Chapter Twenty

I spent the next hour staring at a small patch of gray sky through the cell window and quietly drumming on the bench with my fingers. I had just perfected my timing so that the regular thup of the desk officer’s stamp fit neatly into the rhythm, when the door finally burst open and Jackaby’s voice preceded him through the hallway.

“Well, of course you would think that, if you’re just going to measure a man’s stability on whether or not he can taste banana when there are no bananas physically present. Narrow-minded and dismissive, as always, Inspector.”

The guard with the dirty shoulders pulled open Jackaby’s cell door, delivering the detective back inside with a shove. He slammed it closed, and then crossed over to unlock mine. “You’re next.” He jabbed a meaty finger in my direction, then stood rigidly at the door, waiting for me.

I whispered across the bars to Jackaby as I rose, “Shall I tell them the truth?”

“Have you killed anyone?” he asked, quietly.

“No, of course not!”

“Then I can’t imagine why you shouldn’t.”

The corridor was quiet, punctuated by the occasional clickity-click of a typewriter in one of the offices we passed. I felt like a girl in grammar school, treading the long hallway to the principal’s office with a hall monitor sneering over me all the way. The guard directed me into a room at the end of the hall. The little chamber was slightly larger than the cell had been, but managed to look even more drab and less inviting. The space lacked even the small, barred window that the cell had possessed, leaving nothing to puncture the dull grayness of the walls. The only light came from a single gas lamp, high on the wall behind Marlowe, who was sitting at a table reading over his notes. I took the chair opposite and waited for the chief inspector to speak. The policeman who had brought me in took his position in front of the door, as if I might leap up and race through the police station at any moment.

The table was plain wood, stained and battered, but sturdy. On it sat the handkerchief-bundled tuning fork, Bragg’s map, and Marlowe’s notebook. The latter lay open as Marlowe reviewed some previous entry. I definitely needed a notebook like that. The chief inspector took his time before slowly closing the book and setting it beside him on the table.

“So, Miss Abigail Rook.” He spoke evenly and leaned his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin. “You only recently arrived in New Fiddleham, is that correct?”

“Two nights ago, yes,” I answered. “I arrived by boat late in the afternoon.”

“Inauspicious timing, Miss Rook. Late in the afternoon, two nights ago, Arthur Bragg was still alive. That is—right up until he wasn’t. Had you met the man before then?”

“I never did meet him. Only saw his body, up at the apartment yesterday.”

“Are you staying at the Emerald Arch Apartments, Miss Rook?”

“No, sir. I’ve taken a room in Mr. Jackaby’s building on Augur Lane.”

Marlowe raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. He’s hired me on as his assistant.”

“And invited you to live in his home. Is there any more to the nature of your . . . relationship?” He managed to keep his voice cold and emotionless, but something about the way he paused before the word “relationship” left it laden with unspeakable impropriety.

“What? No!”

Marlowe nodded and made a note. “Why were you at the Emerald Arch Apartments, if not to look for some place to stay?”

I did my best not to let the inspector’s blunt questions and stony bearing get me flustered. “I—I had just started working for Mr. Jackaby—or rather, I think I began working for him while we were there. I was following him on his investigation.”

“Indeed?” Marlow made another note. “Impressive that you should come so quickly to find employment with a man who just happened to be involved in a murder . . . one that took place the very night you arrived in town. Did you seek him out because you were interested in getting a second look at the crime scene?”

The blood was pumping in my ears, and I was quickly beginning to resent the inspector’s implications. “With all due respect, sir, I would be employed by half a dozen other respectable townspeople if any of them had been hiring. Mr. Jackaby had work for me, that’s all—and I’m glad he did, Inspector. He’s a bit strange, it’s true, but at least he’s a competent investigator. His methods don’t include locking up everyone who tries to help.” I realized I had let Marlowe throw me completely off balance, and I sat back nervously, waiting for his rebuke.

To his credit, the chief inspector took my comment in stride. He simply made another quiet mark in his notepad, and continued in the same even tone, a faint touch of gravel in his voice.

