Chapter Twenty-Nine

By midday, Charlie had regained his color, and many of the nasty red scratches had somehow already faded to pale scars. I watched his chest rise and fall again until Jenny came to help me into a fresh, loose blouse. I found it in me to finish a cup of tea and a bit of toast, but still Charlie slept.

Now that I was awake, Douglas had relieved himself of his post and flapped off into the house somewhere, leaving me alone with the injured man. I stepped gingerly to the bench where he lay. He looked every bit as sweet and unassuming as he always had, perhaps even a little more so when his brow crinkled ever so slightly and his muscles tensed in his sleep. I hated to think he might be reliving his savage battle, and dearly wished there was something I could do to ease his turmoil. I reached out a hand to brush a curl of dark hair from his forehead, and then hesitated.

My heart thumped, beating hot against my scar. In the storybooks, a beautiful princess would revive him with a kiss, and the pair would live happily every after—but I was not a beautiful princess. I was a girl from Hampshire who liked to play in the dirt.

A cold breeze brushed my elbow, and a moment later Jenny’s soft voice came from over my shoulder. “How are you feeling, Abigail?”

“Helpless,” I answered, honestly. “I don’t like feeling helpless.”

She stood beside me, looking over Charlie. “He’s doing quite well, all things considered.”

I nodded. He was improving impossibly quickly, it was true. In a peculiar way, that was a part of my frustration. I wanted to balance the scales, but I had no special gifts to lend to his recovery—he had to manage that all on his own, and he was. I was surrounded by the spectacular. Charlie, Jackaby, Jenny—they could all do such astounding things, and I was just Abigail Rook, assistant.

“He saved my life,” I said, “and all I could do was watch while he was sliced to ribbons.”

“That isn’t how Jackaby tells it,” Jenny said. “As I understand, you were pretty heroic yourself last night. I think he was downright impressed.”

“Jackaby said that?”

“Well, he might have focused a bit more on the hurling about of antiques . . . and I believe the term he used most was ‘foolhardy,’ but you learn to tell with Jackaby. Did you really fight off a redcap with a handful of books?”

“Something like that,” I mumbled.

“Sounds like you did the saving, then.”

“I suppose we took turns.” I returned to the sleeping junior detective and brushed back the loose lock of dark hair. He stirred ever so slightly at my touch, breathing in deeply. His tense brow relaxed and he softened into a more peaceful slumber.

It was well into the afternoon before Charlie was fully awoken by the sound of Jackaby banging in through the front door. “You’re awake! Good. About time. How are you feeling, young man?”

“I have been better. Swift . . . is he . . . ?” Charlie began.

“Dead? Yes. It’s over.”

Charlie stiffly eased himself to sitting and accepted a cup of tea. “There is much I still don’t understand,” Charlie said. “Why now? Why them? And if you could see me for what I am, why did you not recognize Swift right away?”

Jackaby nodded and looked out the window as he gave his reply. “The last question is the easiest. Swift had repeatedly avoided meeting with me, and I with him. I never actually saw the man, or creature, until last night—possibly a coincidence, but it is likely he had heard of my reputation as a seer and did not want to risk the rumors being true. For my own part, I don’t make a habit of engaging police bureaucracy if I can avoid it. I find those nearer the bottom of the chain are more inclined to collaboration—and are also less likely to expel me from matters of interest.

“Regarding the scoundrel’s victims, they fell as follows: Mr. Bragg, the journalist, clearly stumbled upon the pattern of Swift’s killings, and must have made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning the discovery to the commissioner, probably during an interview for some silly political piece. Swift couldn’t have the newsman alerting the public to his villainy, so he dispatched the fellow, then followed centuries of instinct and practice by soaking up the blood in his grisly red cap. Having murdered Bragg, Swift had to make his escape. He hastened first to the window, but Hatun was in the alley below, so he retreated down the stairwell instead. In his hurry, he allowed his iron shoes to leave their impressions in the wood.

“That might have been the end of the bloodshed in New Fiddleham, but it was you, Mr. Cane, who unwittingly sealed the next target’s fate. To avoid mentioning our visit with the banshee, you fed Marlowe a convenient lie about Mr. Henderson having had some information regarding the killer. This proved truly inconvenient for Henderson, because the commissioner was close at hand, privy to every word. Swift could not risk his identity being exposed by a victim’s nosy neighbor. Thus, even though the poor man knew nothing to endanger Swift, Henderson became victim number two.”

Charlie swallowed hard and looked to the bottom of his teacup. Jackaby continued. “Henderson’s demise was far more rushed than Bragg’s. Your standing guard in the hallway forced Swift to make his entrance and exit through the window. Either because of your presence, or possibly because Swift’s hat was still freshly damp from the night before, this time the commissioner barely brushed the corpse before hurrying away. He left the telltale smear, but he abandoned most of the blood to pool on the floorboards. If it weren’t for Marlowe’s bullheadedness, you might have tracked him then.

