“About three hours until we reach town,” answered Jackaby. As soon as we had slid into the cabin, Jackaby had set to work packing a little leather pouch with a string of rosary beads, a handful of dried herbs, and a fat blue bauble that looked like an eye. He stood on his seat to hang the lumpy bag above the door with a pin, dropping back down to the cushion with a whump when the task was managed. “Gadston is only the mouth of the valley, so it will be another hour or two by carriage before we’ve properly reached our destination.”
The city was truly behind us, and we were now rattling through the natural, rolling New England landscape. Signs of spring crept up on all sides, with bright fields of flowers and fresh green hillsides. Free of the looming buildings and shady alleyways of New Fiddleham, I could let the uneasiness that had begun to settle over me give way to a tingle of excitement. Ahead lay not only the thrill of a new, important case, but also the prehistoric discovery I had been chasing since the day I left the shores of England.
Gadston was not a large town. A few houses dotted our approach, each situated on a wide stretch of mostly wild landscape. As we grew nearer, the properties pulled themselves together to form something more closely resembling a neighborhood, but even the smallest lots still looked as though they covered at least a healthy half acre. Gradually the buildings shuffled closer and closer until, by the time the train was hissing and slowing down for the modest station house, something resembling a town center had appeared, although none of the buildings was more than two or three stories tall. We rolled past a cheery red schoolhouse and a weathered grange hall, and as we lurched to a final stop, I could just see a white church steeple peeking over the nearest rooftops.
We collected our things and disembarked. I was met by the smell of dust and horses as I stepped out of the station house, along with something sweeter drifting on the breeze from a bakery across the street. It was a cozy, pleasant little town. I don’t know precisely what I had suspected—dimly lit saloons, I suppose, and gritty cowboys having pistol duels at high noon. A local couple passed by, startling me out of my thoughts with friendly greetings and a hearty welcome. I smiled and nodded cordially. Their cheery goodwill only made me more keenly aware that I had left the big city, where sidewalk courtesy rarely extended beyond avoiding eye contact and not intentionally pushing fellow pedestrians from the curb.
“It looks as though we’re not the only ones who still have a trip into the valley to make.” Jackaby stepped up beside me, motioning down the road to the trapper’s sturdy cart. The rugged timbers and heavy burlap looked a little more at home here, but it was still an easy vehicle to pick out. Hudson had parked it just outside a shop with a wooden sign that read simply coyote bill’s. The muscular horses shifted their hooves absently as they waited for their master to return.
As we neared the door, Jackaby slowed. His hand rose to feel the air ahead of him, as it had outside the train station.
“Sir?” I asked.
Jackaby ignored me and stepped up toward Coyote Bill’s, his brows knit in a scowl and his eyes lost in concentration. He knelt just outside the entrance, his fingers delicately tracing along the door frame. The door burst open, and Hank Hudson emerged, nearly toppling over Jackaby. The trapper had a couple of boxes under one arm, and in his fist was a thin bundle wrapped in brown paper.
“Whoa! ’Scuse me, there, buddy.”
“Hudson!”
“Jackaby?”
“Hudson, you must tell me—this shop, is there something peculiar about it?”
“Yup. That’s why I like it. All kindsa stuff they don’t stock anywhere else.”
“No—no, something more malevolent than eclectic wares. It’s very strong here, lingering about the door. Please. Use all your senses.”
Hudson blinked, but then he leaned down tentatively and gave the doorknob an obliging sniff. “It smells like . . . metal?” he said.
“Not—I don’t know—a bit saturnine?” asked Jackaby, “with a hint of stygian exigency?”
“You know what any of those words mean?” Hudson asked, looking to me for help.
“I think one of them might be a sort of cheese.”