“Come again?” I asked.
“Breakfast science. The thermochemical reactions involved proved more intense than I anticipated.” He tapped the amber glass with his knuckle. “Jenny was not thrilled about her pitcher, either.”
“How did you melt—”
A firm rapping issued suddenly from the front door, and Jackaby pulled off his apron. “Who do you suppose that is at this hour?” he said, heading out into the hallway. I abandoned my orange and followed close behind.
The man on the front step was dressed in a stiff blue coat, as he had been when we first met—but in place of twin silver bars, his lapel now bore a silver eagle and a badge declaring him commissioner of the New Fiddleham Police.
“Marlowe,” said Jackaby.
“Jackaby,” said Marlowe.
“Good morning, Commissioner,” I said. “You’re looking well. How is the new appointment treating you?”
Marlowe sighed. “It’s just acting commissioner, Miss Rook. And acting is a stretch. The only actions I’ve made in the past month have been to wade through bureaucracy and argue with politicians.”
“Well, there are no bureaucrats nor any politicians on the premises,” I assured him. “Jackaby puts up wards against that sort of thing. Salt and fresh sage, I think. Would you care to come in? I’ll put the kettle on.”
The commissioner shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ve come on police business.”
“What sort of business would merit a personal visit from the acting commissioner of the New Fiddleham Police?” Jackaby asked.
“Bad business, I’m afraid. It’s about a personal friend of the mayor. I understand you’ve met Florence Beaumont?”
“Is that what this is about?” said Jackaby. “You can assure the woman that Mrs. Wiggles and her kittens are being treated with the utmost care. Better yet, we will tell her ourselves. We’ll be returning to Campbell Street presently. We have some other matters to discuss with Mrs. Beaumont, as it turns out.”
“Is that so?” Marlowe grunted. The commissioner’s eyelids looked heavy, but I could see that he was watching my employer intently. “Then you’re going to need to bring a medium—unless communing with the dead is something you do now.”
My breath caught in my throat.
“All too often, in fact,” Jackaby replied, missing the implications entirely. “I had one nattering at me all morning about her glassware. I never have bothered with the trappings of spiritualism, though, if that’s what you mean. I don’t go in for hand-holding and flickering candlelight and all that falderal.”
“Mr. Jackaby,” I said.
“Although I was once told that I look quite fetching in a loose headscarf.”
“Mr. Jackaby!” I said. “He means that Mrs. Beaumont is . . .” I swallowed.
Marlowe nodded. “Dead.”
Jackaby straightened, his brows furrowed. A somber focus finally crept into his cloud-gray eyes. “Murder?”
Marlowe nodded.
Jackaby took a deep breath. “I see. And your sources have obviously informed you that we paid the lady a visit only yesterday. I assume you’ve slid me into the top of your suspects list, as usual, then?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’d love to know what you were doing at the scene, but maids have reported seeing the woman alive well after you two left to make a mess of Market Street.” I cringed slightly. “I’m not here to arrest you this time. I’m here to . . .” Marlowe took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “I’m here to enlist your services.”
Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “What did you say was the manner of Mrs. Beaumont’s death?”
“Call it unnatural causes,” said Marlowe. The corners of my employer’s mouth twitched upward. Marlowe rolled his eyes and nodded obliquely toward the street. “Just hurry up. I’ve got a driver waiting.” He stamped off down the front step, not bothering to ask if we would be right behind.