Jackaby had already turned to walk away, mumbling. “This valley and its infernally insignificant . . .”
“That isn’t the good part,” Brisbee continued. “I just hope Miss Fuller brings her camera this time, because the tracks around the goat pen are something to see. We were just talking about how maybe some scary creature was involved, and there they are.”
Jackaby turned back. All eyes were on Brisbee. Hudson broke the silence. “Tracks?”
“That’s right.” The farmer rocked back and forth on his heels. “Footprints. Not from my livestock or from some old boot, either—they’re huge with sharp claws.”
Not one of us was braced for the farmer’s announcement. I might have suspected Charlie of breaking his promise, but he looked as stunned as the rest of us.
“This is ludicrous,” said Lamb. “Although—if there is a wild animal on the loose, then that is all the more reason to relocate to my secure facility at Glanville University.”
“Show me,” said Hudson.
Jackaby did not wait to be escorted, stepping between Lamb and Brisbee and hurrying around the house toward the barn. Hudson was on his heels, and Brisbee kept up. I began to follow but paused as I noticed that Lamb was not moving. His eyes were on the road. I turned and spied a cart bumping toward us in a little cloud of dust. Horner was returning with Brisbee’s reporter.
“Mr. Jackaby,” I called, but he had already trotted out of sight around the building, Hudson and Brisbee close behind. I caught Charlie’s arm before he could dash away after them. “I don’t think Professor Lamb should be the only one here to welcome Mr. Horner back, do you?” I said. Charlie shook his head, watching the approaching carriage.
Lewis Lamb took a few steps toward the foothills and bellowed, “August! August Murphy. Get down here! Now!” A mop of red hair poked out of the canvas enclosure. Murphy hurried down the rolling hills and was out of breath and panting when he reached his employer. “Well,” Lamb told him, “you know what to do.”
The carriage, a weathered two-seater pulled by one of Brisbee’s workhorses, ambled up to the farm. Horner was at the reins with a woman in a stylish striped coat beside him. Before the wheels stopped rolling, Murphy leapt up onto the side of the car and began to grapple with Horner. Horner let out a startled yelp, apparently as surprised to find himself in the scuffle as we were to witness it.
Charlie ran forward to break up the commotion, but Murphy had already leapt back to the ground. He brandished a slip of paper over his head, marching proudly back toward Lamb. Horner swung himself out of the cart and stalked after him, his usual confident swagger reduced to weary frustration.
“Here it is, Mr. Lamb!” Murphy called. “It was in his waistcoat, right where you said it would be!”
Horner snatched the paper back out of his hands from behind, and the man spun around, trying to grab it back. “Enough!” Charlie barked, pulling the men apart. “Let’s have it, Mr. Horner,” he said with a sigh.
Horner passed the slip to Charlie reluctantly.
“Would either of you care to explain?” the policeman asked.
“It’s a receipt from the post office,” the redheaded man declared triumphantly. He looked smug and out of breath.
“I can see that.” Charlie looked at the paper, turning it over.
“Does Lamb own the postal service now, too?” Horner glared at Murphy, who retreated a little nervously. “I can’t even send a letter without your permission?”
“But you didn’t send a letter, did you?” said Lamb coldly from behind Charlie. “You sent a package, and you sent it to yourself. Am I wrong, Inspector?”
Charlie looked up. “The receipt confirms it.”