Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(4)

Regards,

A. Rook

Now that I was here in New Fiddleham, I was not ready to abandon my foray into adventure, but I would compromise by taking a conventional job to sustain it.

My first prospective stop was a general goods store. A bell chimed as I entered, and the shopkeeper, a thin, older woman, looked up from a flat loaded high with flour sacks. “Good morning, dearie! Be right with you!” She heaved one of the heavy bags to a shelf behind her, but it caught the corner of the rack and threw her off balance. The parcel hit the floor and burst in a billowing, white cloud. “Oh bother! Would you wait, just a moment?” she said apologetically.

“Of course. Please—let me help you with those,” I said, setting my suitcase beside the door and stepping in. The woman accepted my offer happily, and I began lifting bags to the shelf while she fetched a broom and dustpan.

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” she observed, sweeping up the mess.

“I only just made port,” I confirmed.

“I’d say London, by the accent?”

“A few counties southwest, actually. A little town in Hampshire. Have you been to England?”

The woman had never left the States, but she was happy to hear my tale. We chatted pleasantly, and I made quick work of the heavy bags. When I had stuffed the last one into the shelf, she pushed the empty flat into the next room, disappearing behind racks of dry goods. She was still away when the chime rang and a bushy-bearded man with rosy cheeks stepped in.

“I’ll have a tin of Old Bart’s, thanks.”

I realized I was still behind the counter, and looked around quickly for the shopkeeper. “Oh, I’m not—I don’t . . .”

“It’s pipe tobacco, darling. It’s just behind you, there—the one with the yellow label.”

I pulled down a tin with a robust sailor printed on the front and laid it on the counter. “The shopkeeper will be back out in a moment, sir,” I said.

“Oh, you’re doing just fine.” The man smiled and began counting out coins.

The old woman finally reappeared, brushing her hands off on her apron. “Oh, good morning, Mr. Stapleton!” she called, pleasantly. “Tin of Bart’s?”

I slipped out from behind the counter and let the woman conduct the transaction. “I like your new girl,” said Mr. Stapleton before he left. He gave me another friendly smile as he opened the door. “Don’t worry, darling, you’ll get the hang of it. Just keep that pretty chin up.” And then he was off, the door jingling shut behind him.

“What was that about, then?” asked the shopkeeper.

“Just a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, well. I can’t thank you enough for the help, young lady,” she said, clicking shut the cash register. “Now, what was it you needed?”

“Well, actually—if you have any other work—that is, if you might be hiring . . .”

She gave me a pitying smile. “Sorry, dear. You might try the post office—they get pretty busy over there—but I’ve got all the help I need.”

I looked briefly to the shelves behind her, sagging slightly under the weight of the merchandise, and wiped a bead of sweat from my forehead. “You’re quite sure you couldn’t use just a little help?”

She sent me on my way with a wrapped piece of fudge for being such a good girl, which did nothing for my self-confidence as a mature adult. I picked up my suitcase and, following Mr. Stapleton’s advice, did my best to keep my pretty chin up as I plodded farther into town.

I met more polite but unavailing storekeepers and office managers as I explored the frosted streets of New Fiddleham. It was a remarkable city, though difficult to wrap my head around geographically. It felt as though no two roads ran parallel for more than a few blocks. Each avenue seemed to have been built to accommodate necessity, rather than according to any city-wide orchestration. Gradually I began to recognize the town’s loosely defined quarters: a cluster of showy commercial buildings here; a block of practical, nondescript office buildings there; and the industrial district, where the buildings grew into wide factories and sprouted smokestacks. Residential neighborhoods overflowed in the gaps between.

Every street was bursting with character, with broad structures elbowing one another on either side for dominance of the neighborhood. The roads were dotted with street vendors peddling their wares in spite of the snow, kids racing up the sloping hills to slide back down on soapbox sleds, and the press of people marching every which way, their footsteps and carriage wheels beating out the constant pulse of city life.

I had been at my task for hours when I finally found myself in the New Fiddleham post office. In spite of the shopkeeper’s suggestion, I found no better luck there. As I turned to go, however, something caught my eye. On a public posting board, peppered with lost pets and rooms to let, hung a simple sheet of creased paper with the words —SSISTANT WANTE—just visible between a sketch of a runaway collie and notice of a room to let on Walnut Street.

I carefully freed the advertisement, which read as follows:

INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES

ASSISTANT WANTED

$8 PER WEEK

MUST BE LITERATE AND POSSESS A

KEEN INTELLECT AND OPEN MIND

STRONG STOMACH PREFERRED

INQUIRE AT 926 AUGUR LANE

DO NOT STARE AT THE FROG.