Jackaby

  Dearest Mother and Father,

  Hoping you are well. As you had previously cautioned, a professional dig site proved to be no place for a young lady to run around. Currently in seek of a better location to do so.

  Regards,

  A. Rook

  Now that I was here in New Fiddleham, I was not ready to abandon my foray into adventure, but I would compromise by taking a conventional job to sustain it.

  My first prospective stop was a general goods store. A bell chimed as I entered, and the shopkeeper, a thin, older woman, looked up from a flat loaded high with flour sacks. “Good morning, dearie! Be right with you!” She heaved one of the heavy bags to a shelf behind her, but it caught the corner of the rack and threw her off balance. The parcel hit the floor and burst in a billowing, white cloud. “Oh bother! Would you wait, just a moment?” she said apologetically.

  “Of course. Please—let me help you with those,” I said, setting my suitcase beside the door and stepping in. The woman accepted my offer happily, and I began lifting bags to the shelf while she fetched a broom and dustpan.

  “I haven’t seen you in here before,” she observed, sweeping up the mess.

  “I only just made port,” I confirmed.

  “I’d say London, by the accent?”

  “A few counties southwest, actually. A little town in Hampshire. Have you been to England?”

  The woman had never left the States, but she was happy to hear my tale. We chatted pleasantly, and I made quick work of the heavy bags. When I had stuffed the last one into the shelf, she pushed the empty flat into the next room, disappearing behind racks of dry goods. She was still away when the chime rang and a bushy-bearded man with rosy cheeks stepped in.

  “I’ll have a tin of Old Bart’s, thanks.”

  I realized I was still behind the counter, and looked around quickly for the shopkeeper. “Oh, I’m not—I don’t . . .”

  “It’s pipe tobacco, darling. It’s just behind you, there—the one with the yellow label.”

  I pulled down a tin with a robust sailor printed on the front and laid it on the counter. “The shopkeeper will be back out in a moment, sir,” I said.

  “Oh, you’re doing just fine.” The man smiled and began counting out coins.

  The old woman finally reappeared, brushing her hands off on her apron. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Stapleton!” she called, pleasantly. “Tin of Bart’s?”

  I slipped out from behind the counter and let the woman conduct the transaction. “I like your new girl,” said Mr. Stapleton before he left. He gave me another friendly smile as he opened the door. “Don’t worry, darling, you’ll get the hang of it. Just keep that pretty chin up.” And then he was off, the door jingling shut behind him.

  “What was that about, then?” asked the shopkeeper.

  “Just a misunderstanding.”

  “Oh, well. I can’t thank you enough for the help, young lady,” she said, clicking shut the cash register. “Now, what was it you needed?”

  “Well, actually—if you have any other work—that is, if you might be hiring . . .”

  She gave me a pitying smile. “Sorry, dear. You might try the post office—they get pretty busy over there—but I’ve got all the help I need.”

  I looked briefly to the shelves behind her, sagging slightly under the weight of the merchandise, and wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “You’re quite sure you couldn’t use just a little help?”

  She sent me on my way with a wrapped piece of fudge for being such a good girl, which did nothing for my self-confidence as a mature adult. I picked up my suitcase and, following Mr. Stapleton’s advice, did my best to keep my pretty chin up as I plodded farther into town.

  I met more polite but unavailing storekeepers and office managers as I explored the frosted streets of New Fiddleham. It was a remarkable city, though difficult to wrap my head around geographically. It felt as though no two roads ran parallel for more than a few blocks. Each avenue seemed to have been built to accommodate necessity, rather than according to any city-wide orchestration. Gradually I began to recognize the town’s loosely defined quarters: a cluster of showy commercial buildings here; a block of practical, nondescript office buildings there; and the industrial district, where the buildings grew into wide factories and sprouted smokestacks. Residential neighborhoods overflowed in the gaps between.

  Every street was bursting with character, with broad structures elbowing one another on either side for dominance of the neighborhood. The roads were dotted with street vendors peddling their wares in spite of the snow, kids racing up the sloping hills to slide back down on soapbox sleds, and the press of people marching every which way, their footsteps and carriage wheels beating out the constant pulse of city life.

