Beastly Bones

by William Ritter

  Phenomenal Find Leads to Farmland Fiasco.

  Gad’s Valley may be known for its simple rustic charms, but for one local farmstead, this past week has been more sensational by far. Death, dinosaur bones, and daylight robbery have shaken up the residents of the quiet countryside.

  Ground was broken last Wednesday in the foothills behind the Brisbee family farm, unearthing a massive prehistoric fossil. The discovery quickly gained the attention of local enthusiasts and international experts alike.

  The excavation has already been marred by some sad and unsettling developments. First and foremost, Madeleine Brisbee, 64, was found deceased yesterday morning near the site of the find. Having taken ill several weeks earlier, she is believed to have collapsed from exertion. Foul play is not suspected.

  In the midst of this tragic loss, progress on the discovery has been further hampered by another troubling development. The deceased’s husband, Hugo Brisbee, 67, had scarcely returned from making funeral arrangements, when he received word that an invaluable artifact had been stolen from the site. Investigation into the theft is ongoing.

  Brisbee has been in correspondence with the renowned American paleontologist Lewis Lamb since the earliest stages of the discovery. Lamb, head of Glanville University’s Geological Survey, is expected to arrive within the week to take charge of the excavation.

  One thing is certain: in spite of trouble and tragedy, a great deal more will be coming out of the Brisbee soil this season than carrots and cabbages.

  “Jackaby, read this! We absolutely must look into it!”

  Jackaby took the paper with a scowl and glanced over it for a few moments. “Hmm. Now this is interesting.”

  “More than interesting, it’s spectacular. I mean—very sad about the poor woman, of course—but this is precisely our sort of case! A brazen robbery in which the stolen property is a priceless scientific relic! Do you suppose that if we track down the missing bone, they might let me assist with the dig as well?”

  “What’s that?” Jackaby looked up from the page. “You already have a job, Rook—and I wasn’t talking about that dinosaur business. Here, notice anything peculiar?”

  The page opposite the excavation article was littered with half a dozen local happenings, minor accounts of vandalism, petty theft, and missing persons. “The absent professor?” I guessed. “Unusual for an instructor to be truant, I suppose.”

  “Falderal! Cordovan’s Shoes. There.” He pointed to an article of only two sentences.

  The entry briefly explained that an unidentified miscreant had broken into a shoemaker’s shop three times in the past week.

  “Please tell me you’re kidding, sir. It says the cobbler couldn’t even find anything stolen. That’s annoying, but it’s not a case.”

  “You mean cordwainer,” Jackaby corrected. “Cobblers only make repairs. Do you know who else is known for slipping into shoemakers’ shops and not taking anything?”

  “Please, sir. Don’t say elves.”

  “Elves!”

  “It doesn’t say they made a nice pair of shoes for him—they just broke in. It’s probably some poor vagrant looking to keep dry for the night. It’s not elves.”

  “It could be elves.”

  “It could be elephants—what it is not is a case. Honestly, sir, how often will we have a chance to track down genuine dinosaur fossils?”

  Hank leaned against the counter to watch our exchange.

  “I really don’t see why you find old bones so interesting, Rook,” said Jackaby.

  “You told me yourself that you’re a man of science. Paleontology is a science, and a thrilling one! Surely you’re a bit intrigued.”

  “Anything can be studied scientifically. Pedology is a valid science as well, but I have no interest in staring at dirt. I much prefer to devote my time to the study of pertinent, urgent matters, and to preparation for legitimate potential encounters. The likelihood that I will find myself face-to-face with a dinosaur at any point in my life? Very slim. The likelihood that a secretive little scamp will breach Cordovan’s Shoes again this very night?” He brandished the page at me again. “Nearly absolute.”

  Hank laughed heartily and clapped a hand on Jackaby’s shoulder. “Hah! You haven’t changed a bit, my friend. Aw, let the girl have her fun. What d’ya say, Miss Rook? I’m headin’ out to Gadston first thing tomorrow. I got some business in town before I get down to the valley, but I could meet you down there an’ introduce ya to Brisbee. That is . . . if yer grumpy ol’ boss will give ya the time off.” He nudged Jackaby, who rolled his eyes. I liked Hank Hudson even more than I had before.

