Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(71)

Jackaby had ascended to the landing and was already sweeping past Spade and down the high-ceilinged hallway. “You gave me my current home and place of business when I was still operating out of a shabby two-room apartment. Tell me—why did you offer me that splendid building on Augur Lane?”

“I don’t know. It seemed like a good fit,” said Spade. “It was going to waste due to its rather sordid history, but you didn’t seem the sort to be scared off by ghost stories.”

“No, indeed. It was your idea then?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. “Mary suggested it, now that you mention it. Why?”

“Awfully benevolent of the lady to suggest you just give away a valuable piece of real estate to little old me, especially given how upset she was about those rosebushes. I imagine she was probably more upset about my torching the nest of brownies residing within them, actually. They’re practically cousins, after all. Still, it did provide her with a handy excuse to dislike me and a convenient reason to avoid meeting face-to-face.”

“What? That’s ludicrous. You’ve met Mary. Haven’t you?”

“Strangely, no—I haven’t. I’ve never thought much of it—but she has always been conspicuously absent when I came calling. She’s always been taken ill or been visiting an aunt or, most often and most telling of all”—Jackaby threw open the door at the end of the hall with a flourish—“taking a bath!”

We peered inside. “Sir,” I said, “I think this is a sitting room.” From within the room, a startled maid had ceased dusting the coffee table and straightened up.

“Whoops!” Jackaby spun, counting doors on his fingers.

“What is he raving about?” Spade said. “Why would it be suspect that Mary offer you the house?” Spade spun around as Jackaby whipped off between Charlie and me, stalking back up the hallway.

“The sordid history of that place,” I informed the mayor, “isn’t just history. The people who killed Jenny Cavanaugh are still here in New Fiddleham. They had been through her house already, so they knew the ins-and-outs of the property. Their wickedness didn’t end with the murder on Augur Lane ten years ago—it had barely begun. When Jackaby showed up in New Fiddleham, he posed an immediate threat to their operation, but they couldn’t simply kill him. They needed him alive, so they did the most logical thing. They kept tabs on him and kept him busy.”

“That’s right,” Jackaby agreed. “Meanwhile they were biding their time and rebuilding, waiting until the whole mess seemed to have washed away. But—as those Mudlark boys could tell you—everything that washes away has to wash up somewhere. And speaking of washing . . . here we are!” He wrenched open another door triumphantly. A simple white bathtub with brass feet stood empty before us. “She’s not here!”

“Of course not,” said Bertram. “Mrs. Spade never takes her bath in the east wing.”

“Mr. Spade,” said Jackaby, “you have an impractically large abode.”

“Will you just tell me what on earth is going on!” Mayor Spade was turning red around the collar.

“Certainly,” said Jackaby. “Last year you appointed Mr. Swift, a bloodthirsty monster, as the commissioner of the entire New Fiddleham Police Department. Remember that? Yes, of course you do. The question is: why? Why Swift? I doubt the job was his idea. Redcaps are notoriously solitary creatures. So whose idea was it?”

“What? Swift had papers. We contacted references. He came highly recommended,” Spade hedged. “He deceived us all. You can’t blame me for—”

“I agree entirely,” Jackaby said. “So, whose idea was it?”

Spade swallowed. “Well, Mary did introduce us. She said he had served in the war with her father. At least, the real Mr. Swift had served in the war with her father. But it’s not—”

“Not a total lie,” said Jackaby. “He was serving in a war they’re trying to start.”

“No!” Spade shook his head.

Jackaby started off down the stairs again, making rapidly for the west end of the mansion.

“No, Mary wouldn’t do that. Not on purpose. She was duped as much as any of us. She’s nothing but sweet and friendly.”

“I’m sure she is,” I said, hurrying to keep up with Spade and my employer. “In fact, I imagine your wife is often social on your behalf, yes? Throwing parties and having tea with important families?”

“Yes! Yes, that is much more her sort of thing. She makes friends so easily.”

“She has been establishing a network of social and political contacts,” Jackaby said. “A spider weaving her web.”

“I beg your pardon—that’s my wife!” Spade said.

“I understand the late Mrs. Beaumont was one of the most influential socialites in the city,” I said. “Mary didn’t, by any chance, meet with the late Mrs. Beaumont before the poor woman’s death, did she?”

“How can you even suggest such a thing! Mary was with me that whole evening! She was devastated when she heard the news. She and Mrs. Beaumont had been so close! Mary even bought the woman a cute little kitty to keep her company after Mr. Beaumont passed away.”

Jackaby and I exchanged glances. “Mrs. Wiggles,” I told him, “is the reason Mrs. Beaumont was killed. She wasn’t really a cat, mayor. She was a dangerous supernatural creature in disguise. One of her brood became the fifty-foot dragon that nearly wiped Gadston off the map. Mrs. Beaumont was silenced before we could trace the thing back to its source.”