“Does Lieutenant Dupin know that he very kindly lent you his notes?”
Jackaby shrugged. “I’m confident he’ll piece it together sooner or later. Marlowe keeps him around for something.”
I shook my head, but turned my attention to the notes.
The body of Mrs. Alice McCaffery was found early this morning by one Rosa Gaines, age 32, a maid in the McCaffery household. Mrs. McCaffery had been at my desk in the station house only the day before to file a missing persons report for her husband, Julian McCaffery. En route to investigate now.
I arrived at the McCaffery home just prior to 8 o’clock in the A.M. The scene within is as Ms. Gaines described it. Alice McCaffery lies on the floor of her chamber. Her dress is torn at the neck and signs of a struggle are evident. Cause of death is a single deep laceration to the chest. Blood has dried in a wide pool around the body. My word, but there is a lot of blood.
I stared numbly. I could see why Jackaby was hesitant to share the news. The missing person, the bedroom struggle, the body, the blood. I might as well have just read the police report in the file sitting beside me. It was Jenny’s murder to the last detail.
“What do you make of it?” Jackaby asked.
“Eerily familiar, sir.”
“More than you know,” said Jackaby. “Julian McCaffery was a research scientist, not unlike Jenny’s fiancé, Howard Carson. Carson and McCaffery both studied under Professor Lawrence Hoole at Glanville University, although years apart.”
I swallowed. “That’s an awful lot of coincidences. Hoole went missing, too, didn’t he? Yes, I remember. It was in the Chronicle weeks ago.”
Jackaby nodded. “He makes an appearance in the lieutenant’s next entry, as well.” He gestured to the papers in my hands. I flipped to the next page and read aloud:
It is not yet midday and I have been presented with my second corpse of the day. The discovery was made by Daniel & Benjamin Mudlark. The brothers, ages 7 and 9, disclosed the information in exchange for compensation. They agreed to 5¢ payment and escorted me to the scene.
The body appears to have washed up with sewage runoff on the northern bank of the Inky. Based on physical description and documents found on the body, the deceased is Lawrence Hoole, age 56, a professor at Glanville University. The corpse is waterlogged, but given the minimal state of decay, I estimate he is not more than two days deceased. The only visible injury is a puncture wound at the base of his neck, surrounded by a circular bruise.
The professor is survived by his wife, Cordelia. Glanville Police Department has responded to my inquiries, but inform me that the widow Hoole is . . .
I turned the page over, but that was the last of it. “The widow Hoole is what?”
“Bereaved?” suggested Jackaby. “Disconsolate? Something mournful, I imagine. Probably ‘sad.’ Lieutenant Dupin is nothing if not frugal with his adjectives.”
“Those poor people,” I said. “A single puncture wound and a rounded bruise—that’s Pavel’s dirty work and no mistake. There can be no question that this whole mess is connected, then.”
“What about Cordelia Hoole?” Jenny’s soft voice caught both of us by surprise. I spun to find that she had rematerialized by the window, the sunlight slipping in sparkling beams through her translucent figure.
“Jenny,” I said. “How long have you—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Cavanaugh,” Jackaby cut in. “We really ought to follow up on these leads more thoroughly before we trouble you with the details. I don’t wish to—”
“Jackaby, ten years ago my fiancé vanished and I was murdered. Yesterday that McCaffery man vanished and Alice McCaffery was murdered. Their mentor, Hoole, vanished, and now we know he was murdered as well, and you’re—what? Waiting for the pattern to complete itself? You’re ten years too late to save me, detective. You’re a day too late for Alice McCaffery. The question is, what about Cordelia Hoole?”
Chapter Four
The afternoon air was thick and hot as Jackaby and I left Augur Lane and made our way into the center of town. I had been introduced to a snow-swept New Fiddleham earlier that year, a New Fiddleham where baroque buildings glistened with frost and chilly winds whispered through the alleyways. With the summer sun now beating down on the cobblestones, the city did not whisper so much as it panted heavily, its breath humid and cloying.
Jackaby, still draped in his bulky coat, swam through the mugginess with his usual alacrity, stubbornly unaffected by the swelter.
