Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(48)
I pulled on the coat Jenny had lent me and tucked the handkerchief back in my pocket. Charlie handed me the clipboard, and I jotted my name on the line where he indicated. The clerk vanished again momentarily, and then returned, hefting three very full trays onto the desk with a loud clank. He sighed and stuffed Jackaby’s empty coat through the slot first. Thick though the material was, with all its pockets emptied, the thing looked like a deflated balloon.
“I hate it when you spend the night,” grumbled the clerk. “I only barely got finished cataloguing this stuff. Always takes me forever just to find all the damned pockets.” He coughed and returned to a flat, professional drone as he slid the first tray out and read from the paper. “R. Jackaby. One coat—brown; one hat—various colors; one rabbit’s foot on chain; one vial, unidentified liquid—blue; one vial, unidentified liquid—amber; one matchbox containing dried beetle; one . . .”
I had nearly nodded off again when Jackaby, once more loaded to nearly twice his body weight with paraphernalia, took the clipboard from Charlie and scrawled his mark. “Always a pleasure, Thomas. See you next time!”
The clerk took the clipboard with a grunt, then waved us away, trudging back to the recesses of his office.
I was surprised by how late it had gotten when we exited the police station. The sun was already approaching the horizon, and the innocuous shadows of the daytime were stretching to form a foreboding carpet of dusk. Lights had begun to sprout in a few city windows, reflected in broken patterns on the damp streets. They served only to darken and add menace to the shadows around them—although, admittedly, my perception was tinted by the knowledge that a serial murderer, one with motive to deliver us to our own horrific deaths, was lurking free in the city. My only consolation was that we were, at least, traveling with an escort. In spite of my earlier doubts about Charlie, I found I was once again grateful for his company.
“I think I had best excuse myself.” Charlie’s words drew us to a stop at the first intersection. “It has been a very long day. I’ll be no good to anyone until I have had some rest.”
It was no use arguing. The bags under Charlie’s eyes had collected bags of their own. His face was wan and badly in need of a shave, and the sweat and rain had plastered short, dark curls of hair to his temples. Weather and weariness had done nothing to diminish his strong jawline or the luster of his deep brown eyes, however, and I found myself doubly relieved that he was neither our villain nor the latest victim.
“Certainly,” Jackaby answered. “Do see that you are safe and secure before retiring, of course.”
“Of course. You, as well,” Charlie replied. “I have seen more bodies this week than I ever care to see again. I should not like to wake tomorrow to find yours.”
With a nod, he turned down the street and quickly plunged into the shadows. Jackaby continued on straight, and I double-stepped to keep close. It was hard to ignore the eeriness of the deserted roads and encroaching chilly dark. While I doubted very much that one more companion would cause our dastardly villain anything but the slightest delay in dispatching us, I still lamented Charlie’s absence, and mentioned as much to Jackaby.
“Really?” My employer zigzagged up the cobbles in his usual rush. “You seem to have a renewed faith in the man.”
“Well, it is certainly a relief to know he’s an ally, after all.”
Jackaby slowed his pace and faced me, an eyebrow raised in my direction.
“What?” I asked. “You can’t still suspect him! You saw him at the station, same as I did. He’s as much at risk as we are.”
My employer pursed his lips and looked as one might while deciding whether or not to reveal the truth about the tooth fairy to a child who has failed to receive a coin beneath her pillow. He spoke in a measured tone. “Miss Rook, I’ve not decided on Mr. Cane’s guilt by any means. He did say that his life is complicated, and I believe he was telling the truth about that. Do consider, however, the circumstances by which you found him innocent. During his visit to the cell, it became clear he could hear the banshee’s wail—which suggested that he, too, was going to be a victim. As it turns out, though, everyone heard the wail, so we must assume that the murderer heard it, as well. The incident proved nothing.”
I let the idea sink in. The shadows to every side darkened, and terrible fangs and bloodshot eyes inserted themselves behind every tree trunk. Something rustled in the foliage beside us, and—I’m not proud to admit it—I squeaked and leapt backward. A pigeon burst from the leaves and settled itself into the eaves of a building half a block down the lane.
“Then again, it may have proven slightly more than nothing,” Jackaby amended, oblivious to my outburst. I hoped that he would be more aware of my distress if I were ever ambushed by a real nefarious fiend, but for the sake of my dignity I chose not to mention it. He went on, burrowing into his thoughts. “It reveals that the murderer was aware of Mrs. Morrigan—aware of who and what she was. With the banshee still living, each victim was alerted before the kill. So long as Mrs. Morrigan remained alive and keening, we had at least a clue as to where our killer was going next. He slaughtered her to eliminate our advantage.”
We crossed the street, and I recognized where Jackaby was leading us. Half a block ahead stood the Emerald Arch. “Think we’ll find any new clues?” I asked.