Miss O’Connor, her guard now thoroughly shattered, walked back to her open door. She paused in indecision for just a moment, then stood aside and gestured for us to enter.
The layout of the apartment was familiar, but it felt cleaner and somehow more open than the other two. Soft daylight drifted through the white curtains to brighten a table with a simple brown tablecloth. This was topped with lace doilies, a vase of fresh flowers, a white porcelain wash basin, and a pitcher. The sofa was small, but well stuffed, with a thick quilt draped over it. In the corner sat a wooden rocking chair. The room was cozy and inviting, a striking contrast to the gruesome scene downstairs.
“Have a seat if you like,” said Mona, and I gratefully accepted the invitation. As I sank into the cushions, I became aware of the toll that the morning’s cold sidewalks had taken on my poor feet.
Officer Cane thanked the woman politely but remained standing by the door. In the light of the room, I got a good look at him for the first time. He really was quite young to be a police detective, even a junior one. While he held himself poised and alert, the angle of his dark eyebrows betrayed a hint of insecurity, and he had to periodically straighten his posture, as though actively resisting a natural urge to slink into himself. His eyes caught mine, and he looked away at once. I hurried my own gaze back to Jackaby and the woman.
Miss O’Connor trod gently to the bedroom door. Jackaby followed, pulling the knit cap from his head as he did. I craned my neck to watch as they slipped in. There were two beds in the room on opposite walls, and just enough room for a shared nightstand between them. The nightstand held a dog-eared book and a silver hairbrush. One bed lay empty, its sheets tucked tightly with hospital corners. The other contained a woman with long, white hair. She wore a pale nightgown and was propped up slightly on her pillows. She seemed to be rocking gently, but more I couldn’t see as Mona and Jackaby stepped into the room in front of her.
“We have a guest,” said Mona. “Mr. . . . Jackaby, was it? This is Mrs. Morrigan.”
“Mrs. Morrigan. Of course you are,” said Jackaby, gently. He knelt down beside the figure. “Hello, Mrs. Morrigan. It’s an honor. Can you hear me?”
I shifted across the sofa until I could just see the old woman beyond Jackaby. She was slender and fair-skinned, her hair a medley of silver and white, but it was her face that captured my attention. Her thin, gray eyebrows contorted in a mournful expression. Her lips were thin and taut, and quavered slightly as she drew a deep breath. Then her head fell back, and her mouth opened wide in a tragic pantomime of a scream. My chest tightened in sympathy for the poor, tortured woman.
Her jaw trembled as she expelled the last of her breath, and I became aware of the overwhelming silence. She inhaled again slowly, and her whole body poured itself into another scream, but still not an audible whisper escaped her delicate lips.
A chill tingled up my spine. Beyond the obvious strangeness of the spectacle, there was something more profoundly unsettling about the woman’s muted cries. An indefinable spasm of grief and dread shuddered through me. Was this the life that Jackaby led? Death and madness and despair behind every door?
“She gets this way, from time to time,” Mona explained to the detective in a voice just above a whisper. “Always has. She can’t control them. They’re like seizures . . . only not like any I’ve seen in any of my medical books. Back home, she would go weeks, sometimes months without any problems. It was supposed to be better here, but we’ve barely had the apartment for a week and now this . . . It’s the worst she’s had. Hasn’t stopped since yesterday.”
“Since yesterday?” Jackaby asked.
“Yes, early yesterday morning, and on all through the night.”
Mrs. Morrigan’s body sagged as the air left her lungs again. Her eyelids flickered open for an instant, and she looked to Jackaby. Her hand reached weakly toward him, and he held it gently, the most human gesture I’d yet seen from the man; then her eyes closed, and the miserable cycle of silent screaming resumed.
Jackaby leaned in very close and whispered something in the woman’s ear. Mona watched him with concern. Mrs. Morrigan opened her eyes again and gave the detective a somber nod. She resumed her muted cries, but her body relaxed slightly into the pillows. Jackaby laid her hand tenderly back on the bed and rose to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said aloud, and stepped out into the apartment’s main room. Mona followed, shutting the door quietly behind them.