“Sir,” I said. “With all due respect, I don’t think that Lieutenant Dupin is likely to be very forthcoming about this case, our having stolen what little we already know from his blotter.”
“Borrowed,” corrected Jackaby. “We borrowed what little we know. But I agree. I doubt that Lieutenant Dupin will be of much further use to our side of this investigation. Dupin is merely an artery.”
“He’s a what?”
“An artery,” said Jackaby. “And a good one. But he isn’t the heart. No, we need to speak directly to Commissioner Marlowe. If anything unseemly has landed on the streets of this city, Marlowe will know of it.”
It was still hard to believe that this was my life—murder and mystery in the gritty underbelly of New Fiddleham. Not all of it was as beguiling as it sounds on the page. Truthfully, for all of its intrigue and excitement, adventuring was a most unglamorous career. I grew up on the other side of the Atlantic, a proper English girl. By the time I was ten, I could tell with pinpoint accuracy where I was by the accents around me. I was beginning to develop a similar sensory map of New Fiddleham based on odor. It was not a map I enjoyed filling out.
The industrial districts to the west smelled of coal fires and wood pulp, and the docks to the east of salt spray and fish. In between lay the sprawling, pulsing heart of New Fiddleham, along with every aroma its inhabitants could make. Savory spices of frying, baking, and boiling food would mingle with the whiff of pig slop and chicken coops, only to be shoved aside by the thick, nearly tangible stench of outhouses and steaming sewer drains. A bucket of foul wash-water would evaporate in minutes on the hot paving stones, but its essence would linger for days, wandering the rows of the tenements like a stray cat.
Jackaby and I skirted past a street sweeper whose horse and cart took up most of the narrow alleyway. The man barked a few words at us that I don’t care to record and made a rude gesture.
I loved New Fiddleham. I still do. New Fiddleham had been very kind to me since my arrival—it had only tried to kill me once—but there are two New Fiddlehams: one that knows the light and another that keeps to the shadows. Some corners of the city, I was coming to find, were always dark, as if to spite the sun. At the bottom of a steep hill, I saw a clothesline hung with wash that looked as though its ground-in stains might be the only things holding the tattered fabric together. Between the rags hung a little burlap dress sized for an infant. It was stitched with care, but the words “Gadston Golds” and a picture of a potato were still visible on the side of the skirt. The fabric looked itchy. A pang of sympathy ran through me. I had been raised in privilege, always looking up a little wistfully at the aristocracy, hardly aware that there were people lower down on the social ladder who did not know the bother of having a maid put too much starch on a day dress. I had never thought about the children born in the dark.
Jackaby pressed forward up the hill. He rarely took the same route twice, but I had come to know the landscape well enough to tell we were not bound for the police station.
“Sir,” I called after him. “I thought you said we were going to talk to the commissioner.”
“We are, though we will not find him behind his desk this afternoon. Commissioner Marlowe has scheduled an impromptu meeting with Mayor Spade. He has postponed all other matters and explicitly forbidden any of his subordinates to interrupt, so I gather their conference is of a sensitive and urgent nature.”
“I don’t suppose we’re going to wait patiently for that meeting to conclude?”
<
br /> “Given the news Lieutenant Dupin delivered him this morning, the news which I relieved the good lieutenant of before leaving the station, I think it is safe to assume we know the topic at hand. Our business is one and the same, so they will have to pardon the intrusion.”
“I suppose it won’t be the first time you’ve needed a pardon from the mayor.”
“Some cases go more smoothly than others,” he confirmed with a wink. “Not everyone appreciates my methods.”
As we climbed the hill, the housing improved visibly with each block. We came to neighborhoods whose properties were spaced more and more comfortably apart, until it became a bit of a misnomer to call them neighborhoods at all. Proud white houses—houses that looked as though they might prefer to be called manors—were bordered not by their neighbors’ walls, but by sprawling, elegantly manicured gardens. Here we found the mayor’s home, a stately colonial building. Marble pilasters framed his broad front door, and the whole structure was a testament to right angles and symmetry. It could not have been less like our abode on Augur Lane.
