The letter was from Mr. Barker of Gadston, Charlie’s new identity. Gad’s Valley, he wrote, was as lovely as Marlowe had suggested. Commander Bell had offered him a quiet post on the police force there as soon as his injuries healed, and Charlie was strongly inclined to accept. He was feeling better every day, and took frequent opportunities to slip out to enjoy the countryside now that he was walking again. The detective and I, he insisted in his postscript, must come and visit when next we had the chance. Since Charlie’s departure, I had tried to put my feelings for him to rest, but butterflies rose in my stomach at the thought of seeing him again.
Jackaby burst energetically back into the room just as I finished reading the note. “We’ve gotten word from Charlie,” I informed him.
“No time for that now, I’m afraid. I’ve urgent business in town.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I should say so, fantastically wrong!” He brandished a letter of his own, waving the page with enthusiasm. “A woman with a lamentably forgettable name has asked me to look into a matter of her ailing cat. The cat, I believe, is called Mrs. Wiggles.”
“Bit of a step down, isn’t it? From catching a serial killer to a sick pet?”
“Ah, but the details are delightful.” Jackaby tossed his scarf around his neck and pulled on his knit hat. “It seems Mrs. Wiggles has recently shrunk in stature, begun to molt, and started lounging in her water bowl for hours at a stretch. Most perplexingly, she has begun growing scales from tip to tail as well. The veterinarian just made useless jokes about it being ‘rather fishy,’ and then prescribed some skin ointment, the tit. The whole thing is marvelously odd.”
“And you do love odd,” I said. “Let me just get my coat. Where are we going, anyway?”
“You are going nowhere,” Jackaby said flatly. “As for me, I am tracking this post back to its origin. There are distinct traces of the supernatural saturating the paper—no doubt remnants of the lady’s curious pet. The document will have left an aura along its path, one that I can navigate as long as I make haste before it fades.”
“Alternately,” I said, tilting my head to peek at the back of the torn envelope in my employer’s hand, “we could try 1206 Campbell Street.”
Jackaby glanced at the return address and then back to me. “I suppose your approach might complement my own in the field—but no!” He shook his head, the ends of his ridiculous cap flapping as he attempted to steel himself in his resolution. “Just think how it would look to your parents,” he said, “if they found out you left your civilized books and classrooms to go running all over town after supernatural nonsense. Not to mention how you must look to the townsfolk right here in New Fiddleham. They’ll think you’re as bad as I am.”
I considered this for a moment before responding. “I have ceased concerning myself with how things look to others,” I said. “As someone told me recently, others are generally wrong.”
His eyes glinted for just a moment, but he fought against the suggestion. “No, it’s for your own good, Miss Rook. You’re staying here. Marlowe was right. This business is not fit for an impressionable young lady.”
“I hate to break it to you, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, “but the damage is done. The impression is made. I don’t want to wait at the doorstep any longer. I want to go dashing off after giants and pixies and dragons. I want to meet with mysterious strangers at crossroads and turn widdershins in the moonlight. I want to listen to the fish, Jackaby. Come to think of it, I am already keeping correspondence with a dog, with whom, I must admit, I find myself rather smitten. Also, I’m secretly hoping Mrs. Wiggles ends up a full halibut when this is through, because that would save me a trip to the market . . . although if Hatun’s troll keeps company with a tabby, perhaps he wouldn’t much appreciate a meal that used to be a cat.”
Jackaby stared. “I’ve already ruined you, haven’t I?”
“Looks that way.”
“And I suppose there’s nothing to be done about it?”
“Not a thing.”
“Well then, perhaps you should have this, after all.” Jackaby reached into a pocket and produced the brown paper package, turning it over in his hands. He tapped the little parcel against his palm and seemed to consider for a long moment, then extended his arm and handed it to me. “It isn’t anything, really,” he muttered. “Empty symbolism.”
Curious, I unwrapped the package. The paper fell away and I smiled. The notebook’s cover was smooth and black, cut from expensive leather. I flipped it open, top-wise. The pages were pristinely white, and a handy loop toward the top held a small, sharp pencil. It fit comfortably in my palm and would slide easily into a pocket. On the back cover had been inscribed the initials “A.R.” beneath a relief of a blackbird in flight—a rook.
