Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(62)
I eased up to a seated position. The motion was difficult, but not overwhelming, and I found myself smiling as I took in my outrageous surroundings again. It was good to be home.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
By midday, Charlie had regained his color, and many of the nasty red scratches had somehow already faded to pale scars. I watched his chest rise and fall again until Jenny came to help me into a fresh, loose blouse. I found it in me to finish a cup of tea and a bit of toast, but still Charlie slept.
Now that I was awake, Douglas had relieved himself of his post and flapped off into the house somewhere, leaving me alone with the injured man. I stepped gingerly to the bench where he lay. He looked every bit as sweet and unassuming as he always had, perhaps even a little more so when his brow crinkled ever so slightly and his muscles tensed in his sleep. I hated to think he might be reliving his savage battle, and dearly wished there was something I could do to ease his turmoil. I reached out a hand to brush a curl of dark hair from his forehead, and then hesitated.
My heart thumped, beating hot against my scar. In the storybooks, a beautiful princess would revive him with a kiss, and the pair would live happily every after—but I was not a beautiful princess. I was a girl from Hampshire who liked to play in the dirt.
A cold breeze brushed my elbow, and a moment later Jenny’s soft voice came from over my shoulder. “How are you feeling, Abigail?”
“Helpless,” I answered, honestly. “I don’t like feeling helpless.”
She stood beside me, looking over Charlie. “He’s doing quite well, all things considered.”
I nodded. He was improving impossibly quickly, it was true. In a peculiar way, that was a part of my frustration. I wanted to balance the scales, but I had no special gifts to lend to his recovery—he had to manage that all on his own, and he was. I was surrounded by the spectacular. Charlie, Jackaby, Jenny—they could all do such astounding things, and I was just Abigail Rook, assistant.
“He saved my life,” I said, “and all I could do was watch while he was sliced to ribbons.”
“That isn’t how Jackaby tells it,” Jenny said. “As I understand, you were pretty heroic yourself last night. I think he was downright impressed.”
“Jackaby said that?”
“Well, he might have focused a bit more on the hurling about of antiques . . . and I believe the term he used most was ‘foolhardy,’ but you learn to tell with Jackaby. Did you really fight off a redcap with a handful of books?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled.
“Sounds like you did the saving, then.”
“I suppose we took turns.” I returned to the sleeping junior detective and brushed back the loose lock of dark hair. He stirred ever so slightly at my touch, breathing in deeply. His tense brow relaxed and he softened into a more peaceful slumber.
It was well into the afternoon before Charlie was fully awoken by the sound of Jackaby banging in through the front door. “You’re awake! Good. About time. How are you feeling, young man?”
“I have been better. Swift . . . is he . . . ?” Charlie began.
“Dead? Yes. It’s over.”
Charlie stiffly eased himself to sitting and accepted a cup of tea. “There is much I still don’t understand,” Charlie said. “Why now? Why them? And if you could see me for what I am, why did you not recognize Swift right away?”
Jackaby nodded and looked out the window as he gave his reply. “The last question is the easiest. Swift had repeatedly avoided meeting with me, and I with him. I never actually saw the man, or creature, until last night—possibly a coincidence, but it is likely he had heard of my reputation as a seer and did not want to risk the rumors being true. For my own part, I don’t make a habit of engaging police bureaucracy if I can avoid it. I find those nearer the bottom of the chain are more inclined to collaboration—and are also less likely to expel me from matters of interest.
“Regarding the scoundrel’s victims, they fell as follows: Mr. Bragg, the journalist, clearly stumbled upon the pattern of Swift’s killings, and must have made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning the discovery to the commissioner, probably during an interview for some silly political piece. Swift couldn’t have the newsman alerting the public to his villainy, so he dispatched the fellow, then followed centuries of instinct and practice by soaking up the blood in his grisly red cap. Having murdered Bragg, Swift had to make his escape. He hastened first to the window, but Hatun was in the alley below, so he retreated down the stairwell instead. In his hurry, he allowed his iron shoes to leave their impressions in the wood.
“That might have been the end of the bloodshed in New Fiddleham, but it was you, Mr. Cane, who unwittingly sealed the next target’s fate. To avoid mentioning our visit with the banshee, you fed Marlowe a convenient lie about Mr. Henderson having had some information regarding the killer. This proved truly inconvenient for Henderson, because the commissioner was close at hand, privy to every word. Swift could not risk his identity being exposed by a victim’s nosy neighbor. Thus, even though the poor man knew nothing to endanger Swift, Henderson became victim number two.”
Charlie swallowed hard and looked to the bottom of his teacup. Jackaby continued. “Henderson’s demise was far more rushed than Bragg’s. Your standing guard in the hallway forced Swift to make his entrance and exit through the window. Either because of your presence, or possibly because Swift’s hat was still freshly damp from the night before, this time the commissioner barely brushed the corpse before hurrying away. He left the telltale smear, but he abandoned most of the blood to pool on the floorboards. If it weren’t for Marlowe’s bullheadedness, you might have tracked him then.