He was classically pompous . . . except, I realized, for his gait. The long coat and dense crowd blocked his legs from view at first, but as I moved in for a closer look, I could see there was something strange about the manner in which he walked. He leaned a bit too heavily on the cane for it to be merely a showpiece, for starters, but there was also a rigidity to the swing of his legs. I was nearly at the police rope before he passed, and I saw them at last. They had been painted black to blend nearly perfectly with his trousers, but the commissioner wore a pair of leg braces, which caught a faint hint of sunlight as he marched by.
I had seen a similar pair before, on a German boy during my time abroad. Although the disease was still fairly rare here in the States, the polio epidemic was already wreaking havoc across Europe. Whether out of strength or pride, the man refused to show any weakness, maintaining a rapid pace in spite of his impediment. Marlowe had to double-step occasionally to keep up.
“Don’t think you do realize, Inspector,” Commissioner Swift was barking. His voice was deep and angry. “In my town, right under my nose! Do you have any idea what Spade’s campaign boys will do if I try to put my hat in the ring in the middle of this? I want suspects in cells, and I want them there yesterday . . .”
The tirade paused as Swift awkwardly negotiated the small step up to the doorway, batting Marlowe’s hand away as the inspector instinctively reached to help. I realized, with a little guilty relief, that Jackaby would have more time than I had feared. The commissioner had three unpleasant flights ahead of him.
With that thought, I left the warmth of the gathering throng behind to wind my way back up the frosty cobbled streets toward Augur Lane.
Chapter Nine
By the time I found my way back to 926 Augur Lane, the sun was directly overhead and the snow had slunk back to hide in the shadiest corners of the streets. I stepped with greater confidence toward the building I would be calling my workplace.
The front door was even brighter red in the full midday light, and I was happy to find it unlocked, as before. Inside, the faint sulfurous stink had all but faded away, and the open windows had replaced it with crisp, fresh air. I hung my hat and coat on the rack, noting that my suitcase was still just where I had left it, and looked around the room for the second time. Sharing a wall with the doorway was a battered wooden bench, which could easily have been salvaged from a doctor’s waiting room, but had about it a certain quality that suggested it might have been stolen from a church, instead. At the opposite wall sat the unoccupied desk, stacked with papers and overstuffed folders. To my right was the row of books and artifacts, including the terrarium, which my eyes now carefully avoided.
Toward the back of the room on the left wall stood a doorway flanked by two framed paintings. One painting featured a mounted knight driving a lance through a lizard the size of a small dog, an image I recognized as Saint George slaying the dragon. The other depicted a tumultuous sea in which a wooden ship was being towed through the waves by an enormous golden orange fish. Although painted in entirely different styles with nearly opposite color schemes, the two pictures seemed to belong together, held in unity, like the house itself, by some stronger force than aesthetic logic.
I crossed toward the door, but paused as I passed the desk. In a little valley of usable desktop, between the stacks of jumbled paperwork, lay an uncapped fountain pen. I took the two-step detour to scoop it up, not wanting it to dry out, and my eyes passed over the document on which it rested. The page was dated several months prior, written in tidy cursive, and read as follows:
Mr. Jackaby is quite certain that the whole affair will culminate in some unholy ritual this evening. He has been, as usual, unforthcoming about the details of the case. The only link I have discerned between the incidents is the coincidental involvement of Father Grafton and a few members of his parish. My suggestion that we direct our inquiries toward the church was not met with enthusiasm.
When I pressed the matter, Mr. Jackaby informed me that my services will not be necessary in his current line of investigation, and insisted that, since I am so curious about it, I should go and ask my own “silly little questions” without him. I must admit to some nervousness, given the heinous nature of the case, but I suppose Mr. Jackaby would not send me on alone if he sensed any danger.
I shall be sure to record the results of my first independent investigation as soon as I return.
The author had not, in fact, recorded anything further at all. I found a few more pages in the same handwriting, but all of them from earlier dates. I brushed the nib of the pen with my finger, and a few flakes of long-dry ink crumbled off. I capped the pen and returned it to the desk, trying very hard not to read the whole thing as ominous. There were enough voices in my life telling me I couldn’t this, or shouldn’t that, or that I wasn’t up to the task—the last thing I intended to do was start agreeing with them.
I shook the nervous thoughts from my mind and returned my attention to the door. With a push, it opened onto a hallway that zigged and zagged until it came to four doorways, two on either side, and a spiral staircase at the far end. I peeked into the first door.
Rows of books reached to the ceiling and lined the walls of a beautiful library. Central bookshelves had been arranged to allow light to pour down the aisles from alcove window seats, and the space felt warm and comfortable. I could have spent hours curled up on a soft chair in that room, but slipped back into the hallway to investigate the others.
The adjacent room was an office. It was well lit, but a mess of files and books. As I leaned in, the eerie sensation of being watched came tingling up my spine. Spinning around, I found the hallway as barren as ever. I pulled the office door closed, beginning to feel a bit like a trespasser. I considered leaving the other rooms alone altogether, but when I saw the last door was already open a crack, my curiosity got the better of me.
The door yielded to my gentle nudge, then struck something hard and would open no farther. I poked my head in the gap. It was a laboratory. Along the walls and windowsills, beakers and test tubes filled with myriad colors were nestled in complicated brass fixtures. Sunlight shone through them to paint the walls in calico spots. The carpet comprised more stains than original patterns, and was singed in quite a few places. The room smelled oddly sweet and acrid—like bananas and burnt hair.
I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling that I was not alone, though the sole inhabitant of the laboratory appeared to be a battered, armless mannequin, propped up on one side of the room. I craned my head to see around the door and found myself suddenly attacked, two massive rows of gleaming white teeth gaping over my face. I pulled back sharply, my shriek cut short as I bounced the back of my head off the door frame and then rapped my forehead on the door before retreating successfully into the hallway.