“Swift’s third victim, alas, is on our hands. Miss Rook and I both testified openly about the identity of Mrs. Morrigan, the banshee, and it was shortly after Swift looked over our statements that she began her own final lament.”

“But why kill the old woman?” he asked. “She didn’t even know about the redcap.”

“It wasn’t for her blood, not that time—she wasn’t human, after all. I believe Swift perceived her as a warning system, an alarm before each kill—too great a liability for him to leave in peace. Bragg, Henderson, Morrigan—one by one Swift snuffed out the threats to his secret, but the whole thing was unraveling too quickly.”

“I see.” Charlie looked up again. “And . . . last night? I’m afraid it’s rather a blur.”

“After we left you, Marlowe helped me put the last piece in the puzzle. His nonsense about not questioning the chain of command told me precisely where a brazen monster would hide: the top. I recalled Miss Rook’s detailed descriptions of the commissioner, and the answer plowed into me. Now I knew what I was up against, I looked for a means to stop the fiend. The most infamous of their brood, one Robin Redcap, was coated in lead and then burned along with his malevolent master—but in the end we did not have time for that. The surest, fastest way to destroy the creature was to destroy its red cap. The cap and the beast are one. I employed a more modern use of lead and a few Bible verses for good measure, but burning the hat was the real deed.”

Charlie nodded and opened his mouth to speak again just as the horseshoe knocker sounded out three loud clacks.

Jackaby peeked through the curtains and scowled. “Marlowe. I was hoping for a little more time, but I suppose this was to be expected.”

I offered to help Charlie down the hall, but he refused to run from his chief inspector. Jackaby grumbled something about stubborn loyalty, and opened the door. Pleasantries were brief, and not particularly pleasant. Marlowe took up a position just inside, maintaining his distance from Charlie.

“Well then,” said Jackaby cynically. “I suppose you’re ready to cart the young man off? Tell me, will it be chains and cement walls, or straight to the firing squad?”

“Neither,” responded the inspector. His voice was rough and tired. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you’re going to let the man be, Marlowe. We both know that’s not in the cards.”

There was a pregnant silence as Marlowe took a deep breath. “No,” he said at last. “No, that’s not possible. Too many people saw his . . . transformation, and that’s not something they will quickly forget. Even if I did let Officer Cane stay, his life here is over.”

Jackaby nodded grimly. “Exile, then? How charitable.”

“Something like that,” the inspector grunted. “Mayor Spade has asked me to assume the interim position as police commissioner until a proper election can be held. Getting trapped behind a desk is about the last thing I want, but I told him I would accept it . . . for the time being.”

“This is what you came to talk about? Your promotion?”

Marlowe continued, ignoring the detective. “It will give me a chance to push for greater communication between neighboring districts. My boys tell me Bragg had been swapping telegrams for weeks, looking into this thing. Pretty sharp detective work, actually, though it’s a sad state of affairs when my people need a journalist to find their criminal. If we had been comparing notes with Crowley and Brahannasburg, Swift’s spree should never have gone on this long. I’ve even got them talking about extending the telephone lines out to the more rural towns.”

He stepped a little farther into the room. “Speaking of which, I’ve sent a telegram to Commander Bell in Gadston, just this afternoon,” he continued. “Have you ever been to Gadston? It’s small—much smaller than New Fiddleham—but I’m told it’s very pleasant. A lot of open countryside down in Gad’s Valley, too. Excellent for wildlife.” For the first time since his arrival, he made eye contact with Charlie. “One of the benefits of becoming a commissioner, even just ‘acting commissioner,’ is that the job holds a lot of sway. My recommendation for the transfer of an upstanding young officer can hardly be ignored. You will need a new name, of course, but I think the paperwork can be arranged.”

All of us took a moment to let the comment sink in. “Thank you, sir,” said Charlie softly.

“I won’t take any more of your time. Gentlemen. Miss.” He nodded a good-bye and put a hand on the door. “Oh, and in case you haven’t heard, the memorial will be this Sunday at noon. All five victims are to be honored in the same ceremony. Mayor Spade felt it would help everyone in town put this whole unpleasant business behind them.”

“Thank you, Inspector,” said Jackaby.

“Five?” I asked, before Marlowe could close the door.

He nodded. “Caught that, did you? This one’s sharp. Yes, young lady, five. Three at the Emerald Arch Apartments, then Officer O’Doyle in the forest last night . . . and finally the tragic loss of the town’s own Commissioner Swift.”

“What?” I blurted.

Jackaby scowled darkly at the inspector. “Sounds about right.”

