They were sturdy things, with a thick crust that held together and made them fairly easy to eat as we walked. Jackaby held his gingerly with the end of his scarf, blowing on it to cool it down. Far too hungry for patience, I devoured mine with less grace, and with manners that would have made my poor mother blanch, losing more than a little crust and hot filling to the cobblestones.
“So, what we know thus far,” Jackaby said suddenly, as if the ongoing conversation in his head had bubbled over and simply poured out his mouth, “is that our culprit left poor Mr. Bragg with a wicked chest wound and a grieving girlfriend, and he made off with a good deal of the fellow’s blood. From the look of it, just the blood. The heart and other organs appeared to be intact, and his wallet and watch were still safely in his vest pockets.”
“Who steals blood?” I asked, wiping my mouth.
“More creatures than you might think, and many you would never suspect. Blood is a hot commodity in many circles, used for any number of things. Legends suggest a certain Hungarian countess actually bathed in the stuff back in the sixteenth century. Earned her titles like ‘the Blood Countess,’ and ‘the Bloody Lady’ among the terrified townsfolk.”
“You think Arthur Bragg was killed by a sixteenth-century Hungarian countess?”
“Of course not. The Bloody Lady was human. We’re looking for something decidedly supernatural. True, though, it’s likely our culprit appears human enough. He or she clearly stopped to sit in Bragg’s chair for a spell before dispatching the poor fellow.”
“So, we’re looking for someone who looks human. Hardly narrows it down, does it?”
“On the contrary, it does so quite considerably, Miss Rook. We’ve eliminated a good many species in one deft stroke. Also, it seems likely we are in pursuit of an exceptionally heavy creature, or one who wears particularly stout footwear.”
“Heavy footwear? I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“The footprints, of course,” Jackaby answered. “Did you not see them? I am quite certain that the figure who made those marks also visited Arthur Bragg’s room. The aura was unmistakable. This doesn’t prove anything absolutely, of course. A great many people might have visited the man’s room before his untimely demise, but it is a decided point of interest. The marks were solid enough—surely even your eyes must have been able to pick them out.”
“And yet they did not. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to just describe them?”
“Deep gouges were cut in the wooden stairway, alternating in a clear step pattern. They left indentations in the carpet as well. I’m rather surprised any of those were still visible, actually. By the time we had our turn, the police had been traipsing up and down the scene, shuffling most of them to oblivion. The stairs, though, bore distinct marks. An ordinary pair of leather brogues could scarcely mar the wood. It stands to reason, then, that we have a person of interest who is either inordinately massive, or wearing shoes cut from some especially dense material, like steel. Given the size of the tread, I would guess the latter.”
“That’s brilliant! Our killer wears metal shoes! That’s real enough—even Marlowe would have to admit that’s a solid clue.”
“Of course it’s real. We should avoid assuming prematurely, however, that the marks are our killer’s. The recency of the footprints puts their bearer here near the victim’s time of death, but they could have been made just prior to Bragg’s demise, or by an unwitting witness. Traditionally, fairy folk avoid drawing attention to themselves, so any of their kind who stumbled upon Bragg’s body would be understandably reticent to submit testimony to an armed official and might simply have fled as quickly as possible.”
“And you’re absolutely, positively certain we’re looking for someone . . .” I still felt silly talking about wild folktales and real crimes in the same breath. “Someone supernatural?”
Jackaby gave my skepticism a severe admonishing glance.
“Okay, fine,” I said. “So, how many supernatural creatures are known for metal shoes?”
He gave the matter a moment of thought. “I can think of . . . eleven or twelve offhand. Double that, if you consider that the Knights of ?lleberg were a dozen in number, and clad in full armor when they became ghosts. Unfortunately, we also cannot be so hasty as to eliminate other possibilities. Rabbinical golems, for example, are creatures forged of clay. If hardened properly, some ceramics have a density to rival steel.”
I stared at the detective. “How do you know these things?” I asked.
“It is my business to know. Were I a fisherman, I could tell you about . . .” He paused, looking blank for a moment.
“Fish?” I suggested.
“Quite so.”
We arrived at the telegraph office. It was a thin structure with a high ceiling, seated tightly beside the post office. I found my mental map of New Fiddleham slowly filling in with details. It was difficult to believe that it had been only a handful of hours since I had plucked Jackaby’s posting from the board next door. That little slip of paper had turned out to be my ticket into a more remarkable world than I could have imagined.
Jackaby strode up to an operator, and I hung back a respectful distance while he conducted his business. The operator was an older man, in possession of very few of his teeth and none of his hair. Jackaby dictated a telegraph and the old man read it back, and while I couldn’t make out its full content, I couldn’t help but hear the rhythmic whistle and clop as the old man punctuated each sentence with a “Stop.” From a bench by the window, I watched the foot traffic flow past, and the occasional cart or carriage rattle along the cobblestones.
I thought about the strange details of the case so far, from Bragg’s missing blood and mysterious map to the suspicious footprints made by curiously heavy shoes. If my employer was correct, the poor man’s murderer also looked human, but was actually a very old—what? None of it made any sense. Perhaps, if I really did have a nice leather notebook that flipped open top-wise, I could jot down all the information in neat, orderly lines, and it would fall into place. Unbound, the clues shifted and slipped through my mind, ducking away as I tried to focus on them.
“Young lady . . .” A woman with a high, nasal voice shattered my concentration. I emerged from my thoughts to find a sour-faced character wearing a tiny, fashionable bonnet pinned up with more flowers and ribbons than there was hat to hold them all. She cast a slow glance under drooping eyelids at my employer, and then continued in a conspiratorial whisper. “I do so detest idle gossip,” she said, “but I feel obliged, one woman to another, to inform you that the man you are accompanying is not the most suitable companion. I don’t know what he’s told you, my dear, but he has a reputation for being”—she leaned in close—“uncouth.”