Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(6)
“Oh—Abigail,” I answered. “Abigail Rook.”
“Rook,” he repeated. “Like the bird or like the chess piece?”
“Both?” I answered. “Neither? Like . . . my father, I suppose.” This seemed to either appease or bore Jackaby, who nodded and turned his attention back to the cobbled road and his own thoughts.
We were taking a somewhat winding path for all the hurry Jackaby seemed to be putting into the trip, but we had already traveled several blocks before I spoke again.
“So . . . has it been filled?” I asked. “The position?”
“Yes,” my companion replied, and I drooped. “Since the posting of the advertisement, it has been filled . . . five times. It has also been vacated five times. Three young men and one woman chose to leave the job after their introductory cases. The most recent gentleman has proven to be far more resilient and a great deal more helpful. He remains with me in a . . . different capacity.”
“What capacity?”
Jackaby’s step faltered, and he turned his head away slightly. His mumbled reply was nearly lost to the wind. “He is temporarily waterfowl.”
“He’s what?”
“It’s not important. The position is currently vacant, Abigail Rook, but I’m not certain you’re the girl for the job.”
I looked at the mismatched detective and digested the turn the conversation had taken. His ridiculous hat fought a color battle with his long scarf. The coat that hung from his lanky frame looked expensive, but it was worn, its pockets overstuffed and straining. Their contents jingled faintly as he walked. It was one thing to be turned away by a stuffy suit in an ascot and top hat, but this was another matter entirely.
“Are you just pulling my leg?” I demanded.
Jackaby gave me a blank look. “I clearly have not touched your leg, Miss Rook.”
“I meant, are you serious? You’re really an investigator of—what did your sign say—‘inexplicable phenomena’? That’s really your building back there?”
“Unexplained,” corrected Jackaby. “But yes.”
“What exactly is an ‘unexplained phenomenon,’ then?”
“I notice things . . . things that other people don’t.”
“Like that business back at the inn? You never did tell me how you knew so much about me at a glance.”
“Back where? Young lady, have we met?”
“Have we—is that a joke? Back at the inn? You somehow knew all about where I’d been traveling . . .”
“Ah—that was you. Right. Precisely. As I said . . . I notice things.”
“Clearly,” I said. “I am very keen to learn what you noticed about me, sir—as it obviously wasn’t my face—and you’ll find I can be very persistent when I’ve set myself to something. That is just one of the qualities that would make me an excellent assistant.” It was a reach, I knew, but if I was to be given yet another brush-off, I would at least take my explanation along with it. I straightened up and kept stride, keeping shoulder to shoulder with the man—although, truthfully, my shoulder came up barely past his elbow.
Jackaby sighed and drew to a stop as we reached the corner of another cobbled street. He turned and looked at me with pursed lips.
“Let’s see,” he said at last. “I observed you were recently from the Ukraine. This was a simple deduction. A young domovyk, the Ukrainian breed of the slavic house spirit, has had time to nestle in the folds along the brim of your hat.”
“A what?”
“Domovyk. Were the fur a bit longer, it could easily be confused for a Russian domovoi. It seems quite well established, probably burrowed in more deeply as you boarded the ship. Ah, right, which brings us to Germany.
“More recently, you seem to have picked up a young Klabautermann, a kind of German kobold. By nature, kobolds are attracted to minerals, and take on the color of their preferred substance—yours has a nice iron gray coat. Fondness for iron is rare among fairies and their ilk. Most fairy creatures can’t touch the stuff. That’s probably why your poor domovyk nestled in so deep. Klabautermann are among the most helpful of their breed. See, he’s made some repairs to the hem of your coat, there—probably his little way of thanking you for the ride. These charming fellows are known for helping sailors and fishermen. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote about a cheeky little one who . . .”
I interrupted, “You mean to say I’ve got two imaginary beasties living in my clothes, even though I haven’t ever seen them?”
“Oh, hardly imaginary—and I should think it’s a good thing you didn’t see that little chap!” The man allowed a throaty laugh to escape. “Goodness, it’s a terrible omen for anyone blessed by a kobold’s presence on a ship to actually lay eyes on the creature. You’d likely have sunk the whole vessel.”
“But you see them?” I asked. “You saw them right away at the pub, didn’t you?”
“Not right away, no. As you hung your coat, I did spot the droppings on your lapel, which naturally I thought might . . .”
“Droppings?”
“Yes, just there. On your lapel.”
I glanced down, brushing a few stray bits of lint from my otherwise spotless lapel, and then straightened, feeling foolish. “People pay you to tell them this sort of thing?”