Ghostly Echoes

by William Ritter

  “Preceding circumstances?” I asked.

  Again, the mayor and commissioner exchanged glances.

  “Twelve years ago,” Mayor Spade began, “my predecessor, Oslo Poplin, organized a council for the advancement of technology in New Fiddleham. The New Fiddleham Technological Center was going to be Mayor Poplin’s legacy. He hired a team of experts to drive the construction and launch New Fiddleham into the forefront of innovation and industry.”

  “The future,” I breathed. “They were building the future.”

  Jackaby nodded. “Not an unworthy goal.”

  “No, but it was an unpopular one,” Spade continued. “For two years it diverted funds from every other facet of public works. Poplin let the parks become neglected and overgrown. Major roads were riddled with potholes. The future was everything to him, at great cost to the present. It might have all been worth it, except that the closer the project came to completion, the more things went wrong.” Spade removed his glasses and polished them clumsily with one loose end of his bow tie. “In the spring of eighteen eighty-two, the lead architect and two chief engineers disappeared. Then a few scientists and inventors who had declined involvement went missing as well. There was a major investigation. For a time, Poplin managed to keep the newspapers quiet about it. The project was still inching forward, and his entire reelection platform was based on its success.”

  “But then there was Jenny,” said Jackaby, soberly.

  Spade nodded. “People liked Jenny. When the lovely Miss Cavanaugh was found dead and her fiancé was not found at all, word got out. No bribe was large enough to silence the journalists. There was public outrage. The whole project was rocked by scandal, spinning off the rails. And then it blew up entirely.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “It blew up, quite literally. There was an explosion. The Technological Center was decimated. The observatory collapsed, walls came tumbling down. Years of work and thousands of dollars vanished. Poplin’s bold new plan to change the world was suddenly a pile of scrap metal and cinders. I’m told the blast bent metal girders in half and melted the glass right out of the windows.”

  “Don’t look at me,” Jackaby said. “I didn’t move in until eighty-seven.”

  “Don’t think I didn’t check,” Marlowe said.

  “Two of the bodies they uncovered were identified as scientists who had gone missing, Shea and Grawrock,” Spade continued. “There were other remains, but they were too far gone. Carson was notably not identified among them.”

  “Then he might still be alive?” I said.

  “And long gone by now if he is. He took his money and disappeared. Poplin was indicted, accused of everything the court could throw at him, from sabotaging his own project to kidnapping and killing his architects. None of it stuck, of course, because nothing could be proven. If anyone knew what really happened, they were either long gone or buried in the wreckage. Poplin’s political career was over, obviously. He was completely ruined.”

  “I see,” said Jackaby. “And now, ten years later, men of science are disappearing again, their loved ones slaughtered in their homes. The parallels are hard to ignore. It’s a good thing you haven’t rebuilt the Technological Center as well, or we should be watching the skyline for fireworks.”

  Mayor Spade swallowed hard.

  “You haven’t . . .” I said.

  “Not exactly.” The mayor took a deep breath. “Poplin mismanaged his affairs, but he wasn’t wrong. We do need to keep above the current or we will flounder beneath it, so in the past few years I’ve made another push toward modernity in New Fiddleham. The city of Crowley is already phasing out gas lamps. The university district down in Glanville looks like something out of a Jules Verne novel. We’ve fallen behind. The people are ready. With all of the hubbub about the World’s Fair coming to Chicago next year, the public is clamoring for innovation. The city council was unanimous. We installed electric lights in Seeley’s Square, remodeled the Cavendish district, everything was going smoothly. But it’s like some invisible force doesn’t want New Fiddleham to move forward. I fear it’s all happening again.”

  “Wait a moment,” I said. “Cordelia and Professor Hoole lived in Glanville. It’s a tragedy to be sure, and a most urgent case—but not a mark against New Fiddleham.”

  “Except that Lawrence Hoole was my chief architect.” Spade sank in his chair. “I enlisted his help for the New Fiddleham project. He was a central part of my elite team. Together we were going to achieve what Poplin never could. But now . . .”

  “Your team?”

