Jackaby wrapped his scarf up to his chin and pushed open the front door of the Emerald Arch Apartments. Charlie stepped up quickly to hold open the door as I followed him. The crowd of curious onlookers had grown, and the police had acquired a few sawhorses and roped off an official barrier line. At the end of the sidewalk, Chief Inspector Marlowe had come outside and was speaking to a pretty young woman with blond ringlets and tears streaming down her cheeks. She blew her nose into a handkerchief and sobbed. I had been doing so well, keeping the fear and pity and horror stuffed down in my gut, but the woman’s unmasked emotions churned them up and left me uncomfortable and queasy. I willed the feeling to pass. Marlowe was making no effort to comfort her, but listened as he flipped through the pages of a small leather notebook, occasionally nodding and scribbling additions. The chief inspector did not seem like the sort of man who could ever be overwhelmed by empathy. He would fit right in to the crime adventures in my magazines. He held the little pad like a shield, stoically barricading himself from the human tragedy. I wondered why Jackaby didn’t carry a little notebook. It struck me that a detective should have a little notebook.
Charlie Cane was more interested in a shiny black carriage coming down the cobbled street. It had stalled as the driver shooed pedestrians out of the way. New Fiddleham was a growing city, and streets originally designed for the quaint, rural township it must once have been now found themselves easily congested with the traffic of everyday urban life. Gossip and chatter drew a bulky crowd as well, and despite the heavy police presence, onlookers spilled into the streets to watch the drama unfold.
“I appreciate all of your help, sir, but now I really must insist that you go,” said Charlie, gesturing at the carriage. “That’s Commissioner Swift’s personal carriage. If he’s actually coming out to a crime scene, you can bet Inspector Marlowe will be even less . . . cheerful.”
Jackaby scowled. “Curious. The commissioner has taken quite an interest. Surely Marlowe has handled homicides unsupervised before.”
“Not so curious,” answered Charlie, looking more uncomfortable about our continued presence as the carriage pulled nearer. “The mayor appointed Commissioner Swift a few months ago. First thing he did was push up quotas and double street patrols. He’s trying to get into politics, very concerned about numbers and public image. The rumor is that Arthur Bragg was helping get him some publicity in the Chronicle. You can see why he’d be a little upset.”
“You say the victim worked for the newspaper?”
“That’s right. He was a reporter, mostly political stuff and local news. Really, sir, you need to get going now!”
Jackaby glanced down the sidewalk as the carriage pulled up to Marlowe. The inspector broke off his conversation with the weepy blonde and stepped toward it, standing at attention by the door. The girl looked lost and unsteady until another officer came to escort her away. I realized I had seen her face before. She was the girl from the photograph upstairs. The swell of emotions returned, and I fought back a lump in my throat.
“Right. Thank you, Detective. You’ve been a great help,” Jackaby was saying. He nodded to the junior detective and hastened to the corner of the building. I waved a quick good-bye to Charlie, and his parting smile sent another surprising rush of warmth up to my cheeks.
I turned and hurried after Jackaby, rounding the corner almost on top of him. He had planted his back to the brickwork and was surveying the scene intently. “What are you doing?” I asked, glancing about and pulling myself into the shadows with him. The alleyway was wide, running between the Emerald Arch and a short brick building that smelled of fish. There were cans of refuse and old crates heaped along the wall opposite us, but nothing large enough to offer concealment, should we find ourselves in need of it. A slim balcony protruded from each floor directly above us.
“Well, Miss Rook, it’s time for you to go,” Jackaby said simply, glancing about the alley without bothering to look me in the eye.
I faltered. “So, it’s a ‘no’ on the job, then?”
“What? No, where did you get that idea?” He crossed to the pile of old boxes and picked one out with a sturdy wooden frame and a big, red fish emblem painted across the side. He set the box down beneath the balcony and picked up two more. He stacked these in a simple pyramid, then looked up. “If you’re still in for it after this morning’s business, then the job is yours . . . at least provisionally. We can call it a trial period.”
After the small disappointment, the excitement of what he was saying began to percolate. “Oh, I’m in for it, Mr. Jackaby,” I said. And then, after a pause, “What, exactly, am I in for?”
“Excellent, asking the right questions already.” He stacked three or four more crates in unsteady tiers as he spoke. “You’ll come with me on some cases, like today, and spot little details that might be helpful. I will dictate findings for you to type up and compile into proper case files, and when I’m connecting the pieces, you will be my sounding board. I think better aloud, and I prefer not to talk to myself too much. Gives me headaches. Otherwise, you’ll just run small errands for me, write up bills and receipts, manage the accounts, that sort of thing. Any further questions?”
“Why did you change your mind?” It just slipped out.
“Change my mind about what?”
“You said I wasn’t the girl for the job, at first. What made you change your mind?”
Jackaby stopped arranging old boxes and looked me in the eye before answering. “Marlowe is a good man and a competent detective, but he notices what anyone would notice: the extraordinary. He spots bloodstains and mad men in red pajamas. I see the things more extraordinary still, the things no one else sees. But you—you notice mailboxes and wastebaskets and . . . and people. One who can see the ordinary is extraordinary indeed, Abigail Rook. Any other questions?”
I had just one more. “Why don’t you have a little notebook?” I asked.
“What? A notebook?”
“Yes, for jotting down clues and leads and things. Terribly handy for a detective, I should think. Marlowe’s got one. It has a leather cover and flips up top-wise. I wouldn’t mind a notebook like that, myself. We should each have one. We’d look more like proper detectives, then.”
“Firstly,” Jackaby said with a sigh, “a ‘proper detective’ is about the last thing a good detective wants to look like, most of the time. Secondly, it isn’t a bad idea on the whole, but I’ve used notebooks and I found them entirely useless. I’d give them to my assistants to type up, and none of them could ever decipher my handwriting. One of them rather rudely suggested it looked like the scribblings of a chimp.”