Jackaby rapped the knocker soundly. A long-faced man in a starched collar and black necktie opened the door. “Oh dear,” the man moaned.
“Bertram!” Jackaby patted him on the arm affably as he bustled past him into the front hall. “It’s been ages, how are the kids?”
“I remain unmarried, Mr. Jackaby, and I’m afraid you can’t be seen just now.”
“Nonsense. Miss Rook, can you see me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Well, there you have it. You must have your eyes checked, Bertram. Now then, is our meeting in the drawing room? I hope I’m not late, I would hate to keep the commissioner waiting.” Without giving the butler time to reply, Jackaby strode past him into the house.
Bertram hurried after, urgently trying to get ahead of Jackaby, but my employer spun gaily. I followed close on their heels.
“No, he is not, Mr. Jackaby. And you are not expected today. Please!”
“Ah, the study, then—of course. No need to bother yourself, I remember the way.”
“Mr. Jackaby! This is a private estate, not the mayor’s public offices. My lady, Mrs. Spade, is very particular about the sort of person she admits into her home.”
“Come now, Bertram. I’m sure I’m just the sort of person your lady Spade would be happy to admit.”
“Actually, you are the only person she has mentioned by name to refuse.”
“Then she does remember me, after all these years—how sweet! And we were never even properly introduced. I guess I do tend to leave an impression.”
“More of a smoldering crater,” Bertram grumbled.
Jackaby quickstepped through a hall with a high arched ceiling and came to a mahogany door. “Please, Mr. Jackaby!” Bertram implored.
“Very well. If you insist,” Jackaby said, throwing open the door. “I will. Thank you for the escort, Bertram. You’ve been too kind.”
Bertram was red in the face. He looked as though he were about to object again when his master called from inside the room. “Don’t bother, Bertram. It’s fine.” The man huffed and turned, giving me a disgruntled look as he trudged away. I shrugged apologetically and hurried after my employer.
The room was accented with rich woods and carpeted in tones of deep red and chocolate brown. The shelves were decorated with a collection of leather-bound books, all of which looked expensive and none of which looked as if they had ever been read. Mayor Spade and Commissioner Marlowe sat in high-backed chairs on opposite sides of a cherrywood desk whose ornate legs curved into elegant clawed feet. A third chair sat empty.
Marlowe wore his usual double-breasted uniform, with a silver eagle pinned to his lapel. He looked, as usual, tired but resolute.
“Jackaby,” said Marlowe.
“Marlowe,” said Jackaby. “Good morning, Mayor Spade.”
Spade had doffed his jacket. It was draped over the back of his chair, and a coffee brown bow tie hung undone over his beige waistcoat. He had a full beard and a perfectly bald dome, and he wore a thick pair of spectacles. Spade was not an intimidating figure at his best, and today he looked like he was several rounds into a boxing match he had no aspirations of winning. He had seemed more vibrant the first time we met, and that had been at a funeral.
“I haven’t been up here in years,” continued Jackaby. “You’ve done something with the front garden, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Spade. “We’ve let it grow back. Mary still hasn’t forgiven you.”
“Is that why she’s been avoiding me? Your eyebrows have filled in nicely, by the way, and you can tell your wife the roses look healthier than ever. I’m sure being rid of that nest of pesky brownies did wonders for the roots. I understand a little ash is good for the soil, too.”
“I never saw any brownies, but there was certainly plenty of ash to go around,” Spade mumbled. “That fire spread so quickly we’re lucky we managed to snuff it out at all.”
“You should try blowing up a dragon some time,” I said. “No, scratch that. That went terribly. I don’t recommend it.”
“Impressive blast radius, though,” Jackaby confirmed.
Mayor Spade looked from me to my employer and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Good lord, one of you was quite enough. You had to recruit?”
“You know that I love wistful anecdotes about the destruction of property and endangerment of the public as much as the next man,” Marlowe interjected, “but we’re busy here.”
