Beastly Bones

by William Ritter

  “That’s why you’re letting him get away with all of this, aren’t you?” I asked.

  Jackaby looked back at me over his shoulder. “I think we can glaze over a few of the finer points of our report to Marlowe,” he said. “Hudson may have carried the match for a while, but he didn’t start this fire. He’s a good man, and I think he’s been punished enough.”

  The engine was already steaming when Jackaby and I reached the train station. A porter ushered us toward our car, and I passed my suitcase up to Jackaby. I had one foot aboard the train, when a familiar face sidled through the station house doors. Charlie Barker stepped onto the platform, a black-and-white sheepdog trotting obediently at his heels.

  My heart leapt, and I tried not to smile too broadly as I hurried across the steamy walkway to meet him. “Shouldn’t you be resting, Officer?”

  “I’ve had a few matters to attend to,” Charlie said. His eyes looked tired and his complexion ashen, but he seemed relieved to have made it on time.

  “So I see.” I reached down and petted Toby between the ears, and he leaned into my leg affectionately.

  “He needed a home for the time being,” Charlie said. “He’s a good dog. He stayed with the Pendletons all the way to Saint Isidore’s. I found him outside the door to the funeral home this morning. There will be a service in a few days.” He spoke quietly, gently, as if nervous Toby might overhear him.

  “And for Nellie Fuller?” I said.

  “I’ve sent word to her family in New Fiddleham. There are no remains to send home, but a few of her effects survived the fire.” He hung his head. “It does not feel right to diminish the valor of her actions, but her official cause of death is a lightning strike.”

  I sighed. Marlowe had made himself clear that it was in the public good to keep the case covert, and avoid stirring up panic with reports of dangerous creatures running amok. Blowing up a house with a fifty-foot mythical beast was the opposite of covert. However, I had to agree with Charlie that it did not feel right.

  “Misters Horner and Lamb send their regards, by the way,” he said.

  “You’ve given them a visit as well? Is there anyone you’ve not spoken to since I saw you last?”

  “It has been a busy night,” he said. “I wanted to sort out the last of this mess before turning in. You’ll be happy to hear those two are getting along. Well, they’ve stopped actively looking for rocks to hurl at each other, at least.”

  “I imagine not having any bones to bicker over may have helped,” I said.

  Charlie nodded. “It does simplify matters. Mr. Horner is bound for South Dakota this afternoon. He’s already found another dig to attach himself to. Mr. Brisbee is making the most of the situation as well, it seems. I think it might be for the best.”

  “What might be for the best?”

  “The farmer is settling his affairs in town, but he’ll be accompanying Mr. Horner to the next excavation. I was not expecting Mr. Brisbee to take the news quite so well, but he seems more than ready to leave the valley behind and do some exploring of his own. He said it’s what his late wife would have wanted, and I’m inclined to agree. He’s given Lamb permission to root through whatever’s left on the dig site and take it back to the university.”

  “You have had a full dance card, haven’t you? I guess I should be proud to have made the list.”

  “I couldn’t let you leave without saying good-bye.” He looked into my eyes for several long seconds. I could have wrapped myself up in that gaze like a warm blanket. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but then paused and glanced bashfully away. He cleared his throat and straightened his uniform. “And thank you, of course, for all of your help,” he said, “on behalf of the police department of Gad’s Valley.”

  It began to rain gently. The little station’s narrow awning did nothing, and the first drops chilled my neck and pattered against Charlie’s uniform, darkening the blue in uneven speckles.

  “Of course,” I said, using every ounce of effort to will the disappointment out of my face. “We were only too happy to be of service, Mr. Barker.”

  He looked on the verge of speaking again, when the conductor bellowed, “All aboard!” and the whistle screeched.

  “I suppose I had better . . .” I gestured toward the train.

  Charlie nodded. “Good-bye, Miss Rook.”

  “Good-bye, Mr. Barker.”

