Mrs. Morrigan’s body sagged as the air left her lungs again. Her eyelids flickered open for an instant, and she looked to Jackaby. Her hand reached weakly toward him, and he held it gently, the most human gesture I’d yet seen from the man; then her eyes closed, and the miserable cycle of silent screaming resumed.
Jackaby leaned in very close and whispered something in the woman’s ear. Mona watched him with concern. Mrs. Morrigan opened her eyes again and gave the detective a somber nod. She resumed her muted cries, but her body relaxed slightly into the pillows. Jackaby laid her hand tenderly back on the bed and rose to his feet.
“Thank you,” he said aloud, and stepped out into the apartment’s main room. Mona followed, shutting the door quietly behind them.
The detective pushed his dark, unruly hair roughly backward and screwed the cap back onto his head.
“What did you say to her?” asked Mona.
Jackaby considered his response. “Nothing of consequence. Miss O’Connor, thank you for your time. I’m afraid I cannot help Mrs. Morrigan’s condition for the moment, but if it comes as any consolation, this episode will resolve itself by sometime tonight.”
“Tonight?” she said. “You seem so sure.”
Jackaby stepped into the hallway and turned back. I stood up and slipped out after him. “I feel quite confident, yes. Take good care of your patient, Miss O’Connor. Good day.”
We were at the stairwell before I heard her shut the door behind us. Charlie and I burst at once into questions. What had he said? What kind of seizures were those? How could he be so sure they would end tonight?
“She isn’t seizing, she’s keening, and she will stop tonight because by tomorrow morning Mr. Henderson will be dead.” Jackaby’s voice was without emotion, save perhaps a hint of interest such as a botanist might exhibit when discussing a rare orchid. “Mrs. Morrigan is a banshee.”
The word hung in the air for several steps.
“Keening?” asked Charlie.
“She’s a banshee?” I blurted. “That old woman? So she’s our killer?”
“Our killer?” Jackaby stopped on the landing and turned toward me. I stumbled to a stop. “How in heaven’s name did you make that leap?”
“Well, that’s what you said, wasn’t it? There had been something inhuman in the victim’s room? Something ancient? And banshees . . . Those are the ones whose scream can kill you, right? Aren’t they the ones who . . . scream you to death?”
My words petered out and slipped into the shadows, embarrassed to be seen with me. The look Jackaby was giving me was not unkind, but rather one of pity. It was a look that one might give to a particularly simple puppy who had thrown herself off the bed in pursuit of her own tail.
“So, not our killer?”
“No,” said Jackaby.
“Well, that’s good, then.” I swallowed.
“Keening,” said Jackaby, turning back to Charlie, “is an expression of grief for the dead.” He turned and continued his explanation as we resumed our descent. “Traditionally, women called ‘keeners’ would sing a somber lament at Irish funerals.
“A few families, it was said, had fairy folk as their keeners. These fairy women, who came from the other side of the mounds, were called the ‘women of the side,’ which, in Irish, comes out something like ‘banshee.’ They were devoted to their chosen families, and would sing the most mournful laments if ever a member of the house fell dead—even if they were far away and news of the tragedy had not yet reached the homestead. As you might have guessed, Miss O’Connor’s family was among these elite houses attended by a banshee.”
Jackaby paused abruptly to inspect a scuff in the wood of the stairs. Charlie, who was hot on the detective’s heels, had to catch himself on the banister to avoid toppling over the suddenly kneeling figure. Just as quickly, Jackaby stood and continued to climb downward. His gaze hunted the steps for something, but with the foot traffic of every tenant both coming and going, I doubted very much if any significant clues would present themselves here.
“Where was I?” he asked.
“Banshees,” prompted Charlie. “Crying for the folks at home, even if a member of the family died far away.”
“Right. So, the sound of the banshee’s wail became an omen of death. Consigned to their role, over the years, banshees grew still more sensitive. These fairy women gained a precognition, sensing the very approach of death. Rather than keening for the deceased’s surviving relatives, the banshees began to sing their terrible dirge directly to the doomed.
“They are still closely tied to their families, but as their power developed, it extended to all those in their presence. Any poor soul whose time drew near might hear the ominous cry, particularly those doomed to a violent and untimely end. Now, if you were an ill-fated traveler and you heard the wail, you knew death was on your heels. This makes them dreaded creatures, feared and hated by any who hear them, a treatment far disparate from the honor and appreciation they used to receive for their mourning services. Banshees themselves are not dangerous, though, just burdened with the task of expressing pain and loss.”
I thought of Mrs. Morrigan’s face, and was suddenly ashamed of my rash accusation. I was glad that Jackaby had shown her some tenderness, and I realized he had given her what little he could: his thanks.
“It is a kindness that you and I cannot hear the banshee’s wail,” he continued. “It is not meant for us. Henderson hears it because it is his lament, and his alone. Our victim in room 301 heard it also, I’d wager, before his untimely demise. Mrs. Morrigan has scarcely been given a moment’s rest from her dutiful dirges.”
We were rounding the last flight of stairs, and the brightness of the lobby spilled into the stairwell.
“Should we do something for him?” asked Charlie, suddenly. “If a murderer is coming for Mr. Henderson, we can’t in good conscience just wait and let him be taken! Could we move him—hide him? Post guards around his room?”
Jackaby stepped into the lobby. By now the sun was high in the late-morning sky. Clouds blanketed a snow-dusted world, and the soft whiteness of it was blinding. “If it eases your conscience to try, then go right ahead. It will make little difference, though. If he hears the banshee’s cry, then Mr. Henderson’s fate is sealed.”
Chapter Eight