“Then let us get to business.” Jackaby slid into the remaining chair on Marlowe’s side of the desk. I glanced around, finding myself standing awkwardly just outside the group.
“I’m afraid the commissioner and I have been discussing very sensitive matters, detective,” Spade began. “We really are not at liberty to—”
“Yes, yes, yes. The McCafferys—the mister is missing and the missus is murdered. Lawrence Hoole also washed up, minus a heartbeat and plus one hole in the neck. We know all about that. We also know that these are not isolated instances, but part of a much larger and more nefarious plot. It is all connected. It goes back at least a decade, and we are keen to see that it does not continue for another one. Tell me, gentlemen, what do you know about Cordelia Hoole?”
Marlowe leaned back in his chair, watching Jackaby. Mayor Spade answered instead. “Cordelia is gone.”
“Kidnapped? Another one?”
“Not kidnapped. No. The housekeeper saw her pack a suitcase. Nobody knows where she went.”
“Then perhaps that’s where we should begin,” said Jackaby. “We’re here to assist.”
“The last time you assisted on this case,” Marlowe said at last, “you spent a week investigating one body in the valley and managed to bring the tally up to five dead, one severed limb, and two leveled buildings. What you failed to do was bring back any viable leads whatsoever.”
“It wasn’t the entire limb,” Jackaby replied. “It was just the hand. Hudson looks very smart in a hook, by the way. It suits him. And we did come back with a solid lead.”
“Right. ‘A man.’ That was very helpful. Have you thought of anything to add to that? Let me guess—not human?”
“Well, I can’t be certain of that until I’ve seen him in person, but I can give you his name and a precise description,” Jackaby said. “He is called Petrov or some such, and he has an anathematic aura with distinctly lavender accents.”
Marlowe scowled. Jackaby was not your average detective. He was also a seer. I had come to find that he was not actually all that adept at making the sort of connections that Commissioner Marlowe could make, and frankly he missed a lot of clues that leapt out to even an untrained eye like my own. But Jackaby saw something else that no one else could. He saw auras and energies—the reality behind the mask, he called it. He saw the truth, no matter how improbable. Making sense of any of that truth to anyone else was another matter entirely.
“He’s called Pavel,
actually,” I chimed in, leaning forward from behind my employer’s chair. “Or at least he was ten years ago.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Jackaby confirmed. “Pavel.”
“He’s not a tall man,” I added. “He’s close to my height, I would say, with thinning black hair and very pale skin. He looks about forty, forty-five years old at the most, but he looked the same age a decade ago. He tends to dress all in black. Does any of that help?”
Spade and Marlowe exchanged glances. Marlowe looked at me. “It’s certainly a start, Miss Rook. You should lead with her next time, Jackaby. She’s better at this than you are.”
“Pavel is back,” Jackaby said, ignoring him, “and what’s more, he has been at his bloody business for a very long time. The McCaffery murder is not unique. You should know that there was a strikingly similar case, ten years ago. The woman’s name was—”
“Jennifer Cavanaugh,” Marlowe finished. “Unsolved.”
“That’s right!” I said. “You’ve read her file, then?”
“I helped write some of it,” Marlowe grunted. “I was a probationary detective in eighty-two. My mentor sergeant was assigned to the Cavanaugh murder. I probably did more legwork on the case than he did. Safe money around the station had the fiancé for the killer. Howard Carson had just accepted a major payment before skipping town, and his colleagues all turned up dead or didn’t turn up at all.”
“No, Carson’s wrong for it,” said Jackaby. “The pale man, Pavel—”
“Has a very unique signature, I know. Single puncture wound to the neck. Exsanguination. Very clean. No witnesses. Cavanaugh’s murder was nothing like it. It was a mess. Bloody. Neighbors reported screams. Alice McCaffery’s case looks very much the same. Whoever killed Cavanaugh and McCaffery, he had a very different approach than your pale man.”
“But you can’t possibly think that the murders are unrelated!” I said.
“We do not, Miss Rook,” Marlowe said, heavily. “There are patterns playing out with eerie familiarity here. The method of their deaths, their occupations and relationships, their preceding circumstances.”
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