Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(12)

“I am so sorry,” said Jackaby earnestly. “Your occupation sounds tedious. I mean, really, woefully dull. Politicking must be the most unstimulating job in existence. No wonder Poplin blew it all up.”

“Hold on,” I said. “Benefactors?” My mind lurched to the man in Jenny’s memory with white-blond hair. Our benefactors have provided us with very clear objectives, the man had said. “What sort of benefactors?”

Marlowe smiled appreciatively. “You really are better at this than your boss. That was my first question, too. I’ve already got a few officers cross-referencing the donors to see if anything out of the ordinary turns up. If there’s anything to find at the end of the money trail, we’ll find it. For now it seems like that’s about the only trail we’ve got. I’m getting very tired of my missing persons leading to nothing but dead ends and dead bodies.”

“Well then. Perhaps it’s best if you enlist our services after all, Commissioner,” I said. “At least we can pursue the one missing person we know was still alive when she disappeared.”

“Cordelia Hoole.” Marlowe considered. His eye twitched involuntarily as he regarded Jackaby, but even he couldn’t deny that, for better or worse, the detective had a way of making unexpected findings come out of the woodwork. Jackaby flashed his best reassuring smile, which was never as reassuring as he thought it was. The commissioner heaved a heavy sigh, but nodded. “Send your expenses to my office, Miss Rook. You two are on the case.”





Chapter Five


The train ride to Glanville was smooth, if a bit winding. The trolley was serving something that resembled tea, although I have come to realize that Americans are all too quick to bestow that title on any warm beverage that isn’t coffee. My unfinished cup of brownish liquid had gone lukewarm by the time the train hissed to a stop, and our reception was equally tepid.

“R. F. Jackaby and companion?” A uniformed officer confronted my employer on the platform.

“That’s me,” Jackaby confirmed. “And this is Abigail Rook.”

I offered my hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Officer . . .”

“Moore,” grunted Officer Moore, not returning the gesture. “I take it you’re the specialists New Fiddleham sent because your commissioner doesn’t think we can do our jobs.” He sniffed. “You won’t find anything we didn’t.”

“We’ve managed to make ourselves useful in the past,” said Jackaby.

Yeah, we’ll see.” The officer gave a halfhearted shrug toward the exit. “Got a patrol wagon waiting. I guess I’m taking you to the professor’s place.” Without any further courtesy, he trudged through the gate, and we followed.

The Hoole house was an imperial-looking building, three stories tall with long, narrow windows and a prim mansard roof. Moore tied off his horse’s reins and stalked up the front walk. A tall woman in a wide straw bonnet watched him from the neighboring garden, her watering can gradually drifting to water the paving stones instead of the foliage.

“Have you caught her yet, officer?” she called to him when he was nearly at the door.

“Please go about your business, ma’am.” He gave a tug on the bellpull and leaned unceremoniously against an ornamental urn on the front porch to wait.

“Caught who, madam?” Jackaby asked the neighbor.

“That Cordelia woman,” she said. “I knew she was bad news. I told Mr. Hoole—rest his soul—I told him that she was no good from the beginning.”

“Cordelia was an unpleasant neighbor?”

“Oh, no. Not at all—she was nothing but sunshine and smiles.” She narrowed her eyes. “That’s how you can tell.”

“Because she was nice to you?”

“All the time. It was very unsettling.”

“I see. And how was she with Professor Hoole?”

“Oh, she doted on that man. She was always flattering and supportive. The perfect wife. Nobody’s the perfect wife. She was the one that told him he should go and take that job in New Fiddleham, even though it meant he would be traveling all the time. Told him it was his chance to make a name for himself.”

“How do you know she said that?”

“Well, she said it with the window open. Not really my fault, is it? Anyway, she said that after the science thing up north was done he could retire and spend time with the family. You see what I mean?”

“Not remotely. I infer you felt she was disingenuous and dangerous, though. Do you think she might have been a rusalka? Possibly a succubus? A siren? Did she ever seem to be all or part avian to you?”

“What?” said the woman

“What?” said Jackaby.

“Go about your business, ma’am,” said Officer Moore. “This is an ongoing investigation. Go on. Thank you.”

The woman eyed all of us with suspicion, but she took her watering can and shuffled off.

Moore gave the bellpull another tug.

“Pardon me, sir,” I asked, “but with the professor and Mrs. Hoole both gone, who are we waiting for?”

“They’ve got a housekeeper,” Moore grunted. “Live-in.” He pounded on the door several times. “Hurry it up, Miss Wick! Police business!”