Jackaby (3 page)

A door shut behind me and I whirled around. From an interior room, slipping an arm into his bulky coat as he walked, strode none other than Mr. R. F. Jackaby. He paused and eyed me in confusion as he buttoned up the coat. I, for my part, added nothing to the conversation save the eloquent, “Uh . . .”

His expression suddenly contorted and he broke the silence. “Oh good God! You stared at the frog, didn’t you? Well, don’t just stand there. Get the window up on your side. It’ll be hours before it clears.” He rapidly unclasped and drew up a window on the far side of the room. I glanced behind me, spotting another, and repeated the motion. The acrid stink crept from the terrarium and assaulted my nostrils, gradually easing into full force like a boxer warming up before a fight.

“Are you . . . ?” I began, and then tried again. “I’m here about the posting posted in the, er, post office. You . . .”

“Out! Out!” Jackaby snatched his knit hat from a hook beside the door and gestured emphatically. “You can tag along if you like. Just get out!”

We managed to reach the sidewalk before my eyes began to water, and I welcomed the fresh, cold air. I glanced back at the red door and hesitated, wondering if I should dart back in for my luggage. Jackaby pressed on down the lane, tossing his long scarf over one shoulder. After a rapid consideration, I left the case behind to hurry after the enigmatic man.

I
had to jog to catch up to Jackaby. He had nearly rounded the corner as I matched his stride. He moved his lips rapidly, mouthing thoughts he did not bother to share aloud. Wild locks of hair scrambled to free themselves from under his peculiar hat, and I couldn’t blame them for plotting their escape.

“Do you work for the . . . er . . . the service?” I asked.

He glanced my way. “Service?”

“The investigative service. You’re one of their detectives, aren’t you? I knew it—didn’t I say so? I said you must be a detective!”

Jackaby smiled. “And so I must.” He turned sharply, and I followed at his heels.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if they’ve filled the assistant’s position, would you?”

“If they’ve what, now? Who are ‘they’?”

I handed him the posting. Jackaby scowled at it for a moment.

“I think you must be a bit confused,” he said. “But don’t feel bad—it’s a common state. Most people are.” He folded up the advert and tucked it into his jacket, rounding another sudden turn. “My name is Jackaby. I am, as you said, a detective. I am not, however
with
the investigative service . . . I
am
the investigative service. Or, I should say, I provide it. That is to say, they are I and I am they. And you are . . . ?”

“Oh—Abigail,” I answered. “Abigail Rook.”

“Rook,” he repeated. “Like the bird or like the chess piece?”

“Both?” I answered. “Neither? Like . . . my father, I suppose.” This seemed to either appease or bore Jackaby, who nodded and turned his attention back to the cobbled road and his own thoughts.

We were taking a somewhat winding path for all the hurry Jackaby seemed to be putting into the trip, but we had already traveled several blocks before I spoke again.

“So . . . has it been filled?” I asked. “The position?”

“Yes,” my companion replied, and I drooped. “Since the posting of the advertisement, it has been filled . . . five times. It has also been vacated five times. Three young men and one woman chose to leave the job after their introductory cases. The most recent gentleman has proven to be far more resilient and a great deal more helpful. He remains with me in a . . . different capacity.”

“What capacity?”

Jackaby’s step faltered, and he turned his head away slightly. His mumbled reply was nearly lost to the wind. “He is temporarily waterfowl.”

“He’s what?”

“It’s not important. The position is currently vacant, Abigail Rook, but I’m not certain you’re the girl for the job.”

I looked at the mismatched detective and digested the turn the conversation had taken. His ridiculous hat fought a color battle with his long scarf. The coat that hung from his lanky frame looked expensive, but it was worn, its pockets overstuffed and straining. Their contents jingled faintly as he walked. It was one thing to be turned away by a stuffy suit in an ascot and top hat, but this was another matter entirely.

“Are you just pulling my leg?” I demanded.

Jackaby gave me a blank look. “I clearly have not touched your leg, Miss Rook.”

“I meant, are you serious? You’re really an investigator of—what did your sign say—‘inexplicable phenomena’? That’s really your building back there?”

“Unexplained,” corrected Jackaby. “But yes.”

“What exactly is an ‘unexplained phenomenon,’ then?”

“I notice things . . . things that other people don’t.”