  “That is out of the question,” Jackaby said. “The last time I permitted an assistant to pursue an investigation alone, he came back as waterfowl. I need someone in this house to maintain her opposable digits, or I shall have to do everything myself.”

  “Yer gonna be doin’ that anyway if you drive her away.” Hudson gave Jackaby a nudge. “You’ve got those special eyes—take a good look at the kid. Tell me the truth. Is she the type to let go of an adventure when she’s sunk her teeth into it? Ain’t a bad quality in yer line of work.”

  I felt my employer’s piercing gaze for several seconds and resisted the urge to shuffle my feet. Jackaby took a deep breath. “Be that as it may, she has yet to finish chewing on our current morsel. As a matter of fact, weren’t you just saying something about another angle on the case, Miss Rook?”

  I silently cursed his selective attention. “Right. That. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  “You’re better at sorting papers than you are at lying.” Jackaby raised an eyebrow at me.

  “I was just having a bit of a think earlier,” I admitted, “and I realized we never asked Mrs. Beaumont where she bought her cat. There might be something in it—but it could just as well be nothing.”

  “Or it could be everything.” Jackaby’s eyes narrowed. “It definitely merits further investigation. We will call on her first thing in the morning. I’m sorry, Miss Rook, but we must finish properly insulating New Fiddleham from wild, insidious predators before gallivanting off after a bit of dry bone.”

  Hank’s smile remained, but his eyes took on a focused glint. “There somethin’ you forgot to tell me?”

  Jackaby turned back to the trapper with a sly smile. “Why do you think we’re building the box?”

  Jackaby was rarely forthright with the public about the nature of his cases—possibly owing to the public’s tendency to laugh, jeer, or throw things at him when he did speak his mind—but he held nothing back as he explained the chameleomorphs to Hudson. The trapper’s eyes shone with excitement as he listened. “Wait—that mackerel I snagged for ya was one of yer camel-morphy things? Didn’t look like nothin’—you swear you ain’t just messin’ with me? You know how much I love me a rare breed.”

  “Would you like to see her kittens?” Jackaby asked.

  “The fish had kittens?”

  Three of the little fur balls fit in the palm of Hank’s big hand, and he stroked their ears and fuzzy fins with remarkable gentleness.

  “Can I keep one of ’em?” He looked like an enormous toddler, coddling the little things as they played in his arms. “You know me, Jackaby—I’d take real good care.”

  “I’m afraid that is out of the question,” Jackaby replied. “As I have been explaining to Miss Rook, they are far too dangerous. I much prefer to manage their handling myself.”

  “You ain’t gonna kill ’em, are you?”

  “No, as it happens, I am not—but if you find the thought of killing an adorable kitten distasteful, then keep in mind that is precisely what these creatures are currently disguised to do.”

  Hank carefully deposited the litter back into the box. “Well, I can’t say I ain’t a little disappointed, but I do appreciate you lettin’ me have a look at ’em. We’re gonna need us a much bigger box.”

  “The vivarium will not be housing them in their current form for long—that’s the point of
the endeavor. I would like them to fit comfortably, but they will be far less dangerous if I can force them into a smaller form as soon as possible and introduce a more plentiful food source. The Gerridae are just maturing, and in our little pond, alone, we’re likely to see more than our fish can consume.”

  “Gerridae? That some kinda bug?”

  “Indeed. More commonly, I believe they are called water striders or pond skaters.”

  “Skeeters? Yer gonna turn these sweet little kittens into skeeters?”

  “They are not kittens, and yes. Providing them a small, manageable form will allow me to keep them more easily contained, and it will allow them to live out their lives without continuing to ravage the actual feline population.”

  Hank looked a little sad, but nodded. “Yer probably right. Durn shame, though. I woulda called the little one Peanut.” He gave the kitten a last scratch between its ears and returned to assembling the big glass terrarium. I caught Jackaby’s arm before he could start up the burner and get back to soldering.