“Speaking of Mr. Jackaby’s methods, do you recognize this?” He pushed the map across the table toward me.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, meekly.

“Care to explain it?”

“It’s a map. Mr. Bragg seems to have been researching a string of deaths just outside of New Fiddleham. We believe it’s probably why he was killed.”

“A compelling piece of evidence. Care to explain how it came to rest in the offices at 926 Augur Lane?”

“Oh, yes. I guess Jackaby discovered it in Mr. Bragg’s room, and thought it might be worth looking into.”

“And so he stole a crucial piece of evidence?”

“Well, I don’t think he exactly meant to steal it. I’m sure he was planning on . . .”

“Was this before or after I discovered the two of you contaminating the crime scene?”

I swallowed. “After.”

“Before or after the two of you ignored my order to leave the premises and went, instead, to speak with a witness—a witness who was brutally murdered the following night?”

“Er—after that as well, sir,” I admitted.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning, Miss Rook.”

And so we did. I told him everything, from the kobold on my coat to the silent screams torturing Mr. Henderson, and the effect of Jackaby’s tuning fork. I had explained all about Mona and the banshee, and had just reached old Hatun with her shawl-of-partial-invisibility when there came a knock at the door. Marlowe, in spite of his furrowed brow and occasionally rolling eyes, had listened to it all, jotting notes in his book. “We’ll get back to you in a moment,” he told me, and nodded to the policeman at the door.

The guard opened it a crack and then quickly stepped away, letting it swing wide. He popped instantly to attention beside the doorway. Commissioner Swift stood in the hall, looking thoroughly out of place in the plain, practical quarters of the police station. He wore the same expensive black coat with red trim and matching rosy derby. His collar looked starched, peeking up to frame a dark paisley cravat. He leaned heavily on his polished cane, straightening slightly as Marlowe and I turned to look.

With stiff but purposeful steps, Swift strode into the interrogation room. He fought against his leg braces to affect a normal gait, gritting his teeth every time the mechanism gave out the slightest squeak as he moved. He marched to the table beside Marlowe.

The chief inspector looked as surprised to see him as I was. “Commissioner,” he managed with a respectful nod. “What can I do for you?”

“You can carry on, Inspector. I’ll just be overseeing things. Who do we have here? I thought you were interrogating the infamous Mr. Jackaby.” The commissioner picked up Marlowe’s notebook and flipped back a few pages, scanning the scribbled entries.

“This is his associate, sir, one Abigail Rook. I was just taking a few statements.”

“So I see.” Swift scowled at the notepad and flipped another page. “A banshee? A magic shawl? Really? Trolls, Miss Rook?” His voice dripped with sardonic incredulity as he raised his eyes to mine over the top of the book.

“Just the one troll,” I replied timidly. “I’m told he’s very small.”

“We were nearly finished here,” Marlowe stated, reaching for the book. “If I may?”

Swift tossed it back to the table, ignoring Marlowe’s hand. “You are finished here. I won’t have my chief inspector wasting his time listening to fairy tales while some madman hacks my city to pieces. Do you have any idea how bad that makes me look? Any idea how far I will drop in the polls every time a body turns up in my jurisdiction?”

“Yes, Commissioner. I understand, but . . .”

“But nothing! I want you and your men back out in the streets where you belong, finding answers! Finding me a killer!”

Marlowe, out of self-preservation, bit his tongue before speaking, and I took the opportunity. “Does this mean I’m free to go?”

Swift darted a glance at me as though he had already forgotten I was in the room. “You? Certainly not. Marlowe, keep the both of them locked up tight until this is over. Should keep them out from under foot so you can do your damned job, and teach them a lesson for wasting our time. At least we can tell the press we’ve already taken the prime suspects into custody. The public likes fast action. Justice is swift and all that. Oh, that’s not bad. I should have my campaign boys do something with that. Dixon!”