  I turned and started for the car. This was the moment in the stories when the bold young man would come running after the lady. He would sweep her into a romantic embrace, and for one storybook moment everything would be safe and happy and perfect. In the wake of my grand disaster, with my dress still caked in blood and dust and soot, I really could have used a storybook moment. Just one.

  I stepped aboard the train alone. Romance was for saps, I reminded myself. There was work to be done. Innocent victims had not yet been avenged, their killer still at large. I was not the safe and happy type. I stood at the end of the cramped hallway, feeling the opposite of great. Jackaby’s head poked out of a cabin halfway down the car. “Miss Rook? Do you know which way you’re going? We’re over here.”

  “Yes,” I said, but then I stopped and stood a little straighter. “Yes—I know precisely where I’m going.” I turned on my heels and took a deep breath. “I’m choosing both paths.” And I marched back out to the platform.

  Charlie had not moved. His uniform had slowly grown darker as the specks of rain melted together. His eyebrows rose as he watched me cross the gap, and Toby stood at his side, wagging his tail in the drizzling rain. I kept my head high and did not stop until Charlie and I stood toe-to-toe.

  “Miss Rook?”

  “I’m going to kiss you now,” I said. “That’s going to happen.”

  Charlie swallowed, his eyes wide, and then he nodded quickly. I held on firmly to his starched lapel and leaned forward on the balls of my feet. His lips were warm in the chilly rain, and his fingers were gentle and delicate, if just a little tremulous, as he lifted a hand to my cheek. I dropped back to my heels. “I have work to do,” I said. “I matter. What I do matters. But I look forward to hearing from you. Oh—and the next time you write,” I said as he blinked his eyes open dreamily, “I do hope you will address me as Abigail.”

  The whistle blew again, and I hurried onto the train. The car rumbled to life as I dropped into my seat, and we gradually chugged forward. I slid myself close to the rain-spattered window and waved good-bye. Charlie stood on the wet platform just where I had left him. He looked tired and damp, but a smile was spreading from ear to ear. He waved back earnestly until the train sped up and the station slid out of view.

  Jackaby had buried his nose in an old ragged book before Gadston was behind us. I sat back happily on my seat cushion, revisiting the moment in my mind. It was, with every reprise, an unquestionable victory—my first unadulterated success in weeks. I felt my cheeks dimpling in a sappy schoolgirl smile, and I could not even bother to bring myself to feign composure.

  “Did you see . . . ?” I asked Jackaby.

  He lowered the book just beneath his line of sight and eyed me inscrutably. “I see that you are . . .” He sighed gently. “Giddy.”

  “He kissed me.”

  “You kissed him—which I believe was rather the point. I’m sure Miss Cavanaugh will be very proud when you inform her. Please feel free to contain your enthusiasm until such time as you can share it with her.”

  “He kissed me back, though.”

  “Oh for Pete’s sake. Melancholy might have been more palatable.”

  He ducked back behind his dusty book, and I contented myself with watching the rain stream gracefully across the window as the countryside rolled past.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Commissioner Marlowe stood on the platform with his arms crossed as we disembarked. He had the cheerful demeanor of someone who has been beaten about the face all night with a sock full of porridge—only even more so than usual.

  “Marlowe,�
�� said Jackaby.

  “Jackaby,” said Marlowe.

  “Commissioner,” I said. “How kind of you to come to greet us. How did you even know that we would be on . . .”

  “I make a habit of being well-informed,” he said.

  Jackaby nodded. “Then I take it you’re already well-informed about the most recent developments in Gad’s Valley? Well, that saves a great deal of paperwork on our end, doesn’t it? Miss Rook, you should be pleased about that.”

  “I could use a few more details,” Marlowe said.

  “And you shall have them,” Jackaby replied. “Rook is splendid with details—lots of descriptive adjectives. Maybe too many.”

  “We’ll have a full report to you by tomorrow,” I assured the commissioner.

  “Good,” Marlowe grunted. “In the meantime, I’ll take the abridged version. Did you learn anything at all?”

