Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(17)
“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.”
“I didn’t notice a pond . . . Is it around back?”
“No. Third floor. You can’t miss it.” Jackaby planted a foot on the wobbling pyramid, and quickly mounted the makeshift staircase.
“Wait, what are you doing?” I grabbed the top box with both arms, bracing it as the whole lot threatened to tumble.
Jackaby grabbed hold of a metal railing and swung himself up onto the narrow balcony. “I need to revisit room 301. If Arthur Bragg was a reporter in the middle of a story, and he wound up with a hole in his chest and short several pints of blood . . .” He let the sentence hang in the air.
“Of course,” I called up, “He was probably killed for something he was writing about. But . . . why don’t you want me with you?”
“Because”—Jackaby had planted one foot atop the thin, metal railing and was pulling himself up to the next balcony, his shoes scraping gawkily at the brickwork as he ascended—“you have—oof—been with me all morning and have not fainted, struck me with anything, or metamorphosed into an aquatic bird. I should very much like this to remain the state of things, at least for your first day.”
“Ah,” I replied. I was beginning to find it was easier to merely accept what the detective told me than to ask for explanations. “See you back at your office, then?”
Jackaby had planted his feet firmly on the third-floor balcony and begun to lift open the window. He stopped, eying the windowsill intently and mumbling something. “What is it?” I called up.
“Nothing. This is the window at the end of the hallway, I can see Mr. Henderson’s door just there.” He pulled the window open the rest of the way and slid a leg inside.
“Don’t get nicked!” I cautioned in my loudest urgent whisper.
“That reminds me,” he said, pausing. “There’s a jar in my office marked ‘Bail.’ If you don’t hear from me by tonight, just bring it down to the Mason Street station, would you? I’m usually in the first or second cell. There’s a good girl. See you in a bit!”
The rest of Jackaby disappeared through the window, and an old, familiar sensation tickled its way up my spine. Until that moment, the events of the day had all been new and remarkable, but being left behind was one area in which I had countless hours of experience.
My father was highly respected in certain scientific circles, and his notoriety kept him perpetually away on business. I had my mother, of course, but her wildest ambitions involved parasols and cucumber sandwiches. Most little girls would probably have preferred playing dress-up with mommy to learning about their father’s work—but most little girls did not have the intrepid Daniel Rook for a father. For him, “work” meant dashing off to exotic locales with groups of daring, khaki-clad adventurers. I could not count the times I begged him to let me see a real dig site, but to no avail. While he explored lost civilizations and unearthed the bones of monstrous beasts, I explored the garden and pulled weeds for a two-penny allowance.
I was not in my mother’s garden, now. I was standing beneath a balcony in an alley that smelled faintly of old wash-water and dead fish, feeling my mind spinning from the day’s events and teetering like an unbalanced top. This was different. I had in the span of the past hour experienced more genuine adventure than in all my time at home or my travels abroad. Inspector Marlowe had sounded just like my father. “This business is not for the female temperament,” he had said—but Jackaby had not hesitated to point me toward the worst of it and ask for my opinions. It made me inexplicably excited that I would be working with this mad detective again. Looking back, I suppose I ought to have been less afraid of being left safely behind, and more afraid of the looming precipice ahead.
I walked back to the street and tried to get my bearings. The straightest path back to the odd little building on Augur Lane, I realized, would take me past the police barricade again. I decided that Marlowe would hardly notice or mind my muddling my way through the onlookers, so I chanced it, keeping close enough to the front of the crowd to watch the windows for any sign of my strange, new employer.