“Don’t be asinine. I mean a real leprechaun. That volume is a sixteenth-century original printing. I hope very much that you didn’t intend to use it as a projectile.”
I held out the Historia Lycanthropis, which he collected on his way back to the staircase. “Jackaby,” I said before he disappeared down the passage, “thank you.”
“Whatever should you be thanking me for?”
“Well, for the lodging—and also for taking me on. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Just do your best not to die, would you? Oh, and one more thing, Miss Rook. Promise me, if you do become a pigeon or a hedgehog or something, you won’t get all stubborn about it. Now then, I’ve a few things to take care of around the place. Why don’t you help Miss Cavanaugh sort out your room?” His voice faded as he trundled away down the stairs.
Jenny and I spent the remainder of the evening carrying an eclectic assortment of objects up to the third floor. Some of them found homes among the greenery, and others we hauled into an even more crowded attic. Douglas spent the time eating bread crumbs and squawking in disapproval about where we positioned the furniture. Jackaby spent it securing storm shutters and “maintaining safeguards,” which seemed to consist of circling the house with salt, rye, holy water, and garlic.
Across town, Mr. Henderson—the man who had heard the banshee’s silent scream—spent the evening dying. To be more accurate, he spent a very brief portion of the evening dying, and the rest of it being dead.
Chapter Seventeen
I awoke in the morning to the sound of dishes clattering somewhere below me. For just a moment I was back in my parents’ house, my mother making breakfast in the kitchen. I was safe and everything was normal. The faint smell of something burning brought my eyes open, and my disoriented mind tumbled back into a strange, messy room, thousands of miles from home. For all the work Jenny and I had done, every corner was still cluttered with surplus chairs and old desks, their surfaces busy with ornate candlesticks or wooden masks. We had concentrated on the collection crowding the bed, first—and it had been all I could do not to simply collapse into it once its surface was clear. When I finally did, I had barely touched the soft linens before slumber took me.
I had slept in my underthings again, having laid out the sad, green walking dress to air. With the dawn light peeking in through the curtains, I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reached for it. My dress was gone. My suitcase was still at the foot of my bed, where I had left it. I hefted it onto the mattress and clicked it open with a sigh.
Several underskirts and one very rigid corset later, I stepped out into the hallway in a red evening gown, a gift from my mother for my sixteenth birthday. The bodice was constricting, the buttons were snug, and the neck was high and tight around my throat. The hem swept the floor, and I felt like a porcelain doll with the layers of lace around my collar—not to mention the ridiculous, full sleeves that puffed out so much at the shoulder that they actually restricted my peripheral vision. Even through all the layers, I could feel the oversized bow bobbing up and down on my backside with every step. I considered returning to the room and emerging instead in the filthy work pants—but no, I had spent enough time in those ruddy trousers to know I would be no more comfortable in them.
I navigated the stairwell carefully and found the door to the laboratory ajar. Jackaby was inside, humming tunelessly and shuffling an iron skillet over a small burner. He snatched a pepper mill from amid the jars and bottles around him, and gave it a few twists into the skillet. The counter was littered with eggshells and bits of vegetables, and dusted here and there with powders of various hues. I pressed into the room, and Jackaby turned as the squeaky door announced my entrance.
“Ah, good morning, Miss Rook. Omelet?”
“Er—perhaps in a bit. Thank you, Mr. Jackaby.” I pulled out a chair to sit, awkwardly navigating the inconvenient bustle and bow into the seat, and tucking the skirts beneath me. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my other dress, have you?”
“No, although Jenny mentioned something about laundry this morning. She’s quite good with the wash . . . all the more impressive given that she can only physically interact with relics of her own belonging. I believe she wears an old pair of gloves for the exercise. It would be nice if she would remember her little impairment and wait for assistance when rearranging my things, but she is impossible to reason with. You can have a look out back and see if it isn’t on the line.”