“Like that business back at the inn? You never did tell me how you knew so much about me at a glance.”

“Back where? Young lady, have we met?”

“Have we—is that a joke? Back at the inn? You somehow knew all about where I’d been traveling . . .”

“Ah—that was you. Right. Precisely. As I said . . . I notice things.”

“Clearly,” I said. “I am very keen to learn what you noticed about me, sir—as it obviously wasn’t my face—and you’ll find I can be very persistent when I’ve set myself to something. That is just one of the qualities that would make me an excellent assistant.” It was a reach, I knew, but if I was to be given yet another brush-off, I would at least take my explanation along with it. I straightened up and kept stride, keeping shoulder to shoulder with the man—although, truthfully, my shoulder came up barely past his elbow.

Jackaby sighed and drew to a stop as we reached the corner of another cobbled street. He turned and looked at me with pursed lips.

“Let’s see,” he said at last. “I observed you were recently from the Ukraine. This was a simple deduction. A young domovyk, the Ukrainian breed of the slavic house spirit, has had time to nestle in the folds along the brim of your hat.”

“A what?”

“Domovyk. Were the fur a bit longer, it could easily be confused for a Russian domovoi. It seems quite well established, probably burrowed in more deeply as you boarded the ship. Ah, right, which brings us to Germany.

“More recently, you seem to have picked up a young Klabautermann, a kind of German kobold. By nature, kobolds are attracted to minerals, and take on the color of their preferred substance—yours has a nice iron gray coat. Fondness for iron is rare among fairies and their ilk. Most fairy creatures can’t touch the stuff. That’s probably why your poor domovyk nestled in so deep. Klabautermann are among the most helpful of their breed. See, he’s made some repairs to the hem of your coat, there—probably his little way of thanking you for the ride. These charming fellows are known for helping sailors and fishermen. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote about a cheeky little one who . . .”

I interrupted, “You mean to say I’ve got two imaginary beasties living in my clothes, even though I haven’t ever seen them?”

“Oh, hardly imaginary—and I should think it’s a good thing you
didn’t
see that little chap!” The man allowed a throaty laugh to escape. “Goodness, it’s a terrible omen for anyone blessed by a kobold’s presence on a ship to actually lay eyes on the creature. You’d likely have sunk the whole vessel.”

“But you see them?” I asked. “You saw them right away at the pub, didn’t you?”

“Not right away, no. As you hung your coat, I did spot the droppings on your lapel, which naturally I thought might . . .”

“Droppings?”

“Yes, just there. On your lapel.”

I glanced down, brushing a few stray bits of lint from my otherwise spotless lapel, and then straightened, feeling foolish. “People pay you to tell them this sort of thing?”

“Where it is pertinent to the resolution of their problems, yes,” replied Jackaby, resuming his brusque walk. “Some of my clients are most grateful, indeed. My property on Augur Lane was a gift from Mayor Spade. He was particularly happy to be rid of a nest of brownies who had settled in a corner of his estate—caused no end of trouble, those little ruffians. At least the mayor’s eyebrows seem to have grown back faster than his wife’s rosebushes.”

“Your clients pay you in real estate?” I gawped.

“Of course not,” scoffed Jackaby. “That was a . . . special circumstance. Most pay in banknotes, some in coin. It’s not uncommon for some to pay with bits of gold or silver they happen to have on hand. I’ve more tea services and candlesticks than I can count. I much prefer the banknotes.”

“But, then . . . why do you wear such dreadfully poor garments?” The tactless question slipped out before I could catch myself. My mother would have been appalled.

“Poor garments?” Jackaby scowled. “My dear woman, my wardrobe comprises priceless fineries.”

I tried to determine if the man was speaking in earnest or simply having me on. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, sir—but that hat is a priceless finery?” I asked hesitantly.

“Silk is more precious than cotton because of the nature of its acquisition, is it not? Fine threads are collected from tiny silkworms over countless hours, whereas cotton can be pulled off nearly any farm in the States, and it ships by the boatload. My hat, Miss Rook, is made from the wool from one of the only surviving yeti of the Swiss Alps, dyed in ink mixed by Baba Yaga herself, and knit by my very good friend Agatha as a birthday present. Agatha is a novice knitter, but she put quite a lot of care into this hat. Also, she is a wood nymph. Not a lot of nymphs take to knitting. So, tell me if my hat is not more precious than the finest silk.”

