Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(33)
I wanted less and less to be out and about finding lodging tonight. “But why should he begin to hunt in New Fiddleham?” I asked. “Maybe this was a special circumstance. Bragg was onto him. As you said, the reporter was probably only killed because he had begun to piece together the other murders.”
“You mean, as we’ve just been doing?” Jackaby asked with a raised eyebrow. “I see your point, but the killer must have known his plot would only delay things for so long. Now he must know that he is at the end of his free rein. Like a caged goose, he will be more erratic, more unpredictable, and more deadly to anyone caught up in the trap with him.”
“A goose?” I asked.
“Yes. Geese are terrifying. Whatever the metaphoric animal, we who have taken up Bragg’s research find ourselves most squarely in the creature’s sights. I think it may be prudent to heighten the building’s defenses, and our own, until this affair is over. It’s only a matter of time before the villain gets wind of our inquiries around town and pays us the same visit he paid Arthur Bragg.”
A chill ran up my spine, and I darted a nervous glance over my shoulder. I began to speak, but was cut off by a sudden, deafening clamor of crashes and thuds from the floor above. The detective and I exchanged wide-eyed looks, and then he snatched a gnarled, wooden club from the shelf behind the desk and hurried into the hall to investigate. I scanned the office frantically, finding nothing intimidating to wield, and settled for a particularly heavy book. I carried it like a shot-putter, hefting the clumsy thing by my ear. My wrist was shaking, but I remained tensed to launch it fiercely at any ne’er-do-wells.
My nerves vibrated like a plucked harp, and I silently cursed the spiral stairwell as I crept upward in a cold sweat. The last turn revealed a massive heap of artifacts splayed across the passageway. They had clearly tumbled from the cluttered room on the right, and out into the hall. A china plate with gold inlay was still wobbling to a stop, and the feathers drifting slowly downward suggested that a ruptured pillow was probably somewhere in the mound.
Jenny stood in the doorway, her knees vanishing into the side of the upturned phonograph, which lay toppled and propped on its bell. The ghost’s expression was difficult to read. Her face, a study in silver, seemed flushed, her cheeks and nose darkening to an iron gray. Behind her, Douglas flapped to a landing on the curved headboard of the bed, which had been half unearthed since my last visit. He had two silk neckties draped across his neck like ceremonial vestments.
“What—?” Jackaby began.
“Oh, hello,” said Jenny, smiling sheepishly. She wore a pair of lacy silk gloves, whose substantiality stood out in odd contrast to her translucent figure. “Just helping you get started. Got a lot to move. You’d be surprised how tricky it can be to stay solid while you’re trying to maneuver the big, awkward stuff.”
Douglas quacked and wobbled on his perch.
“Oh, like you were any help!” Jenny jabbed a silky white finger in his direction, then turned back to us. “I knew you would say yes, of course, Jackaby. So Douglas agreed to help me find space in the attic.” She looked from the detective to me, reading expressions. “You are staying here, aren’t you?”
“I haven’t—,” I started, but Jackaby burst in at the same moment.
“Of course she’s staying here! Where else would she stay? That’s no reason to go throwing my things across the house!”
And with that it was settled. Jenny clapped her hands together and smiled brightly, and Jackaby turned to look at me. “What in heaven’s name are you doing with my copy of Historia Lycanthropis?”
“I—what?” I answered eloquently.
“That book. What on earth are you doing with it?”
“Well, you had the stick.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “This is a shillelagh. It was cut from Irish blackthorn by a leprechaun craftsman, cured in the furnace of Gofannon, and imbued with supernatural powers of protection. That”—he gestured to the book—“is a book.”
“It’s heavy, though. A leprechaun? Like, the tiny fellows who keep pots of gold at the ends of rainbows?”
“Don’t be asinine. I mean a real leprechaun. That volume is a sixteenth-century original printing. I hope very much that you didn’t intend to use it as a projectile.”
I held out the Historia Lycanthropis, which he collected on his way back to the staircase. “Jackaby,” I said before he disappeared down the passage, “thank you.”
“Whatever should you be thanking me for?”
“Well, for the lodging—and also for taking me on. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Just do your best not to die, would you? Oh, and one more thing, Miss Rook. Promise me, if you do become a pigeon or a hedgehog or something, you won’t get all stubborn about it. Now then, I’ve a few things to take care of around the place. Why don’t you help Miss Cavanaugh sort out your room?” His voice faded as he trundled away down the stairs.
Jenny and I spent the remainder of the evening carrying an eclectic assortment of objects up to the third floor. Some of them found homes among the greenery, and others we hauled into an even more crowded attic. Douglas spent the time eating bread crumbs and squawking in disapproval about where we positioned the furniture. Jackaby spent it securing storm shutters and “maintaining safeguards,” which seemed to consist of circling the house with salt, rye, holy water, and garlic.