Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(63)
“Swift’s third victim, alas, is on our hands. Miss Rook and I both testified openly about the identity of Mrs. Morrigan, the banshee, and it was shortly after Swift looked over our statements that she began her own final lament.”
“But why kill the old woman?” he asked. “She didn’t even know about the redcap.”
“It wasn’t for her blood, not that time—she wasn’t human, after all. I believe Swift perceived her as a warning system, an alarm before each kill—too great a liability for him to leave in peace. Bragg, Henderson, Morrigan—one by one Swift snuffed out the threats to his secret, but the whole thing was unraveling too quickly.”
“I see.” Charlie looked up again. “And . . . last night? I’m afraid it’s rather a blur.”
“After we left you, Marlowe helped me put the last piece in the puzzle. His nonsense about not questioning the chain of command told me precisely where a brazen monster would hide: the top. I recalled Miss Rook’s detailed descriptions of the commissioner, and the answer plowed into me. Now I knew what I was up against, I looked for a means to stop the fiend. The most infamous of their brood, one Robin Redcap, was coated in lead and then burned along with his malevolent master—but in the end we did not have time for that. The surest, fastest way to destroy the creature was to destroy its red cap. The cap and the beast are one. I employed a more modern use of lead and a few Bible verses for good measure, but burning the hat was the real deed.”
Charlie nodded and opened his mouth to speak again just as the horseshoe knocker sounded out three loud clacks.
Jackaby peeked through the curtains and scowled. “Marlowe. I was hoping for a little more time, but I suppose this was to be expected.”
I offered to help Charlie down the hall, but he refused to run from his chief inspector. Jackaby grumbled something about stubborn loyalty, and opened the door. Pleasantries were brief, and not particularly pleasant. Marlowe took up a position just inside, maintaining his distance from Charlie.
“Well then,” said Jackaby cynically. “I suppose you’re ready to cart the young man off? Tell me, will it be chains and cement walls, or straight to the firing squad?”
“Neither,” responded the inspector. His voice was rough and tired. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re going to let the man be, Marlowe. We both know that’s not in the cards.”
There was a pregnant silence as Marlowe took a deep breath. “No,” he said at last. “No, that’s not possible. Too many people saw his . . . transformation, and that’s not something they will quickly forget. Even if I did let Officer Cane stay, his life here is over.”
Jackaby nodded grimly. “Exile, then? How charitable.”
“Something like that,” the inspector grunted. “Mayor Spade has asked me to assume the interim position as police commissioner until a proper election can be held. Getting trapped behind a desk is about the last thing I want, but I told him I would accept it . . . for the time being.”
“This is what you came to talk about? Your promotion?”
Marlowe continued, ignoring the detective. “It will give me a chance to push for greater communication between neighboring districts. My boys tell me Bragg had been swapping telegrams for weeks, looking into this thing. Pretty sharp detective work, actually, though it’s a sad state of affairs when my people need a journalist to find their criminal. If we had been comparing notes with Crowley and Brahannasburg, Swift’s spree should never have gone on this long. I’ve even got them talking about extending the telephone lines out to the more rural towns.”
He stepped a little farther into the room. “Speaking of which, I’ve sent a telegram to Commander Bell in Gadston, just this afternoon,” he continued. “Have you ever been to Gadston? It’s small—much smaller than New Fiddleham—but I’m told it’s very pleasant. A lot of open countryside down in Gad’s Valley, too. Excellent for wildlife.” For the first time since his arrival, he made eye contact with Charlie. “One of the benefits of becoming a commissioner, even just ‘acting commissioner,’ is that the job holds a lot of sway. My recommendation for the transfer of an upstanding young officer can hardly be ignored. You will need a new name, of course, but I think the paperwork can be arranged.”
All of us took a moment to let the comment sink in. “Thank you, sir,” said Charlie softly.
“I won’t take any more of your time. Gentlemen. Miss.” He nodded a good-bye and put a hand on the door. “Oh, and in case you haven’t heard, the memorial will be this Sunday at noon. All five victims are to be honored in the same ceremony. Mayor Spade felt it would help everyone in town put this whole unpleasant business behind them.”
“Thank you, Inspector,” said Jackaby.
“Five?” I asked, before Marlowe could close the door.
He nodded. “Caught that, did you? This one’s sharp. Yes, young lady, five. Three at the Emerald Arch Apartments, then Officer O’Doyle in the forest last night . . . and finally the tragic loss of the town’s own Commissioner Swift.”
“What?” I blurted.
Jackaby scowled darkly at the inspector. “Sounds about right.”
Marlowe sighed. “People have a hard enough time believing in this sort of thing at all. When Swift was in charge, he forbade our giving credence to anything even remotely supernatural—said it hurt our public image for the official record to look like backwoods superstition. He was just using his position to hide, of course, but he wasn’t entirely wrong, either. One monster in the newspaper is more than enough, and by this point, half the town will swear to you they saw a werewolf—even the ones who didn’t see anything at all. It will be easier for everyone to accept if Swift is simply laid to rest as one more victim.”