Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(9)

“I remain unmarried, Mr. Jackaby, and I’m afraid you can’t be seen just now.”

“Nonsense. Miss Rook, can you see me?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Well, there you have it. You must have your eyes checked, Bertram. Now then, is our meeting in the drawing room? I hope I’m not late, I would hate to keep the commissioner waiting.” Without giving the butler time to reply, Jackaby strode past him into the house.

Bertram hurried after, urgently trying to get ahead of Jackaby, but my employer spun gaily. I followed close on their heels.

“No, he is not, Mr. Jackaby. And you are not expected today. Please!”

“Ah, the study, then—of course. No need to bother yourself, I remember the way.”

“Mr. Jackaby! This is a private estate, not the mayor’s public offices. My lady, Mrs. Spade, is very particular about the sort of person she admits into her home.”

“Come now, Bertram. I’m sure I’m just the sort of person your lady Spade would be happy to admit.”

“Actually, you are the only person she has mentioned by name to refuse.”

“Then she does remember me, after all these years—how sweet! And we were never even properly introduced. I guess I do tend to leave an impression.”

“More of a smoldering crater,” Bertram grumbled.

Jackaby quickstepped through a hall with a high arched ceiling and came to a mahogany door. “Please, Mr. Jackaby!” Bertram implored.

“Very well. If you insist,” Jackaby said, throwing open the door. “I will. Thank you for the escort, Bertram. You’ve been too kind.”

Bertram was red in the face. He looked as though he were about to object again when his master called from inside the room. “Don’t bother, Bertram. It’s fine.” The man huffed and turned, giving me a disgruntled look as he trudged away. I shrugged apologetically and hurried after my employer.

The room was accented with rich woods and carpeted in tones of deep red and chocolate brown. The shelves were decorated with a collection of leather-bound books, all of which looked expensive and none of which looked as if they had ever been read. Mayor Spade and Commissioner Marlowe sat in high-backed chairs on opposite sides of a cherrywood desk whose ornate legs curved into elegant clawed feet. A third chair sat empty.

Marlowe wore his usual double-breasted uniform, with a silver eagle pinned to his lapel. He looked, as usual, tired but resolute.

“Jackaby,” said Marlowe.

“Marlowe,” said Jackaby. “Good morning, Mayor Spade.”

Spade had doffed his jacket. It was draped over the back of his chair, and a coffee brown bow tie hung undone over his beige waistcoat. He had a full beard and a perfectly bald dome, and he wore a thick pair of spectacles. Spade was not an intimidating figure at his best, and today he looked like he was several rounds into a boxing match he had no aspirations of winning. He had seemed more vibrant the first time we met, and that had been at a funeral.

“I haven’t been up here in years,” continued Jackaby. “You’ve done something with the front garden, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” said Spade. “We’ve let it grow back. Mary still hasn’t forgiven you.”

“Is that why she’s been avoiding me? Your eyebrows have filled in nicely, by the way, and you can tell your wife the roses look healthier than ever. I’m sure being rid of that nest of pesky brownies did wonders for the roots. I understand a little ash is good for the soil, too.”

“I never saw any brownies, but there was certainly plenty of ash to go around,” Spade mumbled. “That fire spread so quickly we’re lucky we managed to snuff it out at all.”

“You should try blowing up a dragon some time,” I said. “No, scratch that. That went terribly. I don’t recommend it.”

“Impressive blast radius, though,” Jackaby confirmed.

Mayor Spade looked from me to my employer and rubbed the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Good lord, one of you was quite enough. You had to recruit?”

“You know that I love wistful anecdotes about the destruction of property and endangerment of the public as much as the next man,” Marlowe interjected, “but we’re busy here.”

“Then let us get to business.” Jackaby slid into the remaining chair on Marlowe’s side of the desk. I glanced around, finding myself standing awkwardly just outside the group.

“I’m afraid the commissioner and I have been discussing very sensitive matters, detective,” Spade began. “We really are not at liberty to—”

“Yes, yes, yes. The McCafferys—the mister is missing and the missus is murdered. Lawrence Hoole also washed up, minus a heartbeat and plus one hole in the neck. We know all about that. We also know that these are not isolated instances, but part of a much larger and more nefarious plot. It is all connected. It goes back at least a decade, and we are keen to see that it does not continue for another one. Tell me, gentlemen, what do you know about Cordelia Hoole?”

Marlowe leaned back in his chair, watching Jackaby. Mayor Spade answered instead. “Cordelia is gone.”

“Kidnapped? Another one?”

“Not kidnapped. No. The housekeeper saw her pack a suitcase. Nobody knows where she went.”

“Then perhaps that’s where we should begin,” said Jackaby. “We’re here to assist.”