The commissioner moved stiffly to the door, hollering down the hallway until a scrawny man in a suede suit and straw boater hat popped into view. The two of them disappeared from view around a corner, and the sound of the commissioner’s booming voice faded away.

Marlowe slowly shut his notebook and slid his chair back from the table. “This isn’t over,” he said. Collecting the bloody tuning fork and Bragg’s map, he walked out the door.

The dirty uniform escorted me back to my cell, and I plopped down on the bench. A barred window on the wall across from us had been opened to let in some fresh air. It had begun to rain while I was in interrogation, and the pitter-patter from the window was pleasant, if a bit chilly.

“Did you have a nice time?” Jackaby asked, leaning against the bars between our adjoining cells.

“Did I have a nice time? Being interrogated for a double homicide at a police station on my second day of work?”

“That’s a ‘no,’ then?”

“It was . . . illuminating,” I conceded. “I shouldn’t have thought a young lady would fit the role of murder suspect for a man like Marlowe. It’s almost refreshing to be mistreated equally.”

“Oh, not at all,” Jackaby said. “Culture and lore shape our societal expectations—and Marlowe has no doubt internalized countless archetypes of wicked women. La Llorona and her slaughtered children, Sirens and their shipwrecks, Eve and the apple.”

“Thanks, that makes me feel much better.” I slumped against the wall.

“So, Marlowe has his vigilant eye on you, as well, does he? I suppose he’ll even have poor Douglas pilloried before this is over.”

I proceeded to tell him about the commissioner’s dramatic entrance and exit, and the extension of our custody.

“I should have liked to see Marlowe sweating for once.” Jackaby chuckled.

The wind was picking up and it whistled against the buildings, spattering the windows with rain. Apparently the weather had grown too warm for more snow, but only just. I shivered involuntarily, but not from the cold. The processing officer had taken my long, fitted coat, but the heavy shirtwaist Jenny had lent me was thick and warm, and suited for the cold weather. Something else was sending tremors down my spine. It could not be more than midday, but the sky was growing dark as more clouds rolled in.

“Well, I guess we’ll be here for a while,” I said, trying to remain light. “I suppose we should make ourselves comfortable. At least they feed you in jail, right? It’ll probably be the first proper meal I’ll have had since making port.”

Jackaby looked focused on his thoughts. His eyebrows were knit in concentration. “Hmm? Oh yes. It’s not bad, if you’re partial to creamed corn.”

“Should’ve gotten myself arrested sooner—could’ve saved us the trouble of clearing out a room for me, eh?”

The wind was really wailing now, and a sudden, hard gust danced through the station house, sending a stack of paperwork flying around the room. The portly duty officer latched the window tightly and quickly busied himself sorting out the mess. Even with the windows sealed, the angry gale roared against the panes.

Jackaby was sitting on the bench in his cell, but his eyes were a million miles away.

“Quiet a moment,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. He shut his eyes, and his head cocked to the side as he listened. I listened as well, though it was getting impossible to hear anything over the howling wind.

And then, like a match struck in the dark, my mind made sense of the sound. It had been growing steadily louder on the tails of the storm. I felt the blood drain from my face as icy tingles shot down my spine and danced through my extremities. A drop struck my cheek, and I brushed away my own hot tear.

“You hear it, too?” Jackaby’s voice came somberly through the wind.

I nodded solemnly. “So sad,” I managed.

“Yes,” said Jackaby. “Mrs. Morrigan has a remarkable voice.”

At the mention of the banshee’s name, a burst of lightning lit the little window, and the thunderclap was not far behind. I slumped in my seat, my head reeling, and listened to the banshee’s cry—listened to the sound of our own deaths riding after us on the storm.

“Cake?”

My misty eyes found focus. The policeman with the walrus mustache was holding a tray with a few cheerful slices of birthday cake. He pushed one through the slot at the bottom of my cell.

“It’s just gonna go stale, anyway,” he said, kindly. “And we get ants.”

Jackaby managed a weak smile as the man slid one to him as well. “Thank you, Officer,” he said. “Many happy returns.”