“Sir,” I began, not entirely sure how to proceed. “Jenny is—that is, I think that she . . .” I took a breath. “Sir, there’s something very wrong.”
“Is there, now?” He pulled a gnarled root and a gold-rimmed teacup from the basket, setting them on his desk. There was a tea service on the end table already, and the new cup clashed with the soft pastels of the original set.
“Yes, sir. I don’t know if it was the gloves or the flowers or what I said.” I sighed. “Or just everything. She’s getting worse.”
Jackaby tossed the root into his satchel and turned toward me. “It isn’t you, Miss Rook,” he said. “Our immaterial associate has trapped herself in a sort of purgatory here. She cannot leave the house because she can only exist where she feels she belongs, just as she can only physically touch items that she feels belong to her. It is for this reason that progress on her own case stalled. She could not accompany me in my investigations.”
“Her own case? You mean her death?”
Jackaby nodded. “Her murder, yes—and a bit more than that.”
“Do you need her alongside you to solve it?”
“I could certainly pursue it on my own—and I have, to a degree. Douglas helped me compile an extensive file of relevant information.” He rummaged in a drawer for a moment and produced a file. He set it on the desk, and I could see Jenny’s name printed neatly on the front. “It is incomplete, but this is everything we know about Miss Cavanaugh and her fiancé—newspaper clippings, evidence, persons of interest. Deep down, our dear Jenny does not believe the truth is hers to find. Until she does, I do not know if providing it to her would be a kindness. Perhaps she fears the answers might be more painful than the questions, and I cannot say that they will not be. When she is ready, though, I think she will find herself able to go wherever she must.”
“You think . . .” Jenny’s voice came from behind the desk, and gradually the gentle lines of the specter’s face coalesced. She looked bitter and annoyed, but at least the confusion and panic had vanished, and she appeared to be in control of herself. “But you don’t know. You could simply believe me when I say that I want to know, instead of talking about me in secret and stuffing me away in your desk like an abandoned project.”
“It’s your file,” Jackaby said. “It has your name on it and everything. Just open it.”
Jenny scowled darkly at the detective. “Where are my gloves?”
“I’ve told you before, you don’t need them. In fact, I think I can prove it.” He picked up the new gold-rimmed teacup from the desk and plucked another one from the tray. “Here, this is from your heirloom tea set.” He tossed the pastel blue cup, and Jenny’s eyes widened as she swept out her hands and caught the fine china projectile. “And this one I picked up at the market this morning while I was out.” Without giving her time to think, he pitched the new gold-rimmed cup toward her. Instinctively, Jenny held out a hand, but the new one passed directly through it and smashed against the bookcase.
She cradled the first cup in her hands and frowned at Jackaby. “Stop trying to destroy my belongings. You haven’t proven anything! We already know that I can only touch things that are mine to touch. You’re just tormenting me, now—and will you stop smiling while I’m being cross with you!”
Jackaby shook his head but kept smiling. “You can only touch things you believe you have a right to touch. After all, that isn’t your teacup you’re holding. Don’t you recognize the set Mrs. Simmons gave me for that gnome business I cleared up last year?”
Jenny stared down at it, and the little blue cup started to sink through her fingers. She fumbled frantically to save it, but it clattered to the floor in half a dozen pastel pieces.