He was speaking in earnest. “Oh yes. I see.” I nodded in what I hoped was a convincing manner. “Sorry. It’s just—at first glance it doesn’t look quite as impressive as all that.”

Jackaby made a noise, which might have been a huff and might have been a laugh. “I have ceased concerning myself with how things look to others, Abigail Rook. I suggest you do the same. In my experience, others are generally wrong.”

My eyes were on my companion as we rounded the corner, and I had to catch myself midstep to avoid barreling into a policeman. Half a dozen uniformed officers kept a crude perimeter around the entrance to a broad, brick apartment building, holding back a growing crowd of curious pedestrians.

“Ah,” said Jackaby with a smile. “We’ve arrived.”

A
tall, barrel-chested policeman looked down his hawk nose at us, and it became apparent that my companion held no more sway here than I did. Jackaby reacted to the obstruction with mesmerizing confidence. The detective strode purposefully up to the officers. “Eyes up, gentlemen, backs straight. Crowd’s getting a bit close, I think. Let’s take it out another five feet. That’s it.”

The officers on the far end with no real view of Jackaby responded to the authoritative voice by shuffling forward, pressing a small crowd of onlookers back a few paces. The nearer officers followed suit with uncertainty, eyes bouncing between their colleagues and the newcomer in his absurd winter hat.

Jackaby stepped between the nearest uniforms. “When Chief Inspector Marlowe arrives, tell him he’s late. Damned unprofessional.”

A young officer with a uniform that looked as though it had once belonged to a much larger man stepped forward timidly. “But Marlowe’s been inside nearly half an hour, sir.”

“Well, then . . . tell him he’s early,” countered Jackaby, “even worse.”

The hawk-nosed policeman with whom I had nearly collided turned as Jackaby made for the doorway. His uncertain gaze became one of annoyance, and, taking a step toward Jackaby, he slid one hand to rest on the pommel of his shiny black nightstick. “Hold it right there,” he called. I found myself stepping forward as well.

“I beg your pardon, sir . . .” I should like to say that I mustered every bit as much confidence as the detective, using my sharp wit and clever banter to talk my way past the barricade. The truth is less impressive. The officer glanced back and I opened my mouth to speak, but the words I so desperately needed failed me. For a few rapid heartbeats I stood in silence, and then, against every sensible impulse in my body, I swooned.

I had seen a lady faint once before, at a fancy dinner party, and I tried to replicate her motions. I rolled my eyes upward and put the back of my hand delicately to my forehead, swaying. The lady at the party had sensibly executed her swoon at the foot of a plush divan. Out on the cobbled streets, my chances of a soft landing were slim. As I let my knees go limp, I threw myself directly into the arms of the brutish policeman, instead, sacrificing my last lingering scraps of dignity.

I gave myself a few seconds, and then blinked up at the officer. Judging by his expression, I don’t know which of us felt more awkward. Anger and suspicion were clearly more natural expressions for him than care and concern, but to his credit, he looked like he was trying.

“Um. You all right, miss?”

I stood, holding his arm and making a show of catching my breath. “Oh goodness me! It must be all this fresh air and walking about. It’s just been so much exertion. You know how we ladies can be.” I hated myself a little bit, but I committed. A few other officers crowding around us nodded in confirmation, and I hated them, too. “Thank you so much, sir.”

“Shouldn’t you . . . um . . . sit down, or something?” the policeman asked.

“Oh, absolutely. I’ll step inside at once, Officer. Yes, sir. I wouldn’t want to stray too far from my escort, anyway. He does worry when I wander off. You’re absolutely right, of course. Thank you, again.”

The big brute nodded, looking a little less out of sorts now that he was being agreed with. I smiled graciously at the circle of uniforms and swept into the building before they had time to reassess the whole affair.

Jackaby regarded me with a raised eyebrow as I closed the door behind me. We found ourselves in a small but well-lit lobby. A wall of miniature, bronze-edged mailboxes stood to our left and a large stairwell, flanked by two fat columns, to our right. Ahead was a door marked
EMERALD ARCH APTS: MANAGER
with a window looking in on the front desk. Within the little office, another policeman was taking statements from a chap in a doorman’s uniform. Neither paid us any attention.

