Chapter Thirty

The memorial was a regal affair, and half the town seemed to have come out to mourn or to take in the spectacle. Heartfelt condolences and eager gossip were circulating through the gathering crowd as Jackaby and I arrived. The event was originally to be held within the small church adjacent to Rosemary’s Green, but the sheer number of attendees had moved the service outdoors. A light layer of snow dusted the ground and the air held a chill, but the day itself was cloudless and clear.

Jenny had convinced Jackaby to forgo his usual bulky, ragged coat in favor of a more respectful black one she had found in the attic. In lieu of his myriad pockets, he insisted on strapping across it a faded brown knapsack. I hefted the thing to hand it to him before we left, and, small though it may have been, it felt like a sack of bricks.

“It’s a memorial,” I said. “What have you got in there that you could you possibly need at a memorial?”

“That sort of thinking is why you, young lady, have a scar on your sternum, and why my priceless copy of the Apotropaicon has a broken spine. I prefer preparedness to a last-moment scramble, thank you.”

We found a position toward the back of the assembly and waited for the ceremony to begin. Still fuming about the decision to cover up the truth about Swift, Jackaby stared daggers at Marlowe and Mayor Spade, seated at the front of the crowd. Because two of the deceased were respected members of the police, at least according to public record, the whole matter was being conducted with great pomp and sobriety. All five coffins were hewn of matching oak, probably far more expensive models than most of the families could have afforded on their own. I wondered what, if anything, they had put inside Swift’s to weigh it down.

Over the susurrus of the crowd, I noticed the faintest of gentle melodies slowly growing, rising and falling like a building wave. The melancholy tune reminded me of the late Mrs. Morrigan. Focused as I was on the sound, I barely recognized that Jackaby had been speaking.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said that I have come to a decision, Miss Rook. I have given this a great deal of thought, and I’ve decided not to utilize you in the field any further.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m not giving you the proverbial boot. You will still be tasked with cataloguing old files and tending to the house and accounts. I believe Douglas also had a collection of notes that he had not yet properly filed—I should certainly like you to look into that when you get a chance . . .”

“You don’t want me along? But why?”

“Because the last thing I need is another ghost hanging over my head—or worse, another damned duck. I would feel more comfortable knowing you were safe in the house. Although, come to think of it, it really is best if you avoid the Dangerous Documents section of the library . . . and don’t fiddle with any of the containers in the laboratory . . . and generally steer clear of the whole north wing of the second floor.”

I felt my ears grow hot and my heart dip, but wasn’t entirely certain why. I squared my shoulders to my employer and took a deep breath. “Mr. Jackaby, I am not a child. I can make my own choices, even the bad ones. I have spent my entire life preparing for adventure, and then watching from the front step while it left without me. Since I picked up my first book, I have been reading about amazing discoveries, intrepid explorers, and fantastic creatures, all while scarcely setting foot outside my own house. My father used to tell me I had read more than most of his graduate students. Yet, for all my preparation, the only thing remotely daring I’d ever done before meeting you was running away from university to hunt for dinosaurs—which amounted to nothing more than four months of mud and rocks.” I stopped to breathe.

“I didn’t know you hunted dinosaurs, Miss Rook.”

“You never asked.”

“No, I didn’t. I suppose I don’t tend to focus on that sort of thing. That is what impressed me about you on your first day—your attention to the banal and negligible.”

“Once again, not the most flattering way to put it, but thanks, I’ll take it all the same. As for your decision, my answer is no.”

“There wasn’t a question. My decision is still final.”

I wanted to protest, but the priest had wound his way up to the makeshift podium at the head of the crowd, and the crowd was settling. I bit my tongue as the ceremony began, but I would not be content to let the matter lie.

With the congregation quieted, I found the source of the lilting music. Four women with long, silvery hair and pale gowns stood just to the left of the podium. As various speakers took the stand to deliver sentimental eulogies, the gray women quietly wept and hummed, their cries carrying tender chords across the assembly. As the proceedings drew to a close, the women began to sing the most beautiful, mournful dirge. It was unmistakably akin to Mrs. Morrigan’s final song, but magnified in intensity and complexity. Their voices harmonized, elegant melodies and countermelodies weaving a tapestry of sound that drew tears from every listener, but with it grew an overwhelming sense of peace as well.

When they had finished, the ladies knelt before Mrs. Morrigan’s coffin before stepping away to the churchyard gates. I caught sight of Mona O’Connor, who embraced each tenderly as they passed. The last of them brushed Mona’s curls of red hair back behind her ear, and kissed her on the forehead, like a kindly aunt. Mona held her hand a moment longer, and then the woman stepped out of the churchyard gates, vanishing into the bright daylight.

All through the crowd handkerchiefs appeared, and tears were wiped away as the people began to disperse. Before withdrawing, the young woman with blond ringlets I had seen outside the Emerald Arch stepped timidly forward and set a white carnation on Arthur Bragg’s coffin. A few more came up to offer similar tokens: flowers, silver coins, and even a box of cigars on the late Mr. Henderson’s casket. Only one coffin remained bare.

“Shall we resume our discussion over lunch?” I suggested to my employer, but Jackaby’s gaze was fixed on the front of the crowd. “I’d like to swing by Chandler’s Market on the way if you don’t mind,” I persisted. “I do still owe a troll a fish.” My employer made no indication he had heard me, instead taking sudden, deliberate strides toward the head of the assembly. I followed, squeezing past the exodus of mourners like a trout swimming upstream.

As I reached the front, Jackaby stood before Swift’s coffin. “Let’s not have a scene, Jackaby,” Marlowe was saying. “Just let it go.”

“It’s an insult,” Jackaby said. He gestured to the coffin. “It’s a dishonor to the dead!”

“Jackaby . . .” Marlowe growled. His muscles tensed, and I could see he didn’t want to have to forcibly remove the detective from a quiet memorial service. “These nice families just want to say their good-byes in peace.”

“But it isn’t right,” continued my employer, opening his little brown satchel, “that our dear, honorable commissioner should be the only friendless corpse without so much as a lily at his head. Let me see, I’m sure I have some appropriate token in here.”

Marlowe looked dubious, but he stood down as Jackaby made a show of rummaging. “Ah, here we are. He was so fond of these.” It took a swing of his arms to get them up onto the box, but the echoing clank of the redcap’s impossibly heavy iron shoes as they crunched into the wood was satisfying. A bent and charred piece of the leg brace still clung to one, fastened by a rivet at the ankle. Jackaby left the explaining to Marlowe and marched away.

I caught up just outside the gates. “I know, I know . . . ,” he said before I could comment. “I don’t need to make things difficult for Marlowe.”

“You don’t need to make them easy, either,” I said. My employer raised an eyebrow at me as we walked. “Swift tries to kill me and gets to be a public hero. Charlie saves my life, and now he’s a public enemy. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

Jackaby nodded contentedly as we headed back to 926 Augur Lane.