The woman reddened several shades. Jackaby smiled at her in what I’m certain he felt was a reassuring and pleasant manner following a reasonable explanation. He seemed prepared to let the whole thing wash away as a friendly misunderstanding. What he was not prepared for, apparently, was to be socked in the face.
It was not a ladylike swat or symbolic gesture. The force of it actually spun the detective halfway around, and his trip to the ground was interrupted only briefly by the wall catching him on the ear on the way down.
The woman loomed over him, all silky white linen and fury. “Not special? Simply a woman? I am Mona O’Connor. I come from a proud line of O’Connors, stretching back to the kings and queens of Ireland, and I’ve got more fight in me than a wet sock of a man like you could ever hope to muster. What do you have to say about that?”
Jackaby sat up, swaying slightly. He waggled his jaw experimentally, then snapped his attention to his attacker. Thoughts rolled across his gray eyes like clouds in a thunderstorm. “You said O’Connor?”
“That’s right. Have a problem with the Irish, too, do you?” Miss O’Connor squared her jaw and looked down the bridge of her nose at Jackaby, daring him to confirm the prejudice.
Jackaby climbed to his feet, dusted off his coat, which clinked and jingled as the contents of various pockets resettled, and tossed his scarf back over one shoulder. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss O’Connor. I don’t suppose you have a roommate?”
Mona’s stance faltered. She looked briefly to Charlie and me, finding only equal bewilderment, and then back at the detective. He smiled at her again with charming, innocent curiosity. The left side of his face was red, and the outlines of four dainty fingers were slowly gaining definition. He was behaving in precisely the manner in which a man who had just been walloped across the face should not behave.
“An old relative, perhaps?” he prompted, continuing as though nothing had happened, “Or a family friend? Been around since you were just a girl, I imagine.”
The red left Mona’s face.
“Getting on in years, I expect, but hard to place just how many?” Jackaby persisted. “Been around as far back as you can remember, and yet she seems just as old in your memory as she is today?”
The rest of the color left Mona’s face as well.
“How did you . . . ?” she began.
“My name is R. F. Jackaby, and I would very much like to meet her, if you don’t mind,” he said.
Mona’s brow tensed, but her resolve had clearly been shaken. “My mum . . . My mum made me promise I’d look after her.”
“I mean her no harm, you have my word.”
“She’s having one of her . . . one of her spells. I . . . Look, I’m sorry about—er—that business earlier, but I think you’d better come back some other time.”
“Miss O’Connor, it is my belief that lives hang in the balance, and so I’m afraid the time is now. I promise to help in any way I can with her spell. May we please come in?”
Miss O’Connor, her guard now thoroughly shattered, walked back to her open door. She paused in indecision for just a moment, then stood aside and gestured for us to enter.
The layout of the apartment was familiar, but it felt cleaner and somehow more open than the other two. Soft daylight drifted through the white curtains to brighten a table with a simple brown tablecloth. This was topped with lace doilies, a vase of fresh flowers, a white porcelain wash basin, and a pitcher. The sofa was small, but well stuffed, with a thick quilt draped over it. In the corner sat a wooden rocking chair. The room was cozy and inviting, a striking contrast to the gruesome scene downstairs.
“Have a seat if you like,” said Mona, and I gratefully accepted the invitation. As I sank into the cushions, I became aware of the toll that the morning’s cold sidewalks had taken on my poor feet.
Officer Cane thanked the woman politely but remained standing by the door. In the light of the room, I got a good look at him for the first time. He really was quite young to be a police detective, even a junior one. While he held himself poised and alert, the angle of his dark eyebrows betrayed a hint of insecurity, and he had to periodically straighten his posture, as though actively resisting a natural urge to slink into himself. His eyes caught mine, and he looked away at once. I hurried my own gaze back to Jackaby and the woman.
Miss O’Connor trod gently to the bedroom door. Jackaby followed, pulling the knit cap from his head as he did. I craned my neck to watch as they slipped in. There were two beds in the room on opposite walls, and just enough room for a shared nightstand between them. The nightstand held a dog-eared book and a silver hairbrush. One bed lay empty, its sheets tucked tightly with hospital corners. The other contained a woman with long, white hair. She wore a pale nightgown and was propped up slightly on her pillows. She seemed to be rocking gently, but more I couldn’t see as Mona and Jackaby stepped into the room in front of her.
“We have a guest,” said Mona. “Mr. . . . Jackaby, was it? This is Mrs. Morrigan.”
“Mrs. Morrigan. Of course you are,” said Jackaby, gently. He knelt down beside the figure. “Hello, Mrs. Morrigan. It’s an honor. Can you hear me?”
I shifted across the sofa until I could just see the old woman beyond Jackaby. She was slender and fair-skinned, her hair a medley of silver and white, but it was her face that captured my attention. Her thin, gray eyebrows contorted in a mournful expression. Her lips were thin and taut, and quavered slightly as she drew a deep breath. Then her head fell back, and her mouth opened wide in a tragic pantomime of a scream. My chest tightened in sympathy for the poor, tortured woman.
Her jaw trembled as she expelled the last of her breath, and I became aware of the overwhelming silence. She inhaled again slowly, and her whole body poured itself into another scream, but still not an audible whisper escaped her delicate lips.
A chill tingled up my spine. Beyond the obvious strangeness of the spectacle, there was something more profoundly unsettling about the woman’s muted cries. An indefinable spasm of grief and dread shuddered through me. Was this the life that Jackaby led? Death and madness and despair behind every door?
“She gets this way, from time to time,” Mona explained to the detective in a voice just above a whisper. “Always has. She can’t control them. They’re like seizures . . . only not like any I’ve seen in any of my medical books. Back home, she would go weeks, sometimes months without any problems. It was supposed to be better here, but we’ve barely had the apartment for a week and now this . . . It’s the worst she’s had. Hasn’t stopped since yesterday.”
“Since yesterday?” Jackaby asked.
“Yes, early yesterday morning, and on all through the night.”