“Hm,” said Jackaby again. He looked unsatisfied, but he moved on. “Tell me about your husband’s work.”
Mrs. Hoole took a slow sip of tea before she spoke. “My Lawrence was a genius,” she said at last. “He designed locomotives that could run on half the fuel for twice the distance and adding machines that could solve complex equations in a matter of minutes. He contrived such wonderful inventions.”
“Which of them was he working on when he died?”
“None of them. He wasn’t building anything of his own design—he was rebuilding someone else’s. He said it was a brilliant but broken concept. He was very excited at first. It had something to do with electricity and conduction, but it was all Greek to me when he got talking about the details. Oh, it’s my fault, I know it. He was content just tinkering away on his own projects. I pushed him to take the job. I just thought it w-w-would be his chance to be r-r-recognized.”
“Can you tell us anything more specific about what he was constructing?” Jackaby urged. “Think hard now.”
Cordelia shook her head. “Lawrence never spoke at length about his machines with me. Sometimes he would try, but he would get frustrated trying to simplify it all—or else he would get distracted by an idea and just start tinkering away at it right then and there and forget we were speaking. I used to tease him that I would have to register for one of his classes if I hoped to hear the end of a sentence. All of those clever ideas. It’s s-s-such a waste. He never wrote half of them down. It was like his pen couldn’t keep up with his brain. Whatever he was working on, he t-t-took it with him, I’m afraid.”
Jackaby grimaced with dissatisfaction.
“And now he’s gone and they’re probably going to k-k-kill me, and I don’t even know why!” Cordelia Hoole’s shoulders shook as she finally broke. I hurried to offer her a handkerchief and she took it gratefully, burying her face in it as she sobbed.
“Mrs. Hoole,” said Jackaby in an even tone, “if we are to keep you safe, you will need to be completely honest with us.”
“Honest?” she wiped her eyes and sniffled. “I have been honest with you, detective.”
“Honest—but not completely. I have a talent that allows me to see certain truths, and the truth is that you are concealing something. I can see willful obfuscation spread over you like marmalade on toast. I do not care for marmalade, madam, and I care less for secrets.”
“Of course there are things about me you don’t know.” She sniffed and her brow furrowed indignantly. “I don’t know anything about you, but I came, didn’t I?”
“I suppose you did.”
“And I c-c-came inside when you bade me, even after I found you carrying that man into your house. I’ve put more than my share of trust on the table, thank you very much, Mr. Jackaby. I think I’m entitled to my privacy where I see fit.” She glanced back at the figure occupying the bench. Owen Finstern was breathing evenly. Every once in a while his cheek twitched as he slept off the effects of the jolt his machine had given him. “Who is he, anyway?”
“He is an inventor, like your late husband,” Jackaby answered. “He’s called Finstern. He is wanted by some thoroughly unpleasant individuals, the same individuals responsible for Lawrence’s death. Beyond that we know very little.” He shook his head, eying the prone figure. “There’s something about him I don’t like,” he added.
“Could it be the fact that he tried to suck the life out of your steadfast and lovely assistant?” I suggested.
Jackaby glanced in my direction. “The question is: why didn’t he succeed?”
“Your concern is overwhelming,” I said.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” Jackaby groused. “Your vital energies should have been completely—” He stopped, staring straight ahead.
“This is madness!” Mrs. Hoole’s eyes were pink and puffy. “I should never have come.”
“Please, Mrs. Hoole,” I soothed, “you’re safe here.”
“No,” said Jackaby, his gray eyes locked on the front door. “She’s not.” A moment later the horseshoe knocker rapped out three loud clacks from the other side. “It’s him.” Jackaby’s voice was grave. “I know that aura. A foul, anathematic shade with a faint halo of lavender. It’s him. It’s Pavel. The wretch is on our doorstep.”
My eyes shot between the widow Hoole and the dormant Finstern. Of course Pavel was here. We could not have painted the house with two larger targets. “What do we do?”
“The polite thing”—Pavel’s voice came muffled through the wood—“would be to stop acting as though I can’t hear you and invite me in. Maybe put the kettle on?”
Chapter Eighteen
“Don’t open it!” I said.
Jackaby crossed the room. “It’s all right. There are rules about this sort of thing and safeguards in place. Stay back, ladies. I think it is high time I met Mr. Pavel face to face.”
The pale man looked exactly as before. He smiled his crooked, arrogant smile up at Jackaby as the door swung open, and I could see the dark gap of his missing fang. I heard a gasp from Mrs. Hoole.
“Detective Jackaby. An honor to meet you at last. I am a big fan of your work,” the vampire said. “I must admit, I was not expecting such quick results. And what’s this?” He waggled a finger at Mrs. Hoole. “You caught the slippery little fish that got away from us, as well! You truly have a gift, my friend. We’re all very impressed.”
“I take it you’ve come to make good on your agreement with my assistant?” Jackaby said. I swallowed.
“That’s right. Be a chum and invite me in, would you? I’ll take the wandering woman and sleeping beauty off your hands before you can say boo, and then you two can get back to your relaxing evening.”
“That was not the deal you struck.” Jackaby stood up a little straighter. “It is my understanding—and Miss Rook is very good about conveying all the pertinent details—that your arrangement was that Miss Rook would receive information from you regarding certain persons of interest in exchange for our finding Mr. Finstern, is that correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, we found Mr. Finstern. Our end of the bargain is complete. Delivery of the gentleman into your custody was never stipulated. Now then, I believe you have something to share?”
Pavel’s eyes narrowed and his expression turned icy. “You don’t know me very well,” he said softly, “and you really don’t know my superiors, if you think I’ll be leaving this house empty-handed.” He cracked his neck and composed himself. “I’ll tell you what, Detective. In the interest of keeping our relationship professional, why don’t you just turn them both over to me, and I will consider not murdering your pretty little assistant in her sleep.”
“You’re right, I don’t know you,” said Jackaby. “But I do know stories, and that’s not how yours works. That thing at your feet? That’s a threshold. You are a vampire. Huff and puff all you like, you may not come in.”