“Standard police books are just flimsy cardstock, but you mentioned something about leather, I believe. I had that little stationery store on Market Street do it up as a custom job. Oh yes, and this.” Jackaby rummaged through his pockets and produced a magnifying glass, about five inches in diameter with a simple wooden handle. “I have others, if that one won’t do. Also, while we’re on the subject, I have given the issue some thought, and I wouldn’t mind if you called yourself a detective.” He handed me the glass.
“Really?” I laughed. “I would be a proper investigator instead of an assistant?”
“Certainly not,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The nature of your job would remain the same. Titles, like appearances, are of very little interest to me. It seems to make you happy, though, so call yourself what you like. You’ve dropped some paper on the floor. Do see that you attend to it.”
I thought it over for a moment and decided I was still going to enjoy it, meaningless or not. “Thank you, Jackaby.”
“You’re very welcome. It’s good to have you on the team.” The hint of a grin peeked up from beneath his long scarf. “Well, what are we waiting for, then? Get your coat, Miss Rook. There’s adventure to be had!”
SUPPLEMENTAL MATERIAL: THE HISTORY OF THE THREE FORKS
During the events of the Case of the Silent Scream, an item belonging to my employer was confiscated by the police as evidence. Following the whole ordeal, Jackaby was quite vocal with his indignation at their failure to return it promptly. A “miscarriage of justice,” he called it. “Unprofessional. Downright disreputable. I fear I may be forced to declare ‘shenanigans’!”
After some time, I was able to convince him that it was most likely a normal bureaucratic delay, and that a polite letter requesting the item’s return would likely do the trick. What follows is the letter Jackaby dictated, with just a little of my own editorial revision:
To the attention of the New Fiddleham Police Department: You’ve got my middle-C, and I would like it back. To convey the importance of its swift return, I will share with you its unique history.
There was once an old church. It sat in the center of town, as was often the case in those days, and it was in every way the heart of the little community. Neighbors came to meet for celebrations, babies were baptized, lovers were married, and funeral processions commenced at that humble church. The heartbeat of the little town rang with the sound of church bells.
In the bell tower hung not one, but three masterfully crafted bells. On very special occasions, the vicar would ring all three together, and their notes would complement one another in a rich chord, but more often they rang alone, each bell serving a distinct purpose.
In 1861, a civil war shook the country. Men and boys who had grown up to the tolling of the church bells were called away, and those left behind did all they could to support the war effort. The vicar at that time felt it was his duty to contribute as well, and so he offered up the beautiful bells to be melted down and reduced to cannons or blades.
The very day the bells were removed, the vicar developed a terrible fever and a sharp ringing in his ears. Relics of the church had been reduced to weapons, fated to help brothers slaughter brothers.
It was an unholy day, indeed. When his temperature finally broke, the vicar found he had lost his hearing entirely.
Meanwhile, the soldier responsible for their transport was overcome with an urge to preserve at least some memento of the magnificent bells. Against orders, and against his own better judgment, he saw that small scraps of each were set aside. These he brought back to his own hometown and presented to a master craftsman he knew capable of reforging the metal. A bell, once rung, wants to ring, and he asked the man if he could return to them their voices in some way.
The smith melted and cast the shards into three wholly unique tuning forks. There was never any question in his mind as to which tone each fork should possess, for the metal sang to him from the first pump of the bellows. When he had finished, they each hummed the very same notes they had rung in the bell tower.
There was something stranger still about the forks. Each had become a pure and concentrated version of its former self, and carried with it the emotional power of its past incarnation.
The lowest, its toll accustomed to sounding the slow announcement of funerals, was imbued with a tone of somber tragedy. Those who heard it could not help but shed a tear. Not so powerful as a banshee’s keen, the note was like a single moment stolen from her complex melody of sorrow. Still, the sensation would wash instantly over any who now heard it chime.
The second fork, forged from the middle bell, had faithfully rung every hour for nearly six centuries. It had been a comfort to the townsfolk, and a beacon to guide them home when the mist and fog had turned them about in the hills. The middle fork, when sounded, issued a sense of normalcy and calm. It cut through the fog of fear and turmoil to reassure any in earshot.
The last fork, the highest, came from the bell used to announce the most joyous occasions: the births of children, baptisms, marriages, and all manner of celebrations. The fork forged from this bell could elate listeners with a single sound. While its tone held out, it became possible to forget the everyday stresses of life and be overcome with happiness.