The detective pushed his dark, unruly hair roughly backward and screwed the cap back onto his head.
“What did you say to her?” asked Mona.
Jackaby considered his response. “Nothing of consequence. Miss O’Connor, thank you for your time. I’m afraid I cannot help Mrs. Morrigan’s condition for the moment, but if it comes as any consolation, this episode will resolve itself by sometime tonight.”
“Tonight?” she said. “You seem so sure.”
Jackaby stepped into the hallway and turned back. I stood up and slipped out after him. “I feel quite confident, yes. Take good care of your patient, Miss O’Connor. Good day.”
We were at the stairwell before I heard her shut the door behind us. Charlie and I burst at once into questions. What had he said? What kind of seizures were those? How could he be so sure they would end tonight?
“She isn’t seizing, she’s keening, and she will stop tonight because by tomorrow morning Mr. Henderson will be dead.” Jackaby’s voice was without emotion, save perhaps a hint of interest such as a botanist might exhibit when discussing a rare orchid. “Mrs. Morrigan is a banshee.”
The word hung in the air for several steps.
“Keening?” asked Charlie.
“She’s a banshee?” I blurted. “That old woman? So she’s our killer?”
“Our killer?” Jackaby stopped on the landing and turned toward me. I stumbled to a stop. “How in heaven’s name did you make that leap?”
“Well, that’s what you said, wasn’t it? There had been something inhuman in the victim’s room? Something ancient? And banshees . . . Those are the ones whose scream can kill you, right? Aren’t they the ones who . . . scream you to death?”
My words petered out and slipped into the shadows, embarrassed to be seen with me. The look Jackaby was giving me was not unkind, but rather one of pity. It was a look that one might give to a particularly simple puppy who had thrown herself off the bed in pursuit of her own tail.
“So, not our killer?”
“No,” said Jackaby.
“Well, that’s good, then.” I swallowed.
“Keening,” said Jackaby, turning back to Charlie, “is an expression of grief for the dead.” He turned and continued his explanation as we resumed our descent. “Traditionally, women called ‘keeners’ would sing a somber lament at Irish funerals.
“A few families, it was said, had fairy folk as their keeners. These fairy women, who came from the other side of the mounds, were called the ‘women of the side,’ which, in Irish, comes out something like ‘ban-shee.’ They were devoted to their chosen families, and would sing the most mournful laments if ever a member of the house fell dead—even if they were far away and news of the tragedy had not yet reached the homestead. As you might have guessed, Miss O’Connor’s family was among these elite houses attended by a banshee.”
Jackaby paused abruptly to inspect a scuff in the wood of the stairs. Charlie, who was hot on the detective’s heels, had to catch himself on the banister to avoid toppling over the suddenly kneeling figure. Just as quickly, Jackaby stood and continued to climb downward. His gaze hunted the steps for something, but with the foot traffic of every tenant both coming and going, I doubted very much if any significant clues would present themselves here.
“Where was I?” he asked.
“Banshees,” prompted Charlie. “Crying for the folks at home, even if a member of the family died far away.”
“Right. So, the sound of the banshee’s wail became an omen of death. Consigned t
o their role, over the years, banshees grew still more sensitive. These fairy women gained a precognition, sensing the very approach of death. Rather than keening for the deceased’s surviving relatives, the banshees began to sing their terrible dirge directly to the doomed.
“They are still closely tied to their families, but as their power developed, it extended to all those in their presence. Any poor soul whose time drew near might hear the ominous cry, particularly those doomed to a violent and untimely end. Now, if you were an ill-fated traveler and you heard the wail, you knew death was on your heels. This makes them dreaded creatures, feared and hated by any who hear them, a treatment far disparate from the honor and appreciation they used to receive for their mourning services. Banshees themselves are not dangerous, though, just burdened with the task of expressing pain and loss.”
I thought of Mrs. Morrigan’s face, and was suddenly ashamed of my rash accusation. I was glad that Jackaby had shown her some tenderness, and I realized he had given her what little he could: his thanks.