  Spade nodded, his complexion wan and his eyes unfocused. Marlowe spoke for him. “Professor Hoole was not the only member of the intellectual community whose expertise the mayor solicited, nor is he the only one to go missing.”

  Spade nodded his head in confirmation and pointed to a picture on the shelf behind him. It showed Mayor Spade beaming at the camera as he shook hands with a man I recognized from the newspapers as Professor Hoole. A third man stood proudly at their side. “Julian McCaffery,” Spade said sadly, “—missing. Lawrence Hoole—dead. I brought them both into this, and now I’m the only one in that photograph whose corpse the police aren’t either looking at or looking for. Lawrence was a good man. He told me last month that he was having misgivings about the project, that something felt wrong. I should have listened. Poor Cordelia wasn’t even a part of this.”

  I stared at the picture. Lawrence Hoole was smiling in that way my father always had before an expedition. It was an eager smile, a smile of grossly misplaced optimism. I looked away and found my eyes drifting across the other portraits on his shelf. A beautiful woman with brunette curls stood beside Spade in several of them.

  Spade must have followed my gaze. “Her name is Mary,” he said softly. “My wife. I think the two of you would get along very well, Miss Rook—so involved and inquisitive.” He took a deep breath. “Please, gentlemen, Miss Rook. Whoever is behind this didn’t stop at Carson or McCaffery. The wretch went after their families. He killed Jennifer Cavanaugh and Alice McCaffery. Lord knows what’s become of the widow Hoole. I’ll put my own neck on the line for this town—but not Mary’s. I would give anything to keep Mary out of this.” Spade’s jaw was set and his expression hard, but his eyes glistened in the warm light of the study.

  “Don’t worry, Mayor—” I began, but Jackaby cut in.

  “Worry. It is worrisome indeed, and you’re at the core. This all started up again precisely when you picked up where your predecessor left off. Is it possible our culprit is an economic vigilante who doesn’t want another mayor playing in the public coffers?”

  “I guess it’s possible,” Spade said. “But we’ve avoided making the same mistakes that Poplin made with the city’s money. The whole project has been negotiated quietly and kept separate from public works. We held private fund-raising dinners and petitioned sponsors through the post. It was a very successful campaign. We found stable benefactors interested in supporting our work at a very early stage.”

  “I am so sorry,” said Jackaby earnestly. “Your occupation sounds tedious. I mean, really, woefully dull. Politicking must be the most unstimulating job in existence. No wonder Poplin blew it all up.”

  “Hold on,” I said. “Benefactors?” My mind lurched to the man in Jenny’s memory with white-blond hair. Our benefactors have provided us with very clear objectives, the man had said. “What sort of benefactors?”

  Marlowe smiled appreciatively. “You really are better at this than your boss. That was my first question, too. I’ve already got a few officers cross-referencing the donors to see if anything out of the ordinary turns up. If there’s anything to find at the end of the money trail, we’ll find it. For now it seems like that’s about the only trail we’ve got. I’m getting very tired of my missing persons leading to nothing but dead ends and dead bodies.”

  “Well then. Perhaps it’s best if you enlist our services after all, Commissioner,” I said. “At leas
t we can pursue the one missing person we know was still alive when she disappeared.”

  “Cordelia Hoole.” Marlowe considered. His eye twitched involuntarily as he regarded Jackaby, but even he couldn’t deny that, for better or worse, the detective had a way of making unexpected findings come out of the woodwork. Jackaby flashed his best reassuring smile, which was never as reassuring as he thought it was. The commissioner heaved a heavy sigh, but nodded. “Send your expenses to my office, Miss Rook. You two are on the case.”

  Chapter Five

  The train ride to Glanville was smooth, if a bit winding. The trolley was serving something that resembled tea, although I have come to realize that Americans are all too quick to bestow that title on any warm beverage that isn’t coffee. My unfinished cup of brownish liquid had gone lukewarm by the time the train hissed to a stop, and our reception was equally tepid.

  “R. F. Jackaby and companion?” A uniformed officer confronted my employer on the platform.

  “That’s me,” Jackaby confirmed. “And this is Abigail Rook.”

