Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(55)

“I haven’t died,” I told her. “Dark forces are operating in New Fiddleham. People have been murdered, and Jackaby thinks that worse is on the way. I’m looking for answers.”

“Oh, Abby!” Nellie held a hand to her chest. She looked like she was watching her child’s first steps. “You followed a lead into the great beyond? God, you are like a young me. I’m so proud of you, sweetie. This place is great for answers. I tracked down the Borden parents right off. It turns out little Lizzie didn’t do it, after all. They’re a very nice couple, by the way. I hope their girl gets acquitted. She’s been through quite enough. So, who are you looking for?”

“I need to find a professor, a man named Hoole. I don’t suppose . . . ?”

“Sorry.” She shook her head. “Never heard of him. There’s a lot of underground to cover down here in the ever after. Good luck, though.”

“Thank you, Nellie,” I said. “We miss you, you know.”

“Don’t!” she chirped. “Just make it down here on your own terms eventually, and be sure you’ve built up a few amazing stories to tell me in the meantime.”

The mist crept around her again, and Nellie began to slide slowly backward.

“Oh, one more word of advice.” Her voice cut through the fog. “You want to catch the bastards? Use your peripheral vision. The real powers at play never take center stage. Don’t follow the marionette, follow the strings.”

“But I can’t see who’s pulling the strings! That’s why I’m down here. Nellie? Nellie?” The mist folded behind us as the slim longship drifted onward.

Nellie Fuller was well behind us when the boat ground to a halt again. This time it was not the white mist that coalesced into a barrier, but the dark shadows. As the gloom took solid shape, two obsidian pillars appeared to our left and right, followed by long strings of black, which dripped down from the roof of the cavern, stretching to the surface of the slow river like molasses from a spoon. The drips thickened, forming ink black bars. A deep chime sounded and the whole thing snapped into shape, just as the first gate had done.

“Here we go ag—” said Charon, and once more I was in a cushion of total silence.

The voice that issued from beyond the dark bars was small and meek, like a child’s. “The more and more you have of me, you’ll find the less that you can see.”

I thought for a moment. “That’s easy,” I said. “It’s darkness.”

The gate lost solidity and the boat eased forward again as the sounds echoing through the caverns returned. The darkness of the gate did not dissipate entirely, but spread and hung in the air like a curtain. Charon’s boat slipped through it like we were passing through a coal-black waterfall, and when we reached the far side the entire cave was as black as pitch.

I turned around, but the tunnel behind us was equally dark. “Charon?”

“I am here.”

“I can’t see a thing. Did I give the wrong answer?”

“I do not think so. You are doing very well.”

Ahead of us a pinprick of warm light appeared. It grew by slow degrees as Charon pressed the vessel steadily forward. Soon I realized it was a lantern, and clutching it was the silhouette of a girl.

“Hello?” I called.

“Who are you?” she said, suspiciously. She had an American accent.

“It’s all right. My name is Abigail,” I said. “Abigail Rook. What’s your name, young lady?” We drifted closer, and the girl’s face came into view. She could not have been more than ten; she was blonde with a heart-shaped face and wide, wary eyes. The little spirit, I realized, looked like she had stepped straight out of the tintype in Jackaby’s dossier. If I had had blood in my veins, it might have frozen. “Eleanor?”

“How do you know me?” she said. “Why are you here?”

The boat came to stop beside the girl, or else she was drifting along evenly with us now; I could see neither land nor water in the faint glow of the lantern. “We have a mutual friend,” I said. “He speaks very fondly of you. And very sadly. You meant a lot to him.”

Her brow crinkled. “I don’t have a lot of friends.”

“Neither does he, but he gets attached to the ones he has. Mr. Jackaby has the sight now. He’s made a life of using it to help people, especially people who are different. People who are misunderstood.”

Eleanor’s expression faltered. A curious brightness flickered in her eyes, and then she giggled. “Mr. Jackaby? With a mister and everything?” Her smile was timid and earnest.

“That’s right. He’s grown into a very special man since you—since you knew him. He’s a good man.”

“Jackaby,” said Eleanor. “He kept it.”

“Kept it? You mean the sight?”

“I mean the nickname. He never let me call him Jackaby when the other boys were around. It was all right when we were alone in the library, but he was so embarrassed when we were out in public. My Jackaby.”

“You mean Jackaby isn’t even his real name?” I said. I had often wondered what the R. F. stood for, but I had assumed I knew at least his surname. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, of course it isn’t. Pavel was right. Mr. Jackaby does have a thing about names.”