“It is a kindness that you and I cannot hear the banshee’s wail,” he continued. “It is not meant for us. Henderson hears it because it is his lament, and his alone. Our victim in room 301 heard it also, I’d wager, before his untimely demise. Mrs. Morrigan has scarcely been given a moment’s rest from her dutiful dirges.”
We were rounding the last flight of stairs, and the brightness of the lobby spilled into the stairwell.
“Should we do something for him?” asked Charlie, suddenly. “If a murderer is coming for Mr. Henderson, we can’t in good conscience just wait and let him be taken! Could we move him—hide him? Post guards around his room?”
Jackaby stepped into the lobby. By now the sun was high in the late-morning sky. Clouds blanketed a snow-dusted world, and the soft whiteness of it was blinding. “If it eases your conscience to try, then go right ahead. It will make little difference, though. If he hears the banshee’s cry, then Mr. Henderson’s fate is sealed.”
Chapter Eight
Jackaby wrapped his scarf up to his chin and pushed open the front door of the Emerald Arch Apartments. Charlie stepped up quickly to hold open the door as I followed him. The crowd of curious onlookers had grown, and the police had acquired a few sawhorses and roped off an official barrier line. At the end of the sidewalk, Chief Inspector Marlowe had come outside and was speaking to a pretty young woman with blond ringlets and tears streaming down her cheeks. She blew her nose into a handkerchief and sobbed. I had been doing so well, keeping the fear and pity and horror stuffed down in my gut, but the woman’s unmasked emotions churned them up and left me uncomfortable and queasy. I willed the feeling to pass. Marlowe was making no effort to comfort her, but listened as he flipped through the pages of a small leather notebook, occasionally nodding and scribbling additions. The chief inspector did not seem like the sort of man who could ever be overwhelmed by empathy. He would fit right in to the crime adventures in my magazines. He held the little pad like a shield, stoically barricading himself from the human tragedy. I wondered why Jackaby didn’t carry a little notebook. It struck me that a detective should have a little notebook.
Charlie Cane was more interested in a shiny black carriage coming down the cobbled street. It had stalled as the driver shooed pedestrians out of the way. New Fiddleham was a growing city, and streets originally designed for the quaint, rural township it must once have been now found themselves easily congested with the traffic of everyday urban life. Gossip and chatter drew a bulky crowd as well, and despite the heavy police presence, onlookers spilled into the streets to watch the drama unfold.
“I appreciate all of your help, sir, but now I really must insist that you go,” said Charlie, gesturing at the carriage. “That’s Commissioner Swift’s personal carriage. If he’s actually coming out to a crime scene, you can bet Inspector Marlowe will be even less . . . cheerful.”
Jackaby scowled. “Curious. The commissioner has taken quite an interest. Surely Marlowe has handled homicides unsupervised before.”
“Not so curious,” answered Charlie, looking more uncomfortable about our continued presence as the carriage pulled nearer. “The mayor appointed Commissioner Swift a few months ago. First thing he did was push up quotas and double street patrols. He’s trying to get into politics, very concerned about numbers and public image. The rumor is that Arthur Bragg was helping get him some publicity in the Chronicle. You can see why he’d be a little upset.”
“You say the victim worked for the newspaper?”
“That’s right. He was a reporter, mostly political stuff and local news. Really, sir, you need to get going now!”
Jackaby glanced down the sidewalk as the carriage pulled up to Marlowe. The inspector broke off his conversation with the weepy blonde and stepped toward it, standing at attention by the door. The girl looked lost and unsteady until another officer came to escort her away. I realized I had seen her face before. She was the girl from the photograph upstairs. The swell of emotions returned, and I fought back a lump in my throat.
“Right. Thank you, Detective. You’ve been a great help,” Jackaby was saying. He nodded to the junior detective and hastened to the corner of the building. I waved a quick good-bye to Charlie, and his parting smile sent another surprising rush of warmth up to my cheeks.