“That ridiculous little performance of yours should not have worked,” Jackaby said.

“You don’t have to tell me that.” I glanced back at the door. “I’m actually a little offended that it did.”

He chuckled. “So, why did you do it? Surely there are employment opportunities that do not necessitate the brazen deception of armed officials.”

I faltered a moment before I defended myself. “Not so terribly brazen,” I said weakly. “I find most men are already more than happy to believe a young woman is a frail little thing. So, technically the deception was already there, I just employed it in a convenient way.”

He surveyed me through narrowed eyes and then grinned. “You may just be cut out for the job after all, Miss Rook. We’ll see. Stick close.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“About to find out.” He ducked his head into the manager’s office. His voice and another responding one came to me in mumbles, and then he popped back out and gestured at the stairs. “Room 301. Shall we?”

Our steps echoed up the stairwell as we started up the first flight.

“So, that policeman just told you where to go?” I asked.

“Yes, very helpful gentleman,” said Jackaby.

“Then, you really are working with the police.”

“No, no, not on this case . . . not as of yet. I simply asked and he told me.” Jackaby swung around the banister as he rounded the curve up to the next flight of stairs.

I thought for a moment. “Is it some kind of magic?” I felt stupid asking.

“Of course not.” Jackaby scoffed at the idea. He paused to examine the banister, and then resumed his trek upward.

“No? Then you didn’t, I don’t know, cast some kind of spell on him or something?”

The man stopped and turned to me. “What on earth makes you think that?” he asked.

“Well, we seem to be sneaking into a crime scene, but you’re not worried about rousing police suspicion, and all your talk about . . . you know.”

“What has that policeman got to be suspicious about? There are half a dozen armed watchmen outside ensuring that only authorized personnel are allowed in. Not unlike your little feigned faint, I merely allowed his assumption to work for me. A far cry from magic spells, Miss Rook, honestly.”

“Well, it’s hard to know what to expect from you. I don’t exactly believe in all this . . . this . . . this occult business. I don’t believe in house spirits, or goblins, or Santa Claus!”

“Well of course not, that’s silliness. Not the spirits or goblins, of course, they’re quite real, but the Santa nonsense.”

“That’s just it! How can you call anything nonsense when you believe in fairy tales?”

“Miss Rook, I am not an occultist.” Jackaby turned on the landing and faced me.
“I am a man of reason and science. I believe what I can see or prove, and what I can see is often difficult for others to grasp. I have a gift that is, as far as I have found, unique to me. It allows me to see truth where others see the illusion—and there are many illusions, so many masks and facades. All the world’s a stage, as they say, and I seem to have the only seat in the house with a view behind the curtain.

“I do not believe, for example, that pixies enjoy honey and milk because some old superstition says they do . . . I believe it because when I leave a dish out for them a few times a week, they stop by and drink. They’re fascinating creatures, by the way. Lovely wings: cobweb thin and iridescent in moonlight.”

He spoke with such earnest conviction, it was difficult to dismiss even his oddest claims. “If you have a . . . ,” I spoke carefully, “a special sight, then what is it that you see here? What are we after?”

Dark shadows clouded Jackaby’s brow. “I’m never sure what others see for themselves. Tell me what you observe, first, and I’ll amend. Use all your senses.”

I looked around the stairwell. “We’re on the second-floor landing. The stairs are wooden and aging, but they look sturdy. There are oil lamps hanging along the walls, but they’re not lit—the light is coming from those greasy windows running up the outer wall. Let’s see . . . There are particles of dust dancing in the sunbeams, and the air is crisp and nipping at my ears. It tastes of old wood and something else.” I sniffed and tried to describe a scent I hadn’t noticed before. “It’s sort of . . . metallic.”

Jackaby nodded. “Interesting,” he said. “I like the way you said all that. The dust-dancing business, very poetic.”

“Well?” I prompted. “What do you see?”

He frowned and slowly continued to the third floor. As we entered the hallway, he reached his hand down and felt the air, as if reaching over a rowboat to trace ripples in the wake. His expression was somber and his brow furrowed. “It gets thicker as we near. It’s dark and bleeding outward, like a drop of ink in water, spreading out and fading in curls and wisps.”

“What is it?” My question came as a whisper, my eyes straining to see the invisible.

Jackaby’s voice was softer still: “Death.”