Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)

“You think Mayor Spade is connected to all of this?” Charlie asked.

“I think the clandestine Dire Council had lost more than a building and a half-finished machine,” I said. “They had lost their political hold on New Fiddleham. They had to regroup. They needed a firmer grip on the city, and I don’t believe for an instant that they just cut their losses and moved on.”

We had arrived at the mayor’s estate. Jackaby took the lead as we marched past the immaculately trimmed gardens and up the walk until we came to a white door framed by broad marble pilasters. “The thing about idealists,” he said, knocking on the door, “is that they have a habit of being hopeless romantics, as well.”

“Which is why we believe that the nixie, an experienced temptress and a shapeshifter, was ideally suited to infiltrate Mayor Spade’s personal life and become the real power behind the throne.”

“Wait—Mary?” Charlie said. “Mary Spade?”

“Two simple words, yet as much a command from her superiors as a new identity,” said Jackaby. “Mary Spade.”

Spade’s butler opened the door and sighed audibly.

“Bertram, my good man,” said Jackaby, “Do show us in.”

“No,” Bertram said. “Mr. Spade is not seeing guests at this hour, Mr. Jackaby, and certainly not you. If you wish to conduct business, you will need to make an appointment with the mayor’s office in the morning, not harass him in his personal residence.”

“Ah, but you see, we’re not here for the mayor this time. We’re here for his wife—only I imagine we’ve just missed her, haven’t we?”

Bertram raised an eyebrow. “Mrs. Spade is not available.”

“Getting awfully late in the evening for the lady to be out, isn’t it? I imagine she has a perfectly reasonable explanation for—”

“Mrs. Spade is indisposed, Mr. Jackaby,” Bertram interrupted. “That does not mean she is not on the premises. Oh, good heavens. What has happened to your face, young lady?”

“It’s fine,” I said.

“Indisposed?” said Jackaby. “She’s called for a bath, hasn’t she?”

“Not that it is any of your business what my lady is—”

“No! She can’t!” Jackaby shoved through the door. “Quick, we need to stop her before she gets into the water!”

“How dare you!” Bertram exploded. “Stop right there!”

“What’s the meaning of this?” Philip Spade stood at the top of the broad, curving staircase, his bald head and bushy beard jutting over the banister as he adjusted his glasses. He had already changed into a pair of navy blue pajamas for the evening.

“Hello, mayor!” Jackaby leapt up the stairs three at a time. “Delightful to see you again.”

“Why on earth are you here?”

“You’ve been a great ally in the past and helped me out of more than a few tight spots. Now we’re here to help you out of one of your own. You can thank us after.”

“What are you talking about? Hold still, would you!”

Jackaby had ascended to the landing and was already sweeping past Spade and down the high-ceilinged hallway. “You gave me my current home and place of business when I was still operating out of a shabby two-room apartment. Tell me—why did you offer me that splendid building on Augur Lane?”

“I don’t know. It seemed like a good fit,” said Spade. “It was going to waste due to its rather sordid history, but you didn’t seem the sort to be scared off by ghost stories.”

“No, indeed. It was your idea then?”

“Well, no,” he admitted. “Mary suggested it, now that you mention it. Why?”

“Awfully benevolent of the lady to suggest you just give away a valuable piece of real estate to little old me, especially given how upset she was about those rosebushes. I imagine she was probably more upset about my torching the nest of brownies residing within them, actually. They’re practically cousins, after all. Still, it did provide her with a handy excuse to dislike me and a convenient reason to avoid meeting face-to-face.”

“What? That’s ludicrous. You’ve met Mary. Haven’t you?”

“Strangely, no—I haven’t. I’ve never thought much of it—but she has always been conspicuously absent when I came calling. She’s always been taken ill or been visiting an aunt or, most often and most telling of all”—Jackaby threw open the door at the end of the hall with a flourish—“taking a bath!”

We peered inside. “Sir,” I said, “I think this is a sitting room.” From within the room, a startled maid had ceased dusting the coffee table and straightened up.

“Whoops!” Jackaby spun, counting doors on his fingers.

“What is he raving about?” Spade said. “Why would it be suspect that Mary offer you the house?” Spade spun around as Jackaby whipped off between Charlie and me, stalking back up the hallway.

“The sordid history of that place,” I informed the mayor, “isn’t just history. The people who killed Jenny Cavanaugh are still here in New Fiddleham. They had been through her house already, so they knew the ins-and-outs of the property. Their wickedness didn’t end with the murder on Augur Lane ten years ago—it had barely begun. When Jackaby showed up in New Fiddleham, he posed an immediate threat to their operation, but they couldn’t simply kill him. They needed him alive, so they did the most logical thing. They kept tabs on him and kept him busy.”

“That’s right,” Jackaby agreed. “Meanwhile they were biding their time and rebuilding, waiting until the whole mess seemed to have washed away. But—as those Mudlark boys could tell you—everything that washes away has to wash up somewhere. And speaking of washing . . . here we are!” He wrenched open another door triumphantly. A simple white bathtub with brass feet stood empty before us. “She’s not here!”

“Of course not,” said Bertram. “Mrs. Spade never takes her bath in the east wing.”

“Mr. Spade,” said Jackaby, “you have an impractically large abode.”

“Will you just tell me what on earth is going on!” Mayor Spade was turning red around the collar.

“Certainly,” said Jackaby. “Last year you appointed Mr. Swift, a bloodthirsty monster, as the commissioner of the entire New Fiddleham Police Department. Remember that? Yes, of course you do. The question is: why? Why Swift? I doubt the job was his idea. Redcaps are notoriously solitary creatures. So whose idea was it?”

“What? Swift had papers. We contacted references. He came highly recommended,” Spade hedged. “He deceived us all. You can’t blame me for—”

“I agree entirely,” Jackaby said. “So, whose idea was it?”

Spade swallowed. “Well, Mary did introduce us. She said he had served in the war with her father. At least, the real Mr. Swift had served in the war with her father. But it’s not—”

“Not a total lie,” said Jackaby. “He was serving in a war they’re trying to start.”

“No!” Spade shook his head.

Jackaby started off down the stairs again, making rapidly for the west end of the mansion.

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