Marlowe sighed. “People have a hard enough time believing in this sort of thing at all. When Swift was in charge, he forbade our giving credence to anything even remotely supernatural—said it hurt our public image for the official record to look like backwoods superstition. He was just using his position to hide, of course, but he wasn’t entirely wrong, either. One monster in the newspaper is more than enough, and by this point, half the town will swear to you they saw a werewolf—even the ones who didn’t see anything at all. It will be easier for everyone to accept if Swift is simply laid to rest as one more victim.”

“Yes,” Jackaby said with a sneer. “The truth can be so detrimental to one’s credibility.”

“Good day, Jackaby.” Marlowe took his leave.

The weather warmed somewhat over the next few days, though the winter chill still hung about, crouching in shady corners to surprise passersby with the occasion sudden gust. The world had brightened. On the second morning after the incident, Jackaby arranged a carriage to Gad’s Valley. He had wired an old acquaintance with a cottage where Charlie could rest and recover under a new name. Then he could decide if he would resume his efforts to take root and build a life for himself, or return to traveling with his family.

Marlowe had sent a case with Charlie’s effects, and he looked much more like himself in a clean pair of properly fitting clothes.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to put New Fiddleham behind you?” Jackaby asked once we’d helped Charlie manage the walk to the cab. “You have an aura of unshakable allegiance. Don’t try to deny it, it’s downright sickening. Marlowe won’t be there for you to tether your loyalties to him . . . nor will I.”

Charlie smiled. “I guess I am . . . rather devoted,” he told the detective, “but not to you. Nor to the chief inspector, although it was an honor to work with you both.”

“Then who . . . ?” Jackaby’s eyes darted to me, and I felt my cheeks flush at the notion.

Charlie looked away shyly. He leaned on Jackaby’s shoulder for support and fumbled in the pocket of his coat. He held up his polished badge, standing up a little straighter as he did. “I took an oath, Detective.”

Jackaby chuckled. “Ah. Of course. Lady Justice could not ask for a more stalwart watchdog.”

The men shook hands, and Jackaby held open the carriage door. Charlie gave me a courteous nod. “Miss Rook. It has been a pleasure.”

“You must write once you’re settled in,” I said.

His expression clouded. “I don’t know if that would be wise. You have both been exceptionally kind, but not everyone is so understanding. I would hate to bring more trouble to your door because of . . . what I am. After everything that happened—everything the townspeople saw—well, some things are very hard to explain.”

My heart sank. I stood mute, suddenly aware that this was a last good-bye.

“How auspicious,” Jackaby chimed from the carriage door. “Unexplained phenomena just happen to be our specialty. No excuses. You know where to reach us.”

Charlie allowed himself a smile and nodded his assent. I could have kissed them both.

I spent the remainder of the week mostly in the serenity of the third floor for my own recuperation. Although my chest felt better with each passing day, I would occasionally catch myself painfully on a deep breath or sudden turn. I wondered if the little pink scar would eventually vanish, or if my skin had been branded forever. I’m not entirely sure I would have wanted it gone—it was a private badge of my first real adventure.

I lay on the soft grass often, watching the reflections of the pond dance across the ceiling and enjoying the good company of Jenny and even Douglas. Jackaby, however, had made himself scarce as we approached the day of the memorial. Once, while I had nodded off on a carpet of wildflowers near the water’s edge, I was awoken by Jenny’s soft voice.

“She’s doing very well,” she was saying. “She’ll have the scar to remember it by, but it’s healing cleanly. Poor girl. She’s still so young.”

I kept my eyes closed and breathed evenly as Jackaby responded. “She’s older than her years,” he said.

“I think that might be sadder, somehow,” Jenny breathed.

“Anyway, it’s not her chest I’m concerned about—it’s her head.”

“Still deciding whether she’s fit for the job?” asked the ghost.

“Oh, she’ll do,” answered Jackaby. “The question is, is this job fit for her?”

In the evening, I found myself back in the waiting room. The piles of paperwork and books, which had once occupied the desk, were still lying in a heap on the floor, having been shoved aside while the room served as an impromptu medical ward. Otherwise, the chamber looked much as it had on my first visit. I glanced around, remembering not to linger on the terrarium.

Poking out of a bin in the far corner, alongside two umbrellas and a croquet mallet, stood a polished iron cane, fitted with what I knew now to be a false grip. Swift’s deadly pike was housed innocuously among the bric-a-brac, but it was a subtle memorial to his victims—and to my own blundering, which had nearly made me one of them.

Jackaby’s eclectic home began to make a little more sense to me, then. The man had no portraits or photographs, but he had slowly surrounded himself with mementos of a fantastic past. Each little item, by the sheer nature of its being, told a story. Looking around was a little like being back on the dig, or like deciphering an ancient text, and I wondered what stories they would tell me if I only knew how to read them. How many carried fond memories? How many, like the redcap’s polished weapon, were silent reminders of mistakes made or even lives lost?