  I had been at my task for hours when I finally found myself in the New Fiddleham post office. In spite of the shopkeeper’s suggestion, I found no better luck there. As I turned to go, however, something caught my eye. On a public posting board, peppered with lost pets and rooms to let, hung a simple sheet of creased paper with the words —SSISTANT WANTE—just visible between a sketch of a runaway collie and notice of a room to let on Walnut Street.

  I carefully freed the advertisement, which read as follows:

  INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES

  ASSISTANT WANTED

  $8 PER WEEK

  MUST BE LITERATE AND POSSESS A

  KEEN INTELLECT AND OPEN MIND

  STRONG STOMACH PREFERRED

  INQUIRE AT 926 AUGUR LANE

  DO NOT STARE AT THE FROG.

  Peculiar though the notice was, I felt I met the requirements soundly—and eight dollars per week would keep me fed and out of the snow. I got directions from the postman and walked the short mile or so to the address.

  The little building was nestled among much taller, wider structures in the business district. On either side, men in stiff suits hurried along the frosty walk. As they passed number 926, they seemed to walk all the more quickly and find things in the opposite direction in which to take a sudden interest, like schoolboys carefully avoiding an embarrassing younger sibling at recess.

  From a curled, wrought-iron pole above the door hung a sign that announced: 926—INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES in large letters and PRIVATE DETECTION & CONSULTATIONS: UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA OUR SPECIALTY in smaller ones.

  Three stories tall with, perhaps, room for a small attic, the building was busy with gables and ornate trim. With no apparent consideration for either form or function, the architect seemed to have included columns, arches, and carved festoons wherever space was available in whatever style was handy. Balustrades and cornice windows peeked out from a variety of angles, some of which seemed uncertain to which floor they belonged. Despite all of the mismatched chaos of its design, the building coalesced into something that seemed, somehow, right. No two elements of the property belonged together, but taken as a whole, not a thing stood out of place.

  The door was brilliant red and humbly adorned with a knocker the size and shape of a horseshoe. I stepped up and rapped three times, then waited. I strained my ears for the telltale sounds of footsteps approaching or a chair shifting in the interior. After several long moments, I tried the handle, and the door swung open.

  “Hello?” I called, gingerly stepping in. The entryway opened into what might have been intended as a waiting room of sorts. A wooden bench faced a desk, which was occupied only by stacks of books and loose papers. I set my suitcase to the side and stepped in farther. On the right side of the room, a long bookshelf housed several leather-bound volumes and strange, assorted artifacts including an animal skull, a small stone statue of a fat, nude figure, and a nestlike bundle of sticks and string. At the end of the shelf sat a glass box with dirt, leaves, and a little pool of water inside it.

  I leaned down and peered into the glass, looking for an inhabitant. It took several seconds before I recognized the shape of a lumpy, gray-green frog that had been staring back at me all along. It glowered, and its tiny n
ostrils flared. With a sudden burp it puffed up its throat at me, bulging out a massive double chin. As the chin tightened, a visible stream of gas puffed out from the creature’s eyes. I stared. I was not mistaken. A gas, not far different in color from the amphibian’s damp skin, vented in quick streams from each eye. Soon the entire terrarium was a cube of drab smoke, and the continued venting could only be inferred by a faint whistle issuing from behind the clouded glass. The stench followed.

  A door shut behind me and I whirled around. From an interior room, slipping an arm into his bulky coat as he walked, strode none other than Mr. R. F. Jackaby. He paused and eyed me in confusion as he buttoned up the coat. I, for my part, added nothing to the conversation save the eloquent, “Uh . . .”

  His expression suddenly contorted and he broke the silence. “Oh good God! You stared at the frog, didn’t you? Well, don’t just stand there. Get the window up on your side. It’ll be hours before it clears.” He rapidly unclasped and drew up a window on the far side of the room. I glanced behind me, spotting another, and repeated the motion. The acrid stink crept from the terrarium and assaulted my nostrils, gradually easing into full force like a boxer warming up before a fight.