  “I do hope you’ll reconsider Gad’s Valley, sir,” I said. “You know I would be an excellent paleontologist.”

  “Of course you would. Don’t be thick. By the same token, you would make a fine dishwasher or a street sweeper—that doesn’t change the fact that you have more important work to do here. You matter, Miss Rook. What we do matters. You may be eager to see this case tucked away, but like it or not, you’ve stumbled upon a pertinent point. Population data in the field of transmutational cryptozoology is hazy at best, but chameleomorphs are rare. Very rare. That Mrs. Wiggles ended up in our proverbial backyard is staggeringly suspicious, statistically speaking. We will speak to Mrs. Beaumont in the morning,” Jackaby declared. “And that’s the end of it.”

  We would see Mrs. Beaumont in the morning—Jackaby was right about that much—but it was far from the end of it. Neither of us knew it at the time, but we were only at the start of something much, much bigger.

  Chapter Five

  The following morning I dressed early and descended the spiral staircase to find Jackaby puttering in his laboratory. The daylight streamed through myriad glass tubes and bottles arranged along the windowsill, casting the room in a medley of warm, vibrant tones. The kittens were tumbling about in the finished enclosure in the corner, unperturbed by their captivity. Over his usual attire, my employer had draped a leather apron that might have looked more at home on a blacksmith. He was examining the uneven surface of a thick disc of amber glass, just a little wider across than a dinner plate. From behind it, his face bulged and rippled in golden waves.

  “Good morning, sir,” I said. “Sleep well?”

  “Not generally. Help yourself to a bit of fruit. It’s oranges this week.” He dropped the heavy glass on the table with a clunk, and waved a hand in the general direction of the cauldron. The cauldron was perpetually brimming with food, powered by some impossible enchantment. Admittedly it only ever produced fruit, and rarely of exceptional quality, but it was miraculous nonetheless.

  I selected an orange off the top and sat down, looking more closely at the lumpy glass on the table. The slightly raised nub to one end looked like a slender handle. “I would offer you juice, but I underestimated the efficacy of my catalyzing agent this morning,” said Jackaby.

  “Come again?” I asked.

  “Breakfast science. The thermochemical reactions involved proved more intense than I anticipated.” He tapped the amber glass with his knuckle. “Jenny was not thrilled about her pitcher, either.”

  “How did you melt—”

  A firm rapping issued suddenly from the front door, and Jackaby pulled off his apron. “Who do you suppose that is at this hour?” he said, heading out into the hallway. I abandoned my orange and followed close behind.

  The man on the front step was dressed in a stiff blue coat, as he had been when we first met—but in place of twin silver bars, his lapel now bore a silver eagle and a badge declaring him commissioner of the New Fiddleham Police.

  “Marlowe,” said Jackaby.

  “Jackaby,” said Marlowe.

  “Good morning, Commissioner,” I said. “You’re looking well. How is the new appointment treating you?”

  Marlowe sighed. “It’s just acting commissioner, Miss Rook. And acting is a stretch. The only actions I’ve made in the past month have been to wade through bureaucracy and argue with politicians.”

  “Well, there are no bureaucrats nor any politicians on the premises,” I assured him. “Jackaby puts up wards against that sort of thing. Salt and fresh sage, I think. Would you care to come in? I’ll put the kettle on.”

  The commissioner shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve come on police business.”

  “What sort of business would merit a personal visit from the acting commissioner of the New Fiddleham Police?” Jackaby asked.

  “Bad business, I’m afraid. It’s about a personal friend of the mayor. I understand you’ve met Florence Beaumont?”

  “Is that what this is about?” said Jackaby. “You can assure the woman that Mrs. Wiggles and her kittens are being treated with the utmost care. Better yet, we will tell her ourselves. We’ll be returning to Campbell Street presently. We have some other matters to discuss with Mrs. Beaumont, as it turns out.”

  “Is that so?” Marlowe grunted. The commissioner’s eyelids looked heavy, but I could see that he was watching my employer intently. “Then you’re going to need to bring a medium—unless communing with the dead is something you do now.”

  My breath caught in my throat.

