Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(36)

Jenny pursed her lips, and did not answer. I instantly regretted the question. After several moments, she smiled politely. “Do try them on, why don’t you?” she insisted.

I turned around to unbutton the billowy red gown, and found a large, prim mallard perched on a mossy cabinet just behind me.

“Goodness—Douglas! Are you going to—erm—fly off or something?” I said to him.

Douglas bobbled his head from side to side, looking very much like a simple bird.

“I don’t see why he should,” Jenny called from behind me, playfully. “He is a duck, after all. Besides, I watched him dress on more than one occasion when he wasn’t,” she added with a nostalgic smile. “Not a bad figure. I suppose it’s really only fair.”

I felt my cheeks growing hot. “Rather bold,” I said.

She laughed. “Free spirit, Abigail. Losing one’s body has that effect.”

“You didn’t seem so blithe about privacy when I stepped into your room by accident.”

Her mischievous grin vanished into a dour pout. “That’s different,” she said, but relented with a shrug. “But if you insist. Come on, Douglas, let’s give the girl some space.” She tossed her arms up and dove backward, like a swimmer into a pool, pouring smoothly into the mossy floor behind her. The greenery trembled slightly, as if kissed by a gentle breeze, and in the blink of an eye the only sign that the spectral lady had ever been present was the pair of white gloves, pressed softly into the moss. Douglas waddled to the edge of the cabinet and dropped into a shallow glide. From the other side of the ivy curtain I heard his webbed feet splash down in the pond. Out of courtesy, I retrieved Jenny’s gloves and laid them folded on the log for her return.

The clothes fit brilliantly, and smelled faintly of pine and perfume. Jenny had even thought to provide a pair of thick, wool stockings, which cushioned my sore feet marvelously. I thanked Douglas for his discretion on the way out, keeping carefully to the hardwood path to avoid wetting my new, warm, woolen footwear. I padded down the staircase, and was nearly to the ground level when I heard the rapid knocking from the front room. Jackaby stuck his head out of the laboratory as I entered the hallway.

“Oh, Miss Rook, good. Go and see who it is, would you? Nearly finished with the eggs.” He made no indication that he had even noticed my change in attire.

“I thought they were nearly finished before I went upstairs,” I said as I passed.

“Different eggs,” he said, sliding back into the room. “The last ones were somewhat . . . uncooperative.”

I slid into the lobby and opened the bright red door to find an agitated Junior Detective Cane on the doorstep.

“Officer Cane!” I stepped aside and gestured for the young man to enter. “Please, come in! My goodness, you look dreadful! Have you slept at all?”

“I’ve not had a chance.” He removed his hat as he slipped into the room. “Thank you, Miss Rook. You, on the contrary, are looking quite well.” I felt my cheeks go warm again, and I found myself lifting a hand to my hair, wishing I had stopped to brush and arrange it before coming back downstairs. “Is Mr. Jackaby in, miss? I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

I led the man back down the hallway, and poked my head in the laboratory door. “It’s Charlie Cane, Mr. Jackaby,” I said, putting into my tone that touch of professionalism my tousled hair and stockinged feet might have lacked.

“Who?”

“The police detective from yesterday. He says he has some urgent news.”

Jackaby plodded over to the doorway. “Oh, right—you.” He looked Charlie up and down with a modicum of suspicion.

“So, I take it our friend in the red pajamas is dead?”

Charlie nodded. “Mr. Henderson, sir. Yes, sir.”

“Shame.” Jackaby nodded, thoughtfully, but without surprise. “Same manner of death as the last one?”

Charlie nodded again. “Just the same. Only more blood, this time, sir.”

“That accounts for the stains on your knees, then,” said Jackaby. “I take it you’ve been to examine the corpse?”

The last word seemed to thump into Charlie like a sandbag. I watched as he breathed in deeply, collecting himself. His knees were, indeed, stained a deep merlot, but it was hardly discernible against the dark blues of the uniform fabric. Looking more intently, I noted that the mirror polish of his shoe had been marred by a smudge of red across the pointed toe as well. “I was there,” Charlie said. “I was there all night, and I couldn’t save him.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Jackaby answered dismissively. I shot my employer a stern glance. The junior detective looked stricken. Jackaby caught my expression and reached out stiffly to pat Charlie on the arm. “No one could have saved him,” he amended. “No escaping it, once he heard the cry. Good of you to try, though. The silver lining to this tragedy, of course, is that we have a new, fresh crime scene. After Miss Rook and I have had a quick breakfast, we’ll come see what clues our villain has left for us, this time.”

Charlie shifted his feet impatiently. “Detective, surely time is of the essence! A man is dead!”

“Lamentably so, and no amount of hurry and bother will revive him. He will still be dead when we reach him, I assure you. Now, a good bit of hot breakfast will only help to improve our faculties and ensure that we don’t miss—”