These artifacts played a small role in the recent unpleasantness, which my assistant, against my advisement, has given the ridiculous title of “The Case of the Silent Scream.” During our investigation, I carefully selected the second fork, a middle-C, to instill in the doomed Mr. Henderson a sense of calm. This was a careful and deliberate choice. Had I rung the low tone, his misery would only have intensified. The highest note would have sent him into a state of madness from two supernatural sources pulling his mind toward opposite emotional extremes. The implementation of this invaluable resource proved an integral step in unlocking the mystery and putting a stop to the murders.
I hope, now, that you can appreciate the value of the complete set in my line of work. Miss Rook has suggested that a written reminder might aid in expediting the return to me of the aforementioned middle-C, still being held in evidence in spite of the closing question.
When Jackaby had finished dictating and left the room, I wrote a second letter. It read: Please return Jackaby’s tuning fork. He’s getting even more obnoxious than usual. This I sent out with the morning’s post.
The courier arrived that evening.
Jackaby was pleasantly surprised to find that the letter had prevailed. “At least someone in that station house has some sense,” he remarked. “I scarcely believed the dunderheads would bother to read it at all, but look.”
He passed me the note as he exhumed his property from the wrapping. The processing officer had written just three words. I smiled as I read them. I completely understand.
Jackaby
William Ritter
Questions for Discussion
ALGONQUIN
Questions for
Discussion
1. The expectations for girls growing up in the 1890s were very different from what they are now. Throughout the book, Abigail Rook resists many of her era’s rigid gender roles, although she is not comfortable giving up her femininity, either. How are societal expectations for women and men different today? In what ways do you feel comfortable in these roles, and in what ways do you rebel against them?
2. Abigail Rook’s first impression of Jackaby is that “he managed to seem both engrossed and entirely uninterested in me all at once” (page 7). Does Jackaby’s attitude toward Abigail change throughout the novel? How?
3. William Ritter peppered the novel with allusions to folklore, mythology, religion, the supernatural, and detective fiction. For instance, one of the policemen in New Fiddleham is named Allan, after Edgar Allan Poe. Did you catch any of Ritter’s other allusions? Why might the author make these allusions? Does it add anything to the story?
4. It’s often said that people see what they want to see, and there’s evidence of this throughout Jackaby. Jackaby is convinced the serial killer terrorizing New Fiddleham is a supernatural being, while the police are convinced it’s an ordinary villain, the type they’re used to dealing with. On page 34, Jackaby says, “I am a man of reason and science. I believe what I can see or prove, and what I see is often difficult to grasp.” Do you think Jackaby’s actions and thought processes prove that he would be open to the criminal being human, or did he just happen to be right in this case?
5. Why do you think that Douglas wants to remain a duck?
6. On page 112, Jackaby says, “Monsters are easy, Miss Rook. They’re monsters. But a monster in a suit? That’s basically just a wicked man, and a wicked man is a more dangerous thing by far.” Think about what monsters and men do and don’t do in Jackaby, real life, and in other novels. Do you agree with Jackaby’s observation? Why or why not?
7. Why do you think Jackaby wanted chapter 13 omitted?
8. On page 223, Hatun predicts that Abigail will die soon. Having faced so many near-death situations in the span of a day, Abigail seems remarkably unfazed. Would your reaction to the omen be similar to hers? If you were in her shoes, would you want to keep working with Jackaby?
9. Swift seems to have joined the police force in order to sabotage the investigation and keep himself alive. But why do you think Charlie chose to join? Knowing that it’s in his nature to be loyal, what may have caused him to take the oath he mentions on page 278?
10. Think about the detective stories you’ve read or watched. How is Jackaby similar? What does William Ritter do in Jackaby that makes the book unique? (Consider tone, structure, characters, or anything else.)
11. Do you sense any romances brewing between the characters? How might those characters be romantically compatible? What about their personalities and habits might make a romance easier or more difficult?
Reader’s Guide by Emily Parliman
WILLIAM RITTER began writing Jackaby in the middle of the night when his son was still an infant. After getting up to care for him, Will would lie awake, his mind creating rich worlds and fantasies—such as the ones in New Fiddleham. Will lives and teaches in Springfield, Oregon. Find him on twitter: @Willothewords. (Photo (c) Katrina Santoro.)
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Published by
Algonquin Young Readers
an imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2014 by W
illiam Ritter.
All rights reserved.
ISBN 978-1-61620-434-1
William Ritter, Jackaby
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