Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(9)

Jackaby nodded. “Interesting,” he said. “I like the way you said all that. The dust-dancing business, very poetic.”

“Well?” I prompted. “What do you see?”

He frowned and slowly continued to the third floor. As we entered the hallway, he reached his hand down and felt the air, as if reaching over a rowboat to trace ripples in the wake. His expression was somber and his brow furrowed. “It gets thicker as we near. It’s dark and bleeding outward, like a drop of ink in water, spreading out and fading in curls and wisps.”

“What is it?” My question came as a whisper, my eyes straining to see the invisible.

Jackaby’s voice was softer still: “Death.”





Chapter Five


The hallway was long and narrow, concluding with a wide window at the far end. It was lit by oil lamps, which cast a sepia glow over the scene. A single uniformed policeman waited outside the apartment immediately ahead. He stood leaning against the frame of the open door, peering back into the room he guarded. A plaque above him declared it apartment 301. The smell, like copper and rot, grew more powerful as we advanced. Jackaby walked ahead of me, and I noticed his step falter slightly. He paused, cocking his head to one side as he looked at the policeman.

At the sound of the stairway door closing, the officer snapped to attention, then relaxed his stance a bit as he made eye contact. He watched our approach, but made no move to engage us. He was clean-cut, his uniform crisp and neatly ironed. His collar was starched, and his badge and buttons shone. His shoes, which looked more like the sharp-toed wingtips of a dress uniform than the sturdy boots of an average beat cop, were buffed so brightly they might have looked more at home on a brass statue than a living body.

“Good day, Officer,” said Jackaby. “Marlowe is waiting for us inside. Don’t want to keep him.”

“No, he isn’t,” said the man, simply. His face was expressionless, studying Jackaby. By the light of the lamps I made him out to be just a year or two older than I. Curls of jet-black hair peeked out from beneath the brim of his uniform cap. He turned to acknowledge me with a polite nod, and his rich brown eyes paused on mine. He smiled shyly, turning his attention quickly back to the detective. My face felt suddenly warm, and I was grateful that he had looked away again.

“Ah, yes,” responded Jackaby, not losing pace, “but he’ll be wanting to see us in there, nonetheless. Bit of a surprise. He’ll be thrilled.”

“I doubt that very much,” said the policeman. His accent was difficult to place—Americanized but faintly eastern European. “I know you,” he said.

Jackaby’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

“Yes, you’re the detective. You solve the”—he sought for a word—“special crimes. Inspector Marlowe doesn’t like you.”

“We have a complicated relationship, the inspector and I. What’s your name, then, lad?”

“Charlie Cane, sir. You can call me Charlie. The chief inspector is down the hall right now, talking to witnesses.” He stepped aside, opening the doorway for Jackaby. “I know all about you. You help people. Helped a friend of mine, a baker down on Market Street. No one else would help him. No one else would believe him. He had no money, but you helped anyway.”

“Anton? Good baker. Still saves me a baguette every Saturday.”

“Be quick, Mr. Jackaby.” Charlie glanced up and down the hallway as the detective slid into the room behind him. “And you, Miss—?”

“Rook,” I answered in my most professional tone, hoping I did not sound as flustered as I felt. “Abigail Rook.”

“Well, Miss Rook, will you be examining the room, also?”

“I—of course. Yes, I am Mr. Jackaby’s assistant. I will be, you know, assisting.”

Jackaby shot me a momentary glance from within the room, but he did not correct me. I slipped inside and was immediately overwhelmed by the coppery stench. The apartment had only two rooms. The first was a living area, populated by a small sofa, a writing desk, a bare oak table, and a simple wooden cupboard. Not many decorations adorned the area, but there was a dull oil painting of a sailboat on one wall, and a small framed portrait of a blond woman propped up on the desk.

The door to the next room hung open, revealing the grisly source of the smell. A small halo of dark crimson stained the ground beneath the body. The dead man wore a simple vest and starched shirt, both of which were dyed vivid red at the chest and tattered so thoroughly, it became impossible to discern where clothing ended and flesh began. I felt light-headed in earnest this time, but drew on all my practiced stubbornness not to succumb to a genuine faint. I forced my eyes away from the bloody scene, following the detective instead as he hastened around the first chamber.

Jackaby gave the spartan living room a cursory examination. Wrapping a finger in the end of his scarf, he opened and shut the cupboard, then peeked beneath the table. He lingered briefly by the writing desk, pulling out the chair and returning it. Beside the desk sat another chair, which Jackaby examined more closely, leaning in and delicately brushing a finger along the grain of the wood. Rummaging in his crowded pockets, he removed a blue-tinted vial and held it up, staring at the chair through the glass.

“Hmm.” He straightened and quickstepped to the macabre scene in the bedroom. The vial disappeared back into the coat. I followed, breathing through the fabric of my sleeve—which helped only a little. Jackaby took a rapid tour of this room as well, checking in the closet and under the pillow before bringing his attention to the corpse. I tried to survey the room—to take a careful and deliberate mental inventory of the dead man’s belongings—but my memory of that space remains a faded blur. Almost against my will, my eyes fixed themselves on the horrific sight of that poor body, instead, the picture burning itself into my mind.