  “All too often, in fact,” Jackaby replied, missing the implications entirely. “I had one nattering at me all morning about her glassware. I never have bothered with the trappings of spiritualism, though, if that’s what you mean. I don’t go in for hand-holding and flickering candlelight and all that falderal.”

  “Mr. Jackaby,” I said.

  “Although I was once told that I look quite fetching in a loose headscarf.”

  “Mr. Jackaby!” I said. “He means that Mrs. Beaumont is . . .” I swallowed.

  Marlowe nodded. “Dead.”

  Jackaby straightened, his brows furrowed. A somber focus finally crept into his cloud-gray eyes. “Murder?”

  Marlowe nodded.

  Jackaby took a deep breath. “I see. And your sources have obviously informed you that we paid the lady a visit only yesterday. I assume you’ve slid me into the top of your suspects list, as usual, then?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d love to know what you were doing at the scene, but maids have reported seeing the woman alive well after you two left to make a mess of Market Street.” I cringed slightly. “I’m not here to arrest you this time. I’m here to . . .” Marlowe took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I’m here to enlist your services.”

  Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “What did you say was the manner of Mrs. Beaumont’s death?”

  “Call it unnatural causes,” said Marlowe. The corners of my employer’s mouth twitched upward. Marlowe rolled his eyes and nodded obliquely toward the street. “Just hurry up. I’ve got a driver waiting.” He stamped off down the front step, not bothering to ask if we would be right behind.

  Chapter Six

  Our ride through the early-morning streets was a cold one, and so was the body at the end of it. Mrs. Beaumont lay on her back at the feet of a plush divan when we arrived, the intricate swirls and rosettes of a Persian carpet splaying out beneath her. At a glance, she could have been sleeping. I found myself watching her chest, waiting for some sign of breath—but as the seconds ticked by, I began to feel a knot of queasiness rising in my stomach, and I looked away.

  “Maybe it’s best if you wait outside, young lady,” said Marlowe.

  I shook my head. “If you’ve enlisted Mr. Jackaby, then you’ve enlisted me as well, Commissioner.” I plucked up my nerve and my notepad, and began to record the scene before me. Marlowe turned his attention to my employer, who was already bent over the body.
>
  “First impressions?”

  Jackaby stood beside the corpse. His hands hovered over the body, stirring the air. “There has been an abomination in this house.” He pulled back with a grimace, rubbing invisible particles from his fingers with distaste.

  “You mean like a murder?” Marlowe suggested flatly.

  “Worse,” said Jackaby. He stepped to the woman’s head and knelt. He drew a magnifying glass from his pocket, but rather than gazing through it, he held it by the glass and used its stem to gently nudge the lace collar away from the woman’s neck.

  “I was wondering how long it would take for you to find that.” Marlowe paced around the body and stood across from Jackaby. “What do you make of it?”

  I inched closer and peered over my employer’s shoulder. On the woman’s right side, just beneath her jaw, was an oblong blemish the length of my forefinger—a violet bruise, dappled with dark plum spots. Within the mottled oval was a pea-sized circle of deep red where the woman’s skin had been pierced.

  “Peculiar,” said Jackaby. “There ought to be two.”

  “There’s no exit wound,” Marlowe informed him. “It’s the only mark we’ve found on the body. Doesn’t look like a typical gunshot, but I’ve asked the coroner to look for bullet fragments, all the same.”

  “He won’t find any,” said Jackaby without looking up. “It’s not a projectile; it’s a puncture. The assailant struck the jugular directly. Exsanguination is almost certainly the cause of death. The lack of blood about the body and the burst capillaries around the injury indicate suction . . .”

  “A vampire,” I said.

  Jackaby tucked the magnifying glass back into his coat. “A touch too glaring for my taste, Miss Rook, but that would be the most obvious conclusion.”

  Marlowe groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand.

  “You disagree?” Jackaby said, rising.

  “Of course I disagree. The ‘most obvious conclusion’ is a lunatic with an ice pick or a jealous lover with a letter opener . . .” He took a deep breath. “But the most obvious conclusion keeps falling short—which is why you’re here. So, that’s your first guess, then? You’re opening with vampire?”