  I nodded. “There’s someone in the center of all this,” I said. A vision of the pale man hung in my mind. He had stolen the tooth. He had guided Hudson to breed the dragon. He had known about the chameleomorphs. I swallowed. He had killed all those people. “I don’t know who he is or what he’s up to—but he’s the one to watch out for. I’ll give you a full description in our report.”

  “Do,” said Marlowe. He turned back to my employer. “And for future reference, discretion doesn’t generally involve blowing a crime scene off the map with a fireball the size of an ocean liner.”

  “No?” said Jackaby. “Language can be such a nuanced art.”

  “The papers are calling it a lightning strike,” I said. “So you needn’t worry about your townspeople being gripped by any new monster panic.”

  Marlowe looked unsatisfied, but he nodded and we parted ways.

  “Perhaps they should be,” Jackaby murmured as we left the station.

  Jackaby took a circuitous route back to his building, which led us past the New Fiddleham post office. He sidled up to the drop box and pulled a slim package wrapped in brown paper from his pocket. On the front, in his barely legible scrawl, I made out the word Chronicle.

  “Sir?” I said.

  “Miss Fuller asked me to keep this safe for her,” he said. “I don’t believe her final wish was that it gather dust on our shelves, do you?”

  I stared. “Marlowe is not going to be happy about that,” I said.

  “That is a distinct possibility.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t even know if the plates survived the heat. I guess we’ll just have to see what develops, won’t we?” The brown paper package made a tinny clank as it slid down the mail chute.

  Jackaby’s cheery red door was a welcome sight at the end of our journey. I had once been reluctant to step inside the unusual abode on Augur Lane, but now I could not have been happier to be home. Dropping my luggage in the foyer, I breezed through the zigzagging hallway and slowed only a little as I rounded the steps up the spiral staircase. I had so much to tell Jenny. I hoped that she would be proud of me, but I knew I still had to make amends for the way we had left things. I tiptoed to her door and knocked quietly.

  “Jenny?” I said. When no one answered, I tried the handle. It turned easily, and I pushed the door ajar just the barest sliver. “Jenny, it’s Abigail. Are you still cross with me? It’s all right if you are—I would be, too. I am sorry. Jenny?”

  I was careful not to step over the threshold again without permission, but I let her door swing open and peered inside. The room was a portrait of destruction, and Jenny was nowhere to be seen. Bits of porcelain still lay scattered about the floor, a few shards embedded in the plaster of the walls. The armoire lay broken on its side, and the mattress and bed frame were on opposite sides of the room. Feathers littering the floor were the only signs that there had ever been a pillow. The windows had been stripped of their curtains, and in spite of the warmth of the noonday sun, I could see that the panes had frosted over. The only piece of furniture upright was the nightstand, which appeared to be unmolested by the spectral storm. A little sprig of bittersweets had been retrieved from the floor and placed daintily atop it, like a wreath atop a Roman pedestal. I stared at the scene for several seconds, and then shut the door quietly and went back down the steps.

  Jackaby was in his laboratory when I reached the ground floor again. He was scowling and muttering to himself, drumming his fingers along the molten glass that had once been Jenny’s amber vase. “What’s on your mind, sir?”

  “A catalyst.”

  “A what?”

  “A catalyst. It’s an agent that accelerates a chemical reaction. It’s not directly responsible for the results, just for how quickly they get out of hand.”

  “You mean like a mysterious pale man who nudges a few key elements into place until, before we know it, we’ve got a life-sized dragon blowing up over our heads?”

  “You’re becoming remarkably astute, Miss Rook. I do believe I’ve been a positive influence on you. The real question is why?”

  “Well, it did destroy the crime scene, and any hopes we had of finding evidence.”

  “But he couldn’t predict that it would end like that. So why give Hudson the bone in the first place?”

  I froze. “Because he wasn’t giving Hudson a bone. He was throwing one for us.”

  Jackaby raised his eyebrows curiously.

