Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(51)
“Yes, exactly,” came flower-bonnet’s nasal drone over the dull murmur of the square, “she’s that sort.”
“Shameful,” intoned yellow-dress.
I had no intention of playing their repentant lost lamb, withering at their glances. Instead, I threw them a cheeky wink as I jogged up the steps into the square. They looked mortified and bustled away, noses raised, in the opposite direction. I drew up to my employer’s side as he halted at last, my heavy breaths puffing out in pillowy, white clouds ahead of me. He was scanning the assembled officers, and those still trickling in from Mason Street, when his eyes narrowed slightly and his posture straightened.
I tried to slow my labored breathing and spot the target of his interest. “What is it?” I whispered.
Jackaby nodded in the direction of a slender alley through which a figure was approaching, wearing a dark cloak and stiff top hat. The drainage grates billowed steam across the alleyway, shrouding the figure in a pale silhouette at first. As he neared, his features grew slowly more distinct, until he reached the street and came out of the fog and shadows, revealing a bushy-bearded face with rosy cheeks. Jackaby relaxed. “No one. Never mind.”
“Wait, I’ve met him,” I realized. “Let me see . . . Mr. Stapleton, I think. He tried to buy a tin of Old Bart’s from me.” He spotted me as we passed, and gave a polite nod of recognition, which I returned before he continued out of sight down the lane.
Jackaby looked at me. “Why were you selling tins of—wait, Stapleton?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“As in Stapleton Foundry? As in Stapleton Metalworks?”
“Maybe? I don’t know. He was nice. He told me to keep my chin up.” Jackaby was already hurrying off after the man.
“Wait here!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going to see a man about some lead!”
I stood, alone, clutching Jackaby’s old books to my chest and stamping my feet to keep out the cold while I watched the police officers collect.
“Hello again, Abigail Rook,” called a familiar female voice behind me, and I turned to see who had spoken. All around were men in uniform, and none of them appeared remotely interested in me.
“Something different about you,” she continued. She was only a few feet away when I finally spotted her.
“Oh, hello, Hatun! I’m sorry, I didn’t notice you at first.”
The old woman smiled knowingly. “Findin’ a place in the world, I see,” she said, and brushed her shawl casually with one mittened hand. “And how are the new lodgings? Comfortable?”
“What’s that? Oh, yes, I suppose. Jackaby has lent me the use of a room. Speaking of which, did you happen to see where—”
“That isn’t it, though,” she cut me off, subjecting me to the same suspicious, narrow-eyed examination as she had during our first encounter. “Somethin’ else . . .”
“Right, well,” I said. “I would love to talk, but I really must be . . .”
“Oh dear.” Hatun shook her head and blinked several times, as if trying to clear from her eyes the drifting spots that come of looking at bright lights for too long. “Oh dear, oh dear, indeed. You oughtn’t go looking for him. No, not a wise idea. Really for the best you stay clear of him tonight. Keep away from Jackaby.” Her eyes squinted at me. “That’s what’s different about you, I think.”
I hesitated. “There’s something different about me, and it has to do with Jackaby?”
“I’m afraid so, dear. You must not follow him. It’s simply dreadful.”
“What is, exactly?”
She shook her head again, and her whole face tightened as though she had chomped down on a lemon. She looked up suddenly, and patted my cheek in a surprisingly sweet, grandmotherly gesture. “The—what’s the word? Immense, innocence, imminence, yes—that’s it. The imminence of it,” she said, “your demise.”
“The imminence of my demise?” I stared at the woman, with her tender eyes and layers of wrinkles, and let her words sink in.
I believed her, I realized, but I had already come to terms with my death so many times in the span of a day, I found it difficult to be frightened by the announcement. I had crested that emotional hill already, and the view was becoming familiar. “Thank you, earnestly,” I said, all the same. “Your concern is touching.”
Her omen delivered, Hatun seemed to, as Jackaby phrased it, “oscillate” instantly back to normalcy. She nodded and wished me well, as if we had just met at a casual luncheon, then shuffled away, melting into the milling crowd.
Soon the ranks of police had crept to nearly a hundred men, and they continued shuffling in from the streets and alleys. Some wore full uniforms; others had hastily pulled their navy blue jackets over evening clothes, clearly roused from their homes while off duty. One chilly-looking young fellow wore a pair of spotted pajamas, with only his stiff blue hat and black baton to identify him as a man of the law. I was impressed that Marlowe had agreed to Jackaby’s wild request at all, let alone that he had managed to summon so many men so quickly, and at this hour of the night.
The chief inspector himself strode through the crowd at the far end of the square. The officers most familiar with him turned at the sound of the handcuffs, jangling at his side, and they were at attention the moment they caught sight of the imposing figure. Even those who must have been from different departments made at least a token effort to sit up straighter on their flower boxes. The inspector made a beeline to stand beside me, surveying the men as he spoke.