  “Are you . . . ?” I began, and then tried again. “I’m here about the posting posted in the, er, post office. You . . .”

  “Out! Out!” Jackaby snatched his knit hat from a hook beside the door and gestured emphatically. “You can tag along if you like. Just get out!”

  We managed to reach the sidewalk before my eyes began to water, and I welcomed the fresh, cold air. I glanced back at the red door and hesitated, wondering if I should dart back in for my luggage. Jackaby pressed on down the lane, tossing his long scarf over one shoulder. After a rapid consideration, I left the case behind to hurry after the enigmatic man.

  Chapter Three

  I had to jog to catch up to Jackaby. He had nearly rounded the corner as I matched his stride. He moved his lips rapidly, mouthing thoughts he did not bother to share aloud. Wild locks of hair scrambled to free themselves from under his peculiar hat, and I couldn’t blame them for plotting their escape.

  “Do you work for the . . . er . . . the service?” I asked.

  He glanced my way. “Service?”

  “The investigative service. You’re one of their detectives, aren’t you? I knew it—didn’t I say so? I said you must be a detective!”

  Jackaby smiled. “And so I must.” He turned sharply, and I followed at his heels.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know if they’ve filled the assistant’s position, would you?”

  “If they’ve what, now? Who are ‘they’?”

  I handed him the posting. Jackaby scowled at it for a moment.

  “I think you must be a bit confused,” he said. “But don’t feel bad—it’s a common state. Most people are.” He folded up the advert and tucked it into his jacket, rounding another sudden turn. “My name is Jackaby. I am, as you said, a detective. I am not, however with the investigative service . . . I am the investigative service. Or, I should say, I provide it. That is to say, they are I and I am they. And you are . . . ?”

  “Oh—Abigail,” I answered. “Abigail Rook.”

  “Rook,” he repeated. “Like the bird or like the chess piece?”

  “Both?” I answered. “Neither? Like . . . my father, I suppose.” This seemed to either appease or bore Jackaby, who nodded and turned his attention back to the cobbled road and his own thoughts.

  We were taking a somewhat winding path for all the hurry Jackaby seemed to be putting into the trip, but we had already traveled several blocks before I spoke again.

  “So . . . has it been filled?” I asked. “The position?”

  “Yes,” my companion replied, and I drooped. “Since the posting of the advertisement, it has been filled . . . five times. It has also been vacated five times. Three young men and one woman chose to leave the job after their introductory cases. The most recent gentleman has proven to be far more resilient and a great deal more helpful. He remains with me in a . . . different capacity.”

  “What capacity?”

  Jackaby’s step faltered, and he turned his head away slightly. His mumbled reply was nearly lost to the wind. “He is temporarily waterfowl.”

  “He’s what?”

  “It’s not important. The position is currently vacant, Abigail Rook, but I’m not certain you’re the girl for the job.”

  I looked at the mismatched detective and digested the turn the conversation had taken. His ridiculous hat fought a color battle with his long scarf. The coat that hung from his lanky frame looked expensive, but it was worn, its pockets overstuffed and straining. Their contents jingled faintly as he walked. It was one thing to be turned away by a stuffy suit in an ascot and top hat, but this was another matter entirely.

  “Are you just pulling my leg?” I demanded.

  Jackaby gave me a blank look. “I clearly have not touched your leg, Miss Rook.”

  “I meant, are you serious? You’re really an investigator of—what did your sign say—‘inexplicable phenomena’? That’s really your building back there?”

  “Unexplained,” corrected Jackaby. “But yes.”

  “What exactly is an ‘unexplained phenomenon,’ then?”

  “I notice things . . . things that other people don’t.”

  “Like that business back at the inn? You never did tell me how you knew so much about me at a glance.”

  “Back where? Young lady, have we met?”

  “Have we—is that a joke? Back at the inn? You somehow knew all about where I’d been traveling . . .”

  “Ah—that was you. Right. Precisely. As I said . . . I notice things.”