  “Poor Mrs. Pendleton knew the answer ages ago. You don’t throw a dog a bone because it’s got any real meat left on it—you throw a dog a bone to keep it busy. The stranger knew about the chameleomorphs because he knew about Mrs. Beaumont, so he knew exactly what Hudson had in his hands when he gave him the bone. It didn’t matter what happened then, because whatever it was, it was going to be bad, and we were sure to go investigate. The murders, the stolen fossils, the impossible beasts—can you think of a more perfect bone to keep us busy? And we’ve been biting from the start.”

  Jackaby considered this with a scowl. I waited for him to tell me I was being foolish and explain it all away, but he only nodded solemnly. “Someone has gone to great lengths to cause this havoc.”

  “To what end?” I wondered aloud.

  “And to what beginning?” Jackaby amended. “If our mysterious stranger engineered this dragon ordeal and the Campbell Street chameleomorphs, what else is he behind? Dangerous irregularities have been occurring with alarming . . . regularity. It is troubling to consider a criminal manufacturing paranormal mayhem. How long has he been at it? Did he orchestrate the reclusive redcap’s rise to become a predator in public office? Plant the swarm of brownies on the mayor’s lawn? Promote adoption of the Dewey decimal system in libraries across the continent? It’s the not knowing I find most irksome.”

  “The Dewey decimal system?”

  “It’s gaining popularity. I don’t trust it.”

  “We’ll catch him, sir,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “I very much agree, Miss Rook. Now that we know whom we’re looking for, we can do more than flounder in his wake. This spectacular failure of ours may prove to be just the catalyst we needed to propel ourselves toward the greater triumph.” He nodded contentedly. “It makes sense, now. Oh, I feel much better knowing that there is a malevolent force out there, working directly against us at every turn, don’t you?”

  I smiled feebly. “It’s a bright new world, sir.”

  “Indeed. Speaking of which, you should be happy to hear that Douglas has done a fine job of looking after our little transformative pests. They’re all present and accounted for as slightly hairy Gerridae—and the house is still standing, which is nice.”

  I nodded. “Don’t look in Miss Cavanaugh’s room any time soon,” I said. “Still a bit of progress to be made there. Although she did manage to pick up some of the flowers, so at least she’s found her gloves, wherever you hid them,” I said.

  Jackaby paused with a hand on the door to his office. He scowled and reached into his satchel. “You mean these?” He pulled out a bundle of ladies’ gloves. There were two or three pairs in varying s
tates of wear.

  “Oh—you kept them with you while we were away? Really? That’s a little mean, isn’t it?” I thought about the bedroom and the bittersweets. “But then, how . . .” Jackaby stepped into the office, and I followed. A prickly feeling rippled through me, like electricity in the air.

  Jenny was perched in the chair behind Jackaby’s desk. “Welcome home,” she said. She gave our soot-caked clothes a glance. “Have you been cooking again, Jackaby?”

  My employer did not answer her. He stared across the desk, and then a perplexed smile crept into the corners of his lips. “Miss Rook. You may want to fetch that little notebook from your valise.”

  “Sir?”

  “Unless I am very much mistaken, we have another case.”

  The desk, I realized, had been cleared of its usual stacks of books and clutter, and a single file sat squarely in the center. Printed neatly on the front was the name Jenny Cavanaugh. The spectral figure reached out one bare, translucent hand and pushed the file firmly across the desk toward Jackaby. It slid without the slightest hesitation at her touch, coming to rest in front of my employer. A handful of notes and newspaper clippings slipped free from the bundle with words like victim, murder and brutal in bold type. Among them I saw a familiar image—an eerie man, pale and stout, and dressed in black. The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up.

  “It’s time.” Jenny nodded. “I’m ready to know.”

  SUPPLEMENTAL MATERIAL

  It was some time after the business of the bones that I remembered to ask Jackaby about his unlikely version of the voyage of the HMS Beagle. According to my employer, during his expedition in Mauritius, Darwin discovered and brought back to England a live specimen of a chameleomorph. Upon his return, he was given a private conference with King William IV, who marveled at the creature’s ability to mimic its prey. The old monarch ordered Darwin to keep the existence of the creature an absolute secret.