I shuffled to the window and peeked out. My simple dress, indeed, hung on a clothesline outside, along with my stockings and handkerchief. The petticoat looked crisp and white, and the green skirt had lost its cloudy hem of dust along with the dark oval tea stain from last night, but they were still visibly damp, and dripping lightly into the grass. In this cold, I would be lucky if they were dry by sundown.
“Drat,” I said. “That is to say, very kind of her. I should be thankful.” I turned back, and my sweeping hem caught the leg of the mannequin’s base, suddenly spinning the fabric figure toward a rack of glassware beside my employer. I reached to catch it, far too slowly—but Jackaby’s reflexes were fortunately much sharper. He stalled the figure a few inches from the expensive beakers and pipettes with one hand, then righted the mannequin and glanced down at my bulky red gown for the first time.
“What in heaven’s name are you wearing?” he said. “I do hope you do not intend to dress in such a manner while we’re working.”
I swallowed. My cheeks felt hot and the satin collar was growing tighter about my neck. “That’s just it,” I said. “This sort of thing is all I have. Well, and a few boys’ things—some trousers and the like—but I obviously can’t walk around town in those.”
“It seems you can barely manage to walk around in that,” Jackaby said, turning back to his cooking. He picked up two identical red containers and sniffed at each of them. “If you need some ladies’ things to wear, you might ask Douglas to help you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Douglas used to wear ladies’ things?”
“Not that I’m aware of, no—although I would much prefer to see him in a frock than in feathers these days. He keeps a record of my previous cases, including ledgers. I received a chest of clothes some time ago as payment from a client with no money to speak of. They belonged to the fellow’s late wife, I believe, or possibly his mother. Just ask Douglas—I’m sure he’ll remember. Does this smell like paprika or gunpowder to you?” He stuck one of the red containers under my nose, and I sniffed experimentally at the holes in the top.
“Paprika?” I guessed, never having had occasion to handle either.
Jackaby nodded and tipped a generous helping into the skillet. Then, for good measure, he tapped in a few from the other container, too. He flinched and covered his face as the powder cracked and popped violently in the greasy pan. When it did not explode, he straightened up, wafting the pleasant aroma under his nose with a smile.
I excused myself to go see a duck about a dress.
Douglas was agreeable, as birds go, and upon my uncertain inquiry he guided me to a mossy chest toward the back of the pond. I thanked him kindly, and he flapped off, back to his perch on the little island. I pulled open the chest and exhumed a dusty, black dress. It looked like something a puritan grandmother might have considered a bit old-fashioned. I held it up to my shoulders anyway. The client’s late wife—or possibly mother—had apparently been as tiny as she was dowdy. A soft giggling bubbled up behind me.
The ghost was resting comfortably on a grassy log, her shimmering head propped up casually on one hand. “Oh! I didn’t . . . Good morning, Miss Cavanaugh,” I said.
“ ‘Jenny’ is fine.” She smiled. “You really shouldn’t wear those, you know.”
“I did ask.”
“I’m sure you did, dear. You shouldn’t wear them because they’re dreadful.”
“Oh,” I said. “I suppose you’re right. Although, if I were about a foot shorter and twenty pounds lighter, I might have made
a fetching Pilgrim. A tiny, fetching Pilgrim.”
“I think you look positively darling in that pretty red outfit—but it is really more of an evening gown than a day dress, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t much choice. Everything I have with me is either pretty or practical, except maybe the one you washed. Thank you, by the way.”
“If you don’t like them, why did you pack them?”
I sighed. “They were the first things I saw in my closet. Before I ran off on my own, my mother used to love to dress me like a paper doll in showy gowns from her favorite dressmaker. I never had to think about what to wear, because it never much mattered what I thought, anyway. I might have had more to choose from if she had packed for me, but I also would have needed a separate carriage just for hatboxes. It was one of her deepest fears that some passing gentry might see her daughter dressed in rags. That was what she called any outfit that did not have a wire frame, lace fringe, and five layers of fabric. I had a few school uniforms, at least—and I rather liked those—but they were worn out even before I left, and built for sitting in desks, not for clambering over rocks. They tore easily, and the hems got all tattered to ribbons. By the end of the first month, they really were rags. I spent the rest of my days at the dig site in boys’ trousers.”