  “Clearly,” I said. “I am very keen to learn what you noticed about me, sir—as it obviously wasn’t my face—and you’ll find I can be very persistent when I’ve set myself to something. That is just one of the qualities that would make me an excellent assistant.” It was a reach, I knew, but if I was to be given yet another brush-off, I would at least take my explanation along with it. I straightened up and kept stride, keeping shoulder to shoulder with the man—although, truthfully, my shoulder came up barely past his elbow.

  Jackaby sighed and drew to a stop as we reached the corner of another cobbled street. He turned and looked at me with pursed lips.

  “Let’s see,” he said at last. “I observed you were recently from the Ukraine. This was a simple deduction. A young domovyk, the Ukrainian breed of the slavic house spirit, has had time to nestle in the folds along the brim of your hat.”

  “A what?”

  “Domovyk. Were the fur a bit longer, it could easily be confused for a Russian domovoi. It seems quite well established, probably burrowed in more deeply as you boarded the ship. Ah, right, which brings us to Germany.

  “More recently, you seem to have picked up a young Klabautermann, a kind of German kobold. By nature, kobolds are attracted to minerals, and take on the color of their preferred substance—yours has a nice iron gray coat. Fondness for iron is rare among fairies and their ilk. Most fairy creatures can’t touch the stuff. That’s probably why your poor domovyk nestled in so deep. Klabautermann are among the most helpful of their breed. See, he’s made some repairs to the hem of your coat, there—probably his little way of thanking you for the ride. These charming fellows are known for helping sailors and fishermen. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote about a cheeky little one who . . .”

  I interrupted, “You mean to say I’ve got two imaginary beasties living in my clothes, even though I haven’t ever seen them?”

  “Oh, hardly imaginary—and I should think it’s a good thing you didn’t see that little chap!” The man allowed a throaty laugh to escape. “Goodness, it’s a terrible omen for anyone blessed by a kobold’s presence on a ship to actually lay eyes on the creature. You’d likely have sunk the whole vessel.”

  “But you see them?” I asked. “You saw them right away at the pub, didn’t you?”

/>   “Not right away, no. As you hung your coat, I did spot the droppings on your lapel, which naturally I thought might . . .”

  “Droppings?”

  “Yes, just there. On your lapel.”

  I glanced down, brushing a few stray bits of lint from my otherwise spotless lapel, and then straightened, feeling foolish. “People pay you to tell them this sort of thing?”

  “Where it is pertinent to the resolution of their problems, yes,” replied Jackaby, resuming his brusque walk. “Some of my clients are most grateful, indeed. My property on Augur Lane was a gift from Mayor Spade. He was particularly happy to be rid of a nest of brownies who had settled in a corner of his estate—caused no end of trouble, those little ruffians. At least the mayor’s eyebrows seem to have grown back faster than his wife’s rosebushes.”

  “Your clients pay you in real estate?” I gawped.

  “Of course not,” scoffed Jackaby. “That was a . . . special circumstance. Most pay in banknotes, some in coin. It’s not uncommon for some to pay with bits of gold or silver they happen to have on hand. I’ve more tea services and candlesticks than I can count. I much prefer the banknotes.”

  “But, then . . . why do you wear such dreadfully poor garments?” The tactless question slipped out before I could catch myself. My mother would have been appalled.

  “Poor garments?” Jackaby scowled. “My dear woman, my wardrobe comprises priceless fineries.”

  I tried to determine if the man was speaking in earnest or simply having me on. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, sir—but that hat is a priceless finery?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Silk is more precious than cotton because of the nature of its acquisition, is it not? Fine threads are collected from tiny silkworms over countless hours, whereas cotton can be pulled off nearly any farm in the States, and it ships by the boatload. My hat, Miss Rook, is made from the wool from one of the only surviving yeti of the Swiss Alps, dyed in ink mixed by Baba Yaga herself, and knit by my very good friend Agatha as a birthday present. Agatha is a novice knitter, but she put quite a lot of care into this hat. Also, she is a wood nymph. Not a lot of nymphs take to knitting. So, tell me if my hat is not more precious than the finest silk.”