  I offered my hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Officer . . .”

  “Moore,” grunted Officer Moore, not returning the gesture. “I take it you’re the specialists New Fiddleham sent because your commissioner doesn’t think we can do our jobs.” He sniffed. “You won’t find anything we didn’t.”

  “We’ve managed to make ourselves useful in the past,” said Jackaby.

  Yeah, we’ll see.” The officer gave a halfhearted shrug toward the exit. “Got a patrol wagon waiting. I guess I’m taking you to the professor’s place.” Without any further courtesy, he trudged through the gate, and we followed.

  The Hoole house was an imperial-looking building, three stories tall with long, narrow windows and a prim mansard roof. Moore tied off his horse’s reins and stalked up the front walk. A tall woman in a wide straw bonnet watched him from the neighboring garden, her watering can gradually drifting to water the paving stones instead of the foliage.

  “Have you caught her yet, officer?” she called to him when he was nearly at the door.

  “Please go about your business, ma’am.” He gave a tug on the bellpull and leaned unceremoniously against an ornamental urn on the front porch to wait.

  “Caught who, madam?” Jackaby asked the neighbor.

  “That Cordelia woman,” she said. “I knew she was bad news. I told Mr. Hoole—rest his soul—I told him that she was no good from the beginning.”

  “Cordelia was an unpleasant neighbor?”

  “Oh, no. Not at all—she was nothing but sunshine and smiles.” She narrowed her eyes. “That’s how you can tell.”

  “Because she was nice to you?”

  “All the time. It was very unsettling.”

  “I see. And how was she with Professor Hoole?”

  “Oh, she doted on that man. She was always flattering and supportive. The perfect wife. Nobody’s the perfect wife. She was the one that told him he should go and take that job in New Fiddleham, even though it meant he would be traveling all the time. Told him it was his chance to make a name for himself.”

  “How do you know she said that?”

  “Well, she said it with the window open. Not really my fault, is it? Anyway, she said that after the science thing up north was done he could retire and spend time with the family. You see what I mean?”

  “Not remotely. I infer you felt she was disingenuous and dangerous, though. Do you think she might have been a rusalka? Possibly a succubus? A siren? Did she ever seem to be all or part avian to you?”

  “What?” said the woman

  “What?” said Jackaby.

  “Go about your business, ma’am,” said Officer Moore. “This is an ongoing investigation. Go on. Thank you.”

  The woman eyed all of us with suspicion, but she took her watering can and shuffled off.

  Moore gave the bellpull another tug.

  “Pardon me, sir,” I asked, “but with the professor and Mrs. Hoole both gone, who are we waiting for?”

  “They’ve got a housekeeper,” Moore grunted. “Live-in.” He pounded on the door several times. “Hurry it up, Miss Wick! Police business!”

  The door clicked open at last and a small woman with wide, round eyes gestured for us to come in.

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  “Show them around like you showed me,” said Moore. Miss Wick looked out of sorts. “The house, woman.” He gestured at the walls around us. “Show them the house.”

  She nodded but said nothing as she walked us through each room and up and down stairs. There were small scale replicas of steam engines and half-finished clockwork projects tucked all over, as well as schematics and sketches littering the professor’s office. Aside from these myriad marvelous designs, it could have been any family home. There were no obvious skeletons in the Hoole closets, only linen sheets and neatly folded towels. There was something else, though—some detail that tripped into the back of my mind and hid. The silent tour was finished by the time I had fully worked out what it was.

  “Pavel has been here,” Jackaby whispered to me as we returned to the foyer. “I’m sure of it—although his aura has long faded. Some of the professor’s projects are quite keen, but otherwise I’ve not seen anything extraordinary. The general atmosphere of the place is a mix of innocence and secrets, though. Not sure what to make of it. Did you notice anything?”

  “Only that someone else seems to be missing,” I said. He raised a meaningful eyebrow. “Diapers are folded neatly in the closet, little wooden blocks have fallen under the sofa . . .”

  “Oh!” He nodded. “Yes, I see.”

