Tears dripped from Henderson’s clenched eyes, and he shook his head, whether to answer “no” or to shake away the sound, I couldn’t say.
Jackaby held the rod loosely and tapped the metal prongs against the table. A clear, pure, sustained note rang out. It was a simple tuning fork. Henderson’s body instantly relaxed, and he nearly collapsed onto the sofa. He sniffled, and gazed up, wide-eyed. The note hummed pleasantly for several seconds, growing quieter and quieter. Before it could fully fade away, Jackaby tapped it again.
“And now?” Jackaby inquired.
“I—I can still hear it,” stammered Henderson, his voice a mix of relief and confusion. “But more distant. Still so sad, the wailing. It sounds like . . .” He sniffed and cut himself off.
“Like what?” prompted Jackaby, gentle but relentless.
“Reminds me,” the man continued with difficulty, “of the way my mother cried at Papa’s funeral. Just . . . just like that.”
Jackaby tapped the tuning fork again. “It’s a woman’s voice, then?” Henderson nodded. “And now, can you judge where it’s coming from?”
Henderson concentrated, and his eyes drifted to the ceiling. “From above us,” he decided.
“Directly?” Jackaby asked. “The apartment above yours, perhaps?”
Henderson focused again, and Jackaby tapped the tuning fork to help. “No,” he answered, “just a bit . . . that way, I think.”
“Excellent. We shall attend to the matter directly. While I have you lucid, however, I would appreciate it if you could think back to yesterday evening. Did you happen to notice anything odd? Strangers in the stairwell, perhaps?”
Henderson breathed heavily and scratched his hair where it was still pressed flat from the cushions. “I don’t think so. Nothing very odd. Her voice . . .”
“Anything before the voice? Anything at all?”
The man thought again, his head rocking back and forth. “I don’t think so. Someone upstairs was playing the fiddle earlier. I hear them a lot, late in the afternoon. Not bad. Someone was at the hall window during the night, too. Probably that Greek from across the hall. He goes out to smoke cigars on the balcony—thinks his wife doesn’t know. He isn’t very subtle about it, tromps about like an elephant. Nothing strange. Although . . .”
“Yes?” Jackaby prompted.
“There was another sound . . . like . . . like—ugh—I don’t know.” His brow crumpled in frustration at the effort to recall. Jackaby tapped the fork again, and the man breathed, focusing.
“Like . . . something metal. Clink-clink. Like that. Probably just his watch banging on its chain, I guess. Not long after that, the crying started. She was so sad . . .”
“Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mr. Henderson.” Jackaby flipped the satchel closed with his free hand and tucked it deep into his coat. He gave the tuning fork one final tap before striding toward Henderson. “I’ll be back to retrieve this later,” he said, holding out the fork, “but I think it’s best if you keep it for now.”
Henderson took the offering delicately, holding it carefully by the stem to avoid dampening the crystal clear tone. The rims of his eyes were nearly as red as his pajamas, but they were full of gratitude. He nodded, and Jackaby patted his shoulder, a bit awkwardly, and headed out the door.
Jackaby was already examining the window at the end of the hallway as I stepped out. He flicked the latch open, closed, and open again, and felt along the frame. A very slim balcony was visible just outside, housing a pot of dirt, which might presumably have contained a plant before the frost set in. Before I could ask if he noticed anything unusual, he was striding back down the hallway in the opposite direction. Charlie and I flanked him, quickstepping quietly past the closed door of room 301 and into the stairwell.
“I wonder how many floors we have above us,” mused Jackaby as he mounted the steps.
“Should be just one more,” I offered. “There were four rows of mailboxes in the lobby, and the numbers only went from the one-hundreds to the four-hundreds. So, unless there’s an attic . . .” I trailed off. We had reached the landing. The stairs did indeed conclude with one more hallway door, and Jackaby turned to look at me with his head cocked to one side as I caught up.
“The mailboxes?” he said.
“Er, yes. In the lobby.”
The corner of his mouth turned up in a bemused grin. “That’s quite sharp, Miss Rook. Quite sharp, indeed.”
“You think so?” I found myself eager to impress my strange new employer. “Is that helpful to the investigation?”
Jackaby chuckled, turning away to open the door. “Not in the slightest—but very keen, nonetheless. Very keen.”
Chapter Seven
The fourth floor of the Emerald Arch Apartments was nearly identical to the third. Light stumbled meekly out of the dirty oil lamps, testing the floor without really diving down to brighten it. Jackaby hastened to 412 and knocked loudly.
“What are we looking for, exactly?” I whispered to my employer as we waited. I could hear the shuffling of motion from within the room.
“I don’t know,” answered Jackaby, “but I’m excited to find out, aren’t you?”
The door opened to a middle-aged man in an undershirt, pressed trousers, and suspenders. He held a damp towel, and daubs of shaving cream clung around the corners of his jawline. “Yes?” he said.
Jackaby looked the man up and down. “No, sorry. Wrong room,” he declared. “You’re clearly just a man.” With no further explanation, he left the confused fellow to his morning.
Jackaby rapped firmly on 411, and a woman answered. She wore a clean, simple, white dress buttoned neatly up to her neck, and her red hair was tied back in a prim bun. “Hello? What is it? I already told the last one that I didn’t see a thing.” Her accent was distinctly Irish, and edged with quiet annoyance.
“Simply a woman,” said Jackaby after another cursory examination. “No use. My apologies.” He turned on his heel and advanced toward number 410.
The woman, having been far less satisfied with the encounter than Jackaby, came out of her room. “And just what do you mean by that?” she demanded.
I did my very best to blend into the wallpaper as she stalked after the detective. Charlie, I noticed, had taken a keen interest in the points of his well-polished shoes.
“Simply a woman?” she repeated. “Nothing simple about it! I’ve had enough of the likes of you, going on about the weaker sex, and such. Twig like you, care to see who’s weaker?”
Jackaby called backward without looking behind him, “I mean only that you’re of no use at this time.”
Charlie shook his head.
The woman bristled. “I am an educated woman, a nurse, and a caregiver! How dare you . . .”
Jackaby turned at last. “Madam, I assure you, I meant only that you are not special.”
I cupped a palm over my face.