not have time for that. The surest, fastest way to destroy the creature was to destroy its red cap. The cap and the beast are one. I employed a more modern use of lead and a few Bible verses for good measure, but burning the hat was the real deed.”

Charlie nodded and opened his mouth to speak again just as the horseshoe knocker sounded out three loud clacks.

Jackaby peeked through the curtains and scowled. “Marlowe. I was hoping for a little more time, but I suppose this was to be expected.”

I offered to help Charlie down the hall, but he refused to run from his chief inspector. Jackaby grumbled something about stubborn loyalty, and opened the door. Pleasantries were brief, and not particularly pleasant. Marlowe took up a position just inside, maintaining his distance from Charlie.

“Well then,” said Jackaby cynically. “I suppose you’re ready to cart the young man off? Tell me, will it be chains and cement walls, or straight to the firing squad?”

“Neither,” responded the inspector. His voice was rough and tired. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re going to let the man be, Marlowe. We both know that’s not in the cards.”

There was a pregnant silence as Marlowe took a deep breath. “No,” he said at last. “No, that’s not possible. Too many people saw his . . . transformation, and that’s not something they will quickly forget. Even if I did let Officer Cane stay, his life here is over.”

Jackaby nodded grimly. “Exile, then? How charitable.”

“Something like that,” the inspector grunted. “Mayor Spade has asked me to assume the interim position as police commissioner until a proper election can be held. Getting trapped behind a desk is about the last thing I want, but I told him I would accept it . . . for the time being.”

“This is what you came to talk about? Your promotion?”

Marlowe continued, ignoring the detective. “It will give me a chance to push for greater communication between neighboring districts. My boys tell me Bragg had been swapping telegrams for weeks, looking into this thing. Pretty sharp detective work, actually, though it’s a sad state of affairs when my people need a journalist to find their criminal. If we had been comparing notes with Crowley and Brahannasburg, Swift’s spree should never have gone on this long. I’ve even got them talking about extending the telephone lines out to the more rural towns.”

He stepped a little farther into the room. “Speaking of which, I’ve sent a telegram to Commander Bell in Gadston, just this afternoon,” he continued. “Have you ever been to Gadston? It’s small—much smaller than New Fiddleham—but I’m told it’s very pleasant. A lot of open countryside down in Gad’s Valley, too. Excellent for wildlife.” For the first time since his arrival, he made eye contact with Charlie. “One of the benefits of becoming a commissioner, even just ‘acting commissioner,’ is that the job holds a lot of sway. My recommendation for the transfer of an upstanding young officer can hardly be ignored. You will need a new name, of course, but I think the paperwork can be arranged.”

All of us took a moment to let the comment sink in. “Thank you, sir,” said Charlie softly.

“I won’t take any more of your time. Gentlemen. Miss.” He nodded a good-bye and put a hand on the door. “Oh, and in case you haven’t heard, the memorial will be this Sunday at noon. All five victims are to be honored in the same ceremony. Mayor Spade felt it would help everyone in town put this whole unpleasant business behind them.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Jackaby.

“Five?” I asked, before Marlowe could close the door.

He nodded. “Caught that, did you? This one’s sharp. Yes, young lady, five. Three at the Emerald Arch Apartments, then Officer O’Doyle in the forest last night . . . and finally the tragic loss of the town’s own Commissioner Swift.”

“What?” I blurted.

Jackaby scowled darkly at the inspector. “Sounds about right.”

Marlowe sighed. “People have a hard enough time believing in this sort of thing at all. When Swift was in charge, he forbade our giving credence to anything even remotely supernatural—said it hurt our public image for the official record to look like backwoods superstition. He was just using his position to hide, of course, but he wasn’t entirely wrong, either. One monster in the newspaper is more than enough, and by this point, half the town will swear to you they saw a werewolf—even the ones who didn’t see anything at all. It will be easier for everyone to accept if Swift is simply laid to rest as one more victim.”

“Yes,” Jackaby said with a sneer. “The truth can be so detrimental to one’s credibility.”

“Good day, Jackaby.” Marlowe took his leave.

The weather warmed somewhat over the next few days, though the winter chill still hung about, crouching in shady corners to surprise passersby with the occasion sudden gust. The world had brightened. On the second morning after the incident, Jackaby arranged a carriage to Gad’s Valley. He had wired an old acquaintance with a cottage where Charlie could rest and recover under a new name. Then he could decide if he would resume his efforts to take root and build a life for himself, or return to traveling with his family.

Marlowe had sent a case with Charlie’s effects, and he looked much more like himself in a clean pair of properly fitting clothes.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to put New Fiddleham behind you?” Jackaby asked once we’d helped Charlie manage the walk to the cab. “You have an aura of unshakable allegiance. Don’t try to deny it, it’s downright sickening. Marlowe won’t be there for you to tether your loyalties to him . . . nor will I.”

Charlie smiled. “I guess I am . . . rather devoted,” he told the detective, “but not to you. Nor to the chief inspector, although it was an honor to work with you both.”

“Then who . . . ?” Jackaby’s eyes darted to me, and I felt my cheeks flush at the notion.

Charlie looked away shyly. He leaned on Jackaby’s shoulder for support and fumbled in the pocket of his coat. He held up his polished badge, standing up a little straighter as he did.
“I took an oath, Detective.”

Jackaby chuckled. “Ah. Of course. Lady Justice could not ask for a more stalwart watchdog.”

The men shook hands, and Jackaby held open the carriage door. Charlie gave me a courteous nod. “Miss Rook. It has been a pleasure.”

“You must write once you’re settled in,” I said.

His expression clouded. “I don’t know if that would be wise. You have both been exceptionally kind, but not everyone is so understanding. I would hate to bring more trouble to your door because of . . . what I am. After everything that happened—everything the townspeople saw—well, some things are very hard to explain.”

My heart sank. I stood mute, suddenly aware that this was a last good-bye.

“How auspicious,” Jackaby chimed from the carriage door. “Unexplained phenomena just happen to be our specialty. No excuses. You know where to reach us.”

Charlie allowed himself a smile and nodded his assent. I could have kissed them both.

I spent the remainder of the week mostly in the serenity of the third floor for my own recuperation. Although my chest felt better with each passing day, I would occasionally catch myself painfully on a deep breath or sudden turn. I wondered if the little pink scar would eventually vanish, or if my skin had been branded forever. I’m not entirely sure I would have wanted it gone—it was a private badge of my first real adventure.