Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(64)
“Yes,” Jackaby said with a sneer. “The truth can be so detrimental to one’s credibility.”
“Good day, Jackaby.” Marlowe took his leave.
The weather warmed somewhat over the next few days, though the winter chill still hung about, crouching in shady corners to surprise passersby with the occasion sudden gust. The world had brightened. On the second morning after the incident, Jackaby arranged a carriage to Gad’s Valley. He had wired an old acquaintance with a cottage where Charlie could rest and recover under a new name. Then he could decide if he would resume his efforts to take root and build a life for himself, or return to traveling with his family.
Marlowe had sent a case with Charlie’s effects, and he looked much more like himself in a clean pair of properly fitting clothes.
“Are you sure you’ll be able to put New Fiddleham behind you?” Jackaby asked once we’d helped Charlie manage the walk to the cab. “You have an aura of unshakable allegiance. Don’t try to deny it, it’s downright sickening. Marlowe won’t be there for you to tether your loyalties to him . . . nor will I.”
Charlie smiled. “I guess I am . . . rather devoted,” he told the detective, “but not to you. Nor to the chief inspector, although it was an honor to work with you both.”
“Then who . . . ?” Jackaby’s eyes darted to me, and I felt my cheeks flush at the notion.
Charlie looked away shyly. He leaned on Jackaby’s shoulder for support and fumbled in the pocket of his coat. He held up his polished badge, standing up a little straighter as he did. “I took an oath, Detective.”
Jackaby chuckled. “Ah. Of course. Lady Justice could not ask for a more stalwart watchdog.”
The men shook hands, and Jackaby held open the carriage door. Charlie gave me a courteous nod. “Miss Rook. It has been a pleasure.”
“You must write once you’re settled in,” I said.
His expression clouded. “I don’t know if that would be wise. You have both been exceptionally kind, but not everyone is so understanding. I would hate to bring more trouble to your door because of . . . what I am. After everything that happened—everything the townspeople saw—well, some things are very hard to explain.”
My heart sank. I stood mute, suddenly aware that this was a last good-bye.
“How auspicious,” Jackaby chimed from the carriage door. “Unexplained phenomena just happen to be our specialty. No excuses. You know where to reach us.”
Charlie allowed himself a smile and nodded his assent. I could have kissed them both.
I spent the remainder of the week mostly in the serenity of the third floor for my own recuperation. Although my chest felt better with each passing day, I would occasionally catch myself painfully on a deep breath or sudden turn. I wondered if the little pink scar would eventually vanish, or if my skin had been branded forever. I’m not entirely sure I would have wanted it gone—it was a private badge of my first real adventure.
I lay on the soft grass often, watching the reflections of the pond dance across the ceiling and enjoying the good company of Jenny and even Douglas. Jackaby, however, had made himself scarce as we approached the day of the memorial. Once, while I had nodded off on a carpet of wildflowers near the water’s edge, I was awoken by Jenny’s soft voice.
“She’s doing very well,” she was saying. “She’ll have the scar to remember it by, but it’s healing cleanly. Poor girl. She’s still so young.”
I kept my eyes closed and breathed evenly as Jackaby responded. “She’s older than her years,” he said.
“I think that might be sadder, somehow,” Jenny breathed.
“Anyway, it’s not her chest I’m concerned about—it’s her head.”
“Still deciding whether she’s fit for the job?” asked the ghost.
“Oh, she’ll do,” answered Jackaby. “The question is, is this job fit for her?”
In the evening, I found myself back in the waiting room. The piles of paperwork and books, which had once occupied the desk, were still lying in a heap on the floor, having been shoved aside while the room served as an impromptu medical ward. Otherwise, the chamber looked much as it had on my first visit. I glanced around, remembering not to linger on the terrarium.
Poking out of a bin in the far corner, alongside two umbrellas and a croquet mallet, stood a polished iron cane, fitted with what I knew now to be a false grip. Swift’s deadly pike was housed innocuously among the bric-a-brac, but it was a subtle memorial to his victims—and to my own blundering, which had nearly made me one of them.
Jackaby’s eclectic home began to make a little more sense to me, then. The man had no portraits or photographs, but he had slowly surrounded himself with mementos of a fantastic past. Each little item, by the sheer nature of its being, told a story. Looking around was a little like being back on the dig, or like deciphering an ancient text, and I wondered what stories they would tell me if I only knew how to read them. How many carried fond memories? How many, like the redcap’s polished weapon, were silent reminders of mistakes made or even lives lost?
Chapter Thirty
The memorial was a regal affair, and half the town seemed to have come out to mourn or to take in the spectacle. Heartfelt condolences and eager gossip were circulating through the gathering crowd as Jackaby and I arrived. The event was originally to be held within the small church adjacent to Rosemary’s Green, but the sheer number of attendees had moved the service outdoors. A light layer of snow dusted the ground and the air held a chill, but the day itself was cloudless and clear.