“You didn’t!”
“I did. And I loved it . . . at first. It was part of my big act of defiance, all bold and brazen and exciting. I can assure you, though, it stops feeling liberating after months of hard, dusty work. Now I just wish I had some dresses that were a little less . . . dressy.”
“Well then,” said Jenny, “when you find you must choose between two conflicting options, just do what Jackaby does. Take both.” She patted a neat pile of folded clothes beside her with her slender, gloved fingers. “As I was going to say, if you need more functional attire, try these. You’re a little smaller than I was, I think, but if you like, I can show you how to bring them in. It isn’t as though I’ve any use for the things any longer.”
I picked up the first garment. It was a rich, chocolate brown skirt, made of sturdy cotton—not as hardy and rough as denim, but thicker and more practical than any of my own. I held it to my waist. It hung well off the ground. My mother would be mortified at the thought of my bare calves, open to the world. I was delighted at the idea of not tripping over myself when stepping up to a curb.
“It’s just a day dress, nothing fancy,” said Jenny. The next item was an understated shirtwaist. It had been sewn with a minimum of unessential embroidery, but without losing its feminine lines. A long, fitted coat had been cut to drape smoothly over the shirt, coming in at the waist and then flowing loosely into the skirt. Laid out in front of me, the outfit looked infinitely more comfortable than my current options, and it was simple but elegant.
“The waist cinches up in the back, and there are pockets sewn into the hem, here and here.” Jenny gestured to the skirt.
Pockets! I was thrilled. I have never understood the aversion to pockets in ladies’ fashion—as though it has become some great shame to appear as if one might actually need to possess anything.
“These were yours?” I asked, feeling immediately indelicate about my use of the past tense. Jenny did not seem to notice. She nodded.
“Drab, I know.”
“Not at all—they’re brilliant!”
She smiled again. “I have some other skirts and aprons if you prefer. Not as much fun to wear, but they served me well helping out around the laboratory.”
“Laboratory? You were a scientist?” I asked.
Jenny’s smile faltered. “My fiancé was the scientist, but I was studying. I dare say it helped to prepare me for sharing a home with Mr. Jackaby. Well—as much as anything could prepare one for Jackaby.”
“And your fiancé? What happened to him?” I was beginning to let myself feel like I was gossiping with an older sister.
Jenny pursed her lips, and did not answer. I instantly regretted the question. After several moments, she smiled politely. “Do try them on, why don’t you?” she insisted.
I turned around to unbutton the billowy red gown, and found a large, prim mallard perched on a mossy cabinet just behind me.
“Goodness—Douglas! Are you going to—erm—fly off or something?” I said to him.
Douglas bobbled his head from side to side, looking very much like a simple bird.
“I don’t see why he should,” Jenny called from behind me, playfully. “He is a duck, after all. Besides, I watched him dress on more than one occasion when he wasn’t,” she added with a nostalgic smile. “Not a bad figure. I suppose it’s really only fair.”
I felt my cheeks growing hot. “Rather bold,” I said.
She laughed. “Free spirit, Abigail. Losing one’s body has that effect.”
“You didn’t seem so blithe about privacy when I stepped into your room by accident.”
Her mischievous grin vanished into a dour pout. “That’s different,” she said, but relented with a shrug. “But if you insist. Come on, Douglas, let’s give the girl some space.” She tossed her arms up and dove backward, like a swimmer into a pool, pouring smoothly into the mossy floor behind her. The greenery trembled slightly, as if kissed by a gentle breeze, and in the blink of an eye the only sign that the spectral lady had ever been present was the pair of white gloves, pressed softly into the moss. Douglas waddled to the edge of the cabinet and dropped into a shallow glide. From the other side of the ivy curtain I heard his webbed feet splash down in the pond. Out of courtesy, I retrieved Jenny’s gloves and laid them folded on the log for her return.