  “Pardon me, officer,” I said, “but did the Hooles have any children?”

  “Nope,” Moore answered flatly.

  “Curious,” I said.

  “Not really. Only married about a year—which you would know if this were your investigation and not ours. All right. That’s it. You’ve seen the whole house. Can I take you back to the train station now, or do you feel like wasting more of my time?”

  “Just a moment,” Jackaby said. He turned to Miss Wick. “Before we go, we would like to discuss with you the embarkation of your employer, if you don’t mind.”

  Miss Wick nodded uncertainly.

  “Could you expound upon the circumstances of the lady’s departure?”

  She nodded politely again, but her eyes bespoke total confusion. She did not reply.

  “Miss Cordelia’s departure?”

  “Ah. Mrs. Cordelia, yes. Mrs. Cordelia is gone.” Miss Wick nodded again.

  “She doesn’t speak much English,” Moore said. “Do you, Miss Wick?”

  The woman shook her head. “Not much English, no.”

  “Polish,” said Moore.

  “Hm.” Jackaby looked to me. “How is your Polish, Miss Rook?”

  “Nonexistent,” I answered.

  Jackaby turned back to the housekeeper. “There was a baby? A child?” He motioned holding an infant, rocking his arms back and forth. “Where is the baby?”

  “Przepraszam,” the woman said, looking helplessly to Officer Moore. “Nie rozumiem. I—I don’t understand.”

  Jackaby scowled and leaned in very close, gazing into the woman’s eyes. Miss Wick staggered back a step.

  “Mrs. Cordelia is gone,” Miss Wick repeated.

  “Well, this is no help,” he said, and then brightened. “Just a moment.” Jackaby crossed the hall to the window, which stood ajar to let in the summer breeze. “Hello! Yes—you there. I can see your straw hat just beneath the hedge. What can you tell us about the child?”

  Officer Moore and I hurried to join Jackaby at the window, outside which the nosy neighbor had been conveniently trimming an already immaculate bush. She swallowed and glanced around her garden.

  “I’m sure it’s none of my business to meddle—” she hedged.

  “Please do, madam. You meddling would be greatly appreciated.”

  “Well”—sh
e dropped the shears and leaned in—“the baby isn’t Cordelia’s. It came in with that maid, the foreign one. Anybody’s guess who the father is. She is a woman of ill repute, make no mistake. The Hooles hired her on shortly after they got back from their honeymoon. I have no idea why poor Lawrence—rest his soul—why he let that woman into his house. Cordelia was always fraternizing with her, too. Talking—and laughing, even! It’s not how you’re supposed to interact with the help, let alone such a disreputable sort.”

  “If the baby is Miss Wick’s, then where is it off to now?” I said. “We’ve been through every room in the house.” I turned back to regard the Hooles’ unassuming housekeeper, but Miss Wick was suddenly nowhere to be seen. “Miss Wick?” I said. Moore and Jackaby joined me in scanning the room. “Miss Wick?”

  Officer Moore helped us search the house from top to bottom, but Miss Wick had vanished. “Her aura is stiflingly unremarkable and it’s everywhere in this house,” Jackaby griped as he hunted for a trail. “It’s like searching for hay in a haystack.” Eventually he caught a recent thread of panic and distress in the air, but it led out the back door and off into the bustling Glanville streets. “She’s gone,” he announced.

  “Huh,” grunted a baffled Officer Moore. “Miss Wick’s been around for every stage of the investigation. She never gave us any trouble. Her running off like that . . .” He took off his uniform cap and shook his head as he peered up and down the busy lane. “That’s odd.”

  “Yes,” said Jackaby. His gray eyes sparkled and his lip began to pull into an involuntary smile in spite of the sudden turn the day had taken. “Yes, it is.”

  Chapter Six

  “I really don’t see what you’re smiling about, sir,” I said as the evening express to New Fiddleham chuffed to life beneath us. “We haven’t come any closer to finding our killers or finding truth and justice for Jenny. We’ve found nothing but more questions.” Glanville ambled lazily past our window, and the setting sun painted the marbled buildings outside our train car in shades of gentle reds and oranges.