Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(47)
It was a jarring shift, like falling out of bed in the middle of a dream. Mundane sounds returned suddenly, alien at first in their normalcy: the soft slosh of water in the gutters, the pitter-patter of droplets slipping from the wet branches, the heavy breathing and occasional sniffle of the man in the far cell. Wondering, briefly, if I was dead, I blinked and patted down my torso. Finding no gaping wounds, I looked dumbly to Jackaby.
He glanced about the station and then met my eyes. “Interesting,” he said.
“We’re alive,” I said.
“So it would seem.” He crossed to the window and looked outside. Everything had returned to normal, except for the oppressive quiet. The usual patter of footsteps and carts on the street had stopped, and the faintest of noises hung too clearly in the absence of other sounds.
“Do you think they caught him?”
Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “It’s possible. It would account for the rapid shift in our fates.”
“I thought for sure the whole lot of us were dead,” I said, letting the idea warm up inside me. “But, no one died at all! We’re safe! Everyone’s safe!” I smiled at my employer, who allowed himself a hint of a grin in response.
And then a distant scream cut across the silence. It was a woman’s voice—not the banshee’s, but a very human cry, full of shock and sadness and distress. It sounded very small and alone as it echoed across the quiet streets.
I swallowed hard, the elation of our survival draining out of me. “Who do you think . . . ?” I left the question hanging in the air.
“I haven’t a clue.” Jackaby’s voice took a hard edge, and he scowled out the little window for several silent moments. “I need to get out of this cell. This has gone on long enough.” He began to pace.
“And how do you intend to go about that?” I asked him. The constant stresses that seemed to be riling my employer had the opposite effect on me. No longer in immediate danger, I felt my adrenaline rapidly wane, and the exhaustion of a day full of heady emotions weighed heavily on my eyes. I slid down to sit on the cool ground against the wall, and rested my head on my knees.
“I’ll have to employ delicate and deliberate elocution. I’m sure our jailer can be persuaded to see reason.”
“You’re going to try to talk your way out?”
“Don’t sound so skeptical. Just you watch, Miss Rook. We’ll be back out and on the trail in minutes. I’m very good with people.”
Many hours later, I was roused from near sleep by the loud rattle of my cell door opening. Jackaby was restlessly waiting by his own door, his persistent but fruitless efforts to negotiate our release having apparently abated some time earlier. A glance showed me that my release had come at the hands of Junior Detective Cane. He gave me a reassuring smile, and opened Jackaby’s cell while I shook myself fully awake and rose. Charlie’s posture was alert and professional, as usual, but I doubted very much if he had slept at all in the last two days. His hair was mussed, dark stubble was coming in thick across his jaw, and his eyes still looked bloodshot.
“So,” I said, “we’re free now?”
“We’re being released on our own recognizance, Miss Rook,” Jackaby announced, dusting off his sleeves and stretching.
Charlie nodded. “Marlowe’s still not happy with you about hiding evidence, but he agreed that being in police custody during the murder is a fairly convincing alibi.” His voice was hoarse and a little gravelly, and even his accent was slipping slightly, more Slavic syllables inserting themselves in his words.
“So there has been another murder?”
Charlie nodded. “Yes. We were nearly on the scene when it happened. That Irish woman, Miss O’Connor, was there when we found the body. It was just the same as the others, sir.” His voice was solemn. “Mrs. Morrigan is dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charlie nodded to the duty officer as we left the cell, and the portly man slid the door closed behind us. “The banshee,” I said as we walked. “She was singing her own last song, then. That poor thing. We listened to her die, and we didn’t even know it!”
Charlie led us down the same hallway we had taken to reach the interrogation chamber. This time we took an early turn, and he rapped on the barred window of a desk set into an alcove. Beyond a panel of glass and thin bars stood long shelves of wire baskets. Peeking out of the tops were items ranging from gentlemen’s hats and gloves to a bullwhip and what appeared to be the top of a bowling pin. A few items, obviously too large to fit into the baskets, were arranged along the walls. While we waited, Jackaby chuckled to himself and pointed at an oversized Mexican sombrero with fine beadwork along the brim and a massive hole on one side. It looked as though some great beast had sampled it like a dainty chocolate, then returned it to the box. “That was a memorable afternoon,” he said.
The clerk arrived at last, rolling his eyes as soon as he caught sight of Jackaby. Charlie began to state our names officially, but the man waved him off. He handed Charlie a clipboard through the big slot at the bottom of the window and then trudged back out of sight. When he reappeared, he had a large metal tray and a sheet of paper. He slid the tray onto the desk and read from the paper.
“A. Rook. One coat. One handkerchief. Please sign that all personal effects are accounted for, miss.”