The clothes fit brilliantly, and smelled faintly of pine and perfume. Jenny had even thought to provide a pair of thick, wool stockings, which cushioned my sore feet marvelously. I thanked Douglas for his discretion on the way out, keeping carefully to the hardwood path to avoid wetting my new, warm, woolen footwear. I padded down the staircase, and was nearly to the ground level when I heard the rapid knocking from the front room. Jackaby stuck his head out of the laboratory as I entered the hallway.
“Oh, Miss Rook, good. Go and see who it is, would you? Nearly finished with the eggs.” He made no indication that he had even noticed my change in attire.
“I thought they were nearly finished before I went upstairs,” I said as I passed.
“Different eggs,” he said, sliding back into the room. “The last ones were somewhat . . . uncooperative.”
I slid into the lobby and opened the bright red door to find an agitated Junior Detective Cane on the doorstep.
“Officer Cane!” I stepped aside and gestured for the young man to enter. “Please, come in! My goodness, you look dreadful! Have you slept at all?”
“I’ve not had a chance.” He removed his hat as he slipped into the room. “Thank you, Miss Rook. You, on the contrary, are looking quite well.” I felt my cheeks go warm again, and I found myself lifting a hand to my hair, wishing I had stopped to brush and arrange it before coming back downstairs. “Is Mr. Jackaby in, miss? I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”
I led the man back down the hallway, and poked my head in the laboratory door. “It’s Charlie Cane, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, putting into my tone that touch of professionalism my tousled hair and stockinged feet might have lacked.
“Who?”
“The police detective from yesterday. He says he has some urgent news.”
Jackaby plodded over to the doorway. “Oh, right—you.” He looked Charlie up and down with a modicum of suspicion.
“So, I take it our friend in the red pajamas is dead?”
Charlie nodded. “Mr. Henderson, sir. Yes, sir.”
“Shame.” Jackaby nodded, thoughtfully, but without surprise. “Same manner of death as the last one?”
Charlie nodded again. “Just the same. Only more blood, this time, sir.”
“That accounts for the stains on your knees, then,” said Jackaby. “I take it you’ve been to examine the corpse?”
The last wo
rd seemed to thump into Charlie like a sandbag. I watched as he breathed in deeply, collecting himself. His knees were, indeed, stained a deep merlot, but it was hardly discernible against the dark blues of the uniform fabric. Looking more intently, I noted that the mirror polish of his shoe had been marred by a smudge of red across the pointed toe as well. “I was there,” Charlie said. “I was there all night, and I couldn’t save him.”
“Of course you couldn’t,” Jackaby answered dismissively. I shot my employer a stern glance. The junior detective looked stricken. Jackaby caught my expression and reached out stiffly to pat Charlie on the arm. “No one could have saved him,” he amended. “No escaping it, once he heard the cry. Good of you to try, though. The silver lining to this tragedy, of course, is that we have a new, fresh crime scene. After Miss Rook and I have had a quick breakfast, we’ll come see what clues our villain has left for us, this time.”
Charlie shifted his feet impatiently. “Detective, surely time is of the essence! A man is dead!”
“Lamentably so, and no amount of hurry and bother will revive him. He will still be dead when we reach him, I assure you. Now, a good bit of hot breakfast will only help to improve our faculties and ensure that we don’t miss—”
But the detective’s sentence was cut short by a sudden, deafening boom, and the crunch of an iron skillet lodging itself halfway through the wall, its black handle poking out into the hallway at a jaunty angle, the metal visibly vibrating from the impact. The ringing silence that followed was broken by a few tinkles and thumps from within the room, and a half-dozen ripe, red apples rolling into the hallway.
“Too much paprika?” I offered.
“On second thought,” Jackaby continued with nonchalance, “it wouldn’t do to weigh ourselves down before we’d even gotten started, would it?”
Charlie’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly as he blinked at the pan.
“Yes, just a quick bite should do the trick. Apple?” Jackaby bent and retrieved one, and I accepted the proffered fruit.