His hair was black, or very dark brown, and nearly wild, having only enough civility to point itself in a tousled heap backward, save a few errant strands that danced about his temples. He had hard cheekbones and deep circles under pale, cloud gray eyes. His eyes looked like they could be a hundred lifetimes old, but he bore an otherwise young countenance and had a fervent energy about him.
I pulled back a bit to take him in. He was thin and angular, and his thick brown coat must have been as heavy as he was. It fell past his knees and sagged with the weight of several visibly overstuffed pockets. His lapel was bordered by a long, wooly scarf, which hung almost as long as the coat, and which I recognized as the one I had passed coming in. He must have doubled back to follow me.
“Hello?” I managed to say, when I had regained balance atop my stool. “Can I help—?”
“You’re recently from the Ukraine.” It was not a question. His voice was calm and even, but something more . . . amused? He continued, his gray eyes dancing as though exploring each thought several seconds before his mouth could voice it. “You’ve traveled by way of Germany, and then a great distance in a sizable ship . . . made largely of iron, I’d wager.”
He cocked his head to one side as he looked at me, only never quite square in the eyes, always just off, as though fascinated by my hairline or shoulders. I had learned how to navigate unwanted attention from boys in school, but this was something else entirely. He managed to seem both engrossed and entirely uninterested in me all at once. It was more than somewhat unsettling, but I found myself as intrigued as I was flustered.
With delayed but dawning comprehension, I gave him a smile and said, “Ah, you’re off the Lady Charlotte as well, are you? Sorry, did we meet on deck?”
The man looked briefly, genuinely baffled, and found my eyes at last. “Lady who? What are you talking about?”
“The Lady Charlotte,” I repeated. “The merchant carrier from Bremerhaven. You weren’t a passenger?”
“I’ve never met the lady. She sounds dreadful.”
The odd, thin man resumed examining my person, apparently far more impressed by my hair and the seams of my jacket than by my conversation.
“Well, if we didn’t sail together, how did you ever—ah, you must have snuck a peek at my luggage labels.” I tried to remain casual, but leaned away as the man drew closer still, inspecting me. The oak countertop dug into my back uncomfortably. He smelled faintly of cloves and cinnamon.
“I did nothing of the sort. That would be an impolite invasion of privacy,” the man stated flatly as he picked a bit of lint from my sleeve, tasted it, and tucked it somewhere inside his baggy coat.
“I’ve got it,” I announced. “You’re a detective, aren’t you?” The man’s eyes stopped darting and locked with mine again. I knew I was onto him this time. “Yes, you’re like whatshisname, aren’t you? The one who consults for Scotland Yard in those stories, right? So, what was it? Let me guess, you smelled salt water on my coat, and I’ve got some peculiar shade of clay caked on my dress, or something like that? What was it?”
The man considered for a moment before responding. “Yes,” he said at last. “Something like that.”
He smiled weakly, and then whirled on his heels and away, tossing his scarf around and around his head as he made for the exit. He crammed a knit hat over his ears and flung the door open, steeling himself against the whirling frost that rushed in around him. As the door slowly closed, I caught one last glimpse of cloudy gray eyes just between the wooly edges of his scarf and hat.
And then the man was gone.
Following the curious encounter, I asked the barman if he knew anything about the stranger. The man chuckled and rolled his eyes. “I’ve heard lots of things, and one or two of them might even be true. Just about everyone’s got a story about that one. Isn’t that right, boys?” A few of the locals laughed, and began to recall fragments of stories I couldn’t follow.
“Remember that thing with the cat and the turnips?”
“Or the crazy fire at the mayor’s house?”
“My cousin swears by him, but he also swears by sea monsters and mermaids.”
For the two older gentlemen on either side of the chessboard, my query sparked to life an apparently forgotten argument, one that burst quickly into an outright quarrel about superstitions and naivete. Before long, each had attracted supporters from the surrounding tables, some insisting the man was a charlatan, others praising him as a godsend. From the midst of the confusing squabble I was at least able to catch the strange man’s name. He was Mr. R. F. Jackaby.
Chapter Two
By the following morning I had managed to put Mr. Jackaby out of my thoughts. The bed in my little room had been warm and comfortable, and had cost only an hour’s worth of cleaning dishes and sweeping floors—although the innkeeper had made it very clear that this was not to be a lasting arrangement. I threw open the drapes to let the morning light pour in. If I planned to continue my bold adventure without reducing myself to living beneath a bridge and eating from rubbish bins—or worse, writing to my parents for help—I would need a proper job.
I hefted my suitcase to the bed and opened it with a click. The garments within were pressed up to either side, as though embarrassed to be seen with one another. To one end, fine fabrics with delicate, embroidered hems and layers of lace began immediately to expand, stretching in the morning light as the compressed fabric breathed again. Opposite the gentle pastels and impractical frippery sat a few dust-brown denim work trousers and tragically sensible shirts. A handful of undergarments and handkerchiefs meekly navigated the space between, keeping quietly to themselves.
I stared at the luggage and sighed. These were my options. One by one I had worn through everything in between, until I was faced with these choices, which seemed to reflect my lot in life. I could costume myself as a ruddy boy or as a ridiculous cupcake. I plucked a plain camisole and drawers from the center of the suitcase and then pulled the top closed in disgust, stuffing the fancy dresses back down against their muffled protests. The simple green walking dress I had worn for my arrival hung over the bedpost, and I held it up in the sunlight. Its hem was tired, still a bit damp from the previous night’s snow, and growing frayed from use. I pulled it on anyway and wound my way back downstairs. I would look for a job first, and new clothes after.