I turned and hurried after Jackaby, rounding the corner almost on top of him. He had planted his back to the brickwork and was surveying the scene intently. “What are you doing?” I asked, glancing about and pulling myself into the shadows with him. The alleyway was wide, running between the Emerald Arch and a short brick building that smelled of fish. There were cans of refuse and old crates heaped along the wall opposite us, but nothing large enough to offer concealment, should we find ourselves in need of it. A slim balcony protruded from each floor directly above us.
“Well, Miss Rook, it’s time for you to go,” Jackaby said simply, glancing about the alley without bothering to look me in the eye.
I faltered. “So, it’s a ‘no’ on the job, then?”
“What? No, where did you get that idea?” He crossed to the pile of old boxes and picked one out with a sturdy wooden frame and a big, red fish emblem painted across the side. He set the box down beneath the balcony and picked up two more. He stacked these in a simple pyramid, then looked up. “If you’re still in for it after this morning’s business, then the job is yours . . . at least provisionally. We can call it a trial period.”
After the small disappointment, the excitement of what he was saying began to percolate. “Oh, I’m in for it, Mr. Jackaby,” I said. And then, after a pause, “What, exactly, am I in for?”
“Excellent, asking the right questions already.” He stacked three or four more crates in unsteady tiers as he spoke. “You’ll come with me on some cases, like today, and spot little details that might be helpful. I will dictate findings for you to type up and compile into proper case files, and when I’m connecting the pieces, you will be my sounding board. I think better aloud, and I prefer not to talk to myself too much. Gives me headaches. Otherwise, you’ll just run small errands for me, write up bills and receipts, manage the accounts, that sort of thing. Any further questions?”
“Why did you change your mind?” It just slipped out.
“Change my mind about what?”
“You said I wasn’t the girl for the job, at first. What made you change your mind?”
Jackaby stopped arranging old boxes and looked me in the eye before answering. “Marlowe is a good man and a competent detective, but he notices what anyone would notice: the extraordinary. He spots bloodstains and mad men in red pajamas. I see the things more extraordinary still, the things no one else sees. But you—you notice mailboxes and wastebaskets and . . . and people. One who can see the ordinary is extraordinary indeed, Abigail Rook. Any other questions?”
I had just one more. “Why don’t you have a little notebook?” I asked.
“What? A notebook?”
“Yes
, for jotting down clues and leads and things. Terribly handy for a detective, I should think. Marlowe’s got one. It has a leather cover and flips up top-wise. I wouldn’t mind a notebook like that, myself. We should each have one. We’d look more like proper detectives, then.”
“Firstly,” Jackaby said with a sigh, “a ‘proper detective’ is about the last thing a good detective wants to look like, most of the time. Secondly, it isn’t a bad idea on the whole, but I’ve used notebooks and I found them entirely useless. I’d give them to my assistants to type up, and none of them could ever decipher my handwriting. One of them rather rudely suggested it looked like the scribblings of a chimp.”
“Well then, you could always read it out for me to copy—or not copy it at all, just use it for your own reference.”
“Well, that’s no good.”
“Why not?”
“Because ‘chimp’ was generous. I can scarcely read a word I’ve written. I find it’s far simpler to skip the exercise entirely. I can dictate my findings to you at the end of the day in the comfort of the office.”
“Well, I should still like one myself, someday. I think I would look quite sharp with a leather notebook. Oh, and a magnifying glass. I would feel much more like a detective with a magnifying glass.”
“I do have several of those, but why should you need to feel like a detective? I’m hiring you as an investigative assistant, not a detective. Would a magnifying glass help you to feel like an investigative assistant? If so, I would be happy to lend you one as you get adjusted to the role.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, sir, but you have a way of taking the joy out of an occasion, do you know that?” I buttoned my coat against the cold wind. “Shall we be off, then?”
“Not we, I have something I need to attend to here.” The detective glanced up and down the alley once more. “Meet me back at my offices. I expect the smell should have become tolerable by now. Make yourself familiar with the place—just mind you don’t slip in the pond. The mud is surprisingly slick.”