“Indeed?” Marlow made another note. “Impressive that you should come so quickly to find employment with a man who just happened to be involved in a murder . . . one that took place the very night you arrived in town. Did you seek him out because you were interested in getting a second look at the crime scene?”
The blood was pumping in my ears, and I was quickly beginning to resent the inspector’s implications. “With all due respect, sir, I would be employed by half a dozen other respectable townspeople if any of them had been hiring. Mr. Jackaby had work for me, that’s all—and I’m glad he did, Inspector. He’s a bit strange, it’s true, but at least he’s a competent investigator. His methods don’t include locking up everyone who tries to help.” I realized I had let Marlowe throw me completely off balance, and I sat back nervously, waiting for his rebuke.
To his credit, the chief inspector took my comment in stride. He simply made another quiet mark in his notepad, and continued in the same even tone, a faint touch of gravel in his voice.
“Speaking of Mr. Jackaby’s methods, do you recognize this?” He pushed the map across the table toward me.
“Yes, sir,” I answered, meekly.
“Care to explain it?”
“It’s a map. Mr. Bragg seems to have been researching a string of deaths just outside of New Fiddleham. We believe it’s probably why he was killed.”
“A compelling piece of evidence. Care to explain how it came to rest in the offices at 926 Augur Lane?”
“Oh, yes. I guess Jackaby discovered it in Mr. Bragg’s room, and thought it might be worth looking into.”
“And so he stole a crucial piece of evidence?”
“Well, I don’t think he exactly meant to steal it. I’m sure he was planning on . . .”
“Was this before or after I discovered the two of you contaminating the crime scene?”
I swallowed. “After.”
“Before or after the two of you ignored my order to leave the premises and went, instead, to speak with a witness—a witness who was brutally murdered the following night?”
“Er—after that as well, sir,” I admitted.
“Why don’t we start at the beginning, Miss Rook.”
And so we did. I told him everything, from the kobold on my coat to the silent screams torturing Mr. Henderson, and the effect of Jackaby’s tuning fork. I had explained all about Mona and the banshee, and had just reached old Hatun with her shawl-of-partial-invisibility when there came a knock at the door. Marlowe, in spite of his furrowed brow and occasionally rolling eyes, had listened to it all, jotting notes in his book. “We’ll get back to you in a moment,” he told me, and nodded to the policeman at the door.
The guard opened it a crack and then quickly stepped away, letting it swing wide. He popped instantly to attention beside the doorway. Commissioner Swift stood in the hall, looking thoroughly out of place in the plain, practical quarters of the police station. He wore the same expensive black coat with red trim and matching rosy derby. His collar looked starched, peeking up to frame a dark paisley cravat. He leaned heavily on his polished cane, straightening slightly as Marlowe and I turned to look.
With stiff but purposeful steps, Swift strode into the interrogation room. He fought against his leg braces to affect a normal gait, gritting his teeth every time the mechanism gave out the slightest squeak as he moved. He marched to the table beside Marlowe.
The chief inspector looked as surprised to see him as I was. “Commissioner,” he managed with a respectful nod. “What can I do for you?”
“You can carry on, Inspector. I’ll just be overseeing things. Who do we have here? I thought you were interrogating the infamous Mr. Jackaby.” The commissioner picked up Marlowe’s notebook and flipped back a few pages, scanning the scribbled entries.
“This is his associate, sir, one Abigail Rook. I was just taking a few statements.”
“So I see.” Swift scowled at the notepad and flipped another page. “A banshee? A magic shawl? Really? Trolls, Miss Rook?” His voice dripped with sardonic incredulity as he raised his eyes to mine over the top of the book.
“Just the one troll,” I replied timidly. “I’m told he’s very small.”
“We were nearly finished here,” Marlowe stated, reaching for the book. “If I may?”
Swift tossed it back to the table, ignoring Marlowe’s hand. “You are finished here. I won’t have my chief inspector wasting his time listening to fairy tales while some madman hacks my city to pieces. Do you have any idea how bad that makes me look? Any idea how far I will drop in the polls every time a body turns up in my jurisdiction?”
“Yes, Commissioner. I understand, but . . .”
“But nothing! I want you and your men back out in the streets where you belong, finding answers! Finding me a killer!”
Marlowe, out of self-preservation, bit his tongue before speaking, and I took the opportunity. “Does this mean I’m free to go?”
Swift darted a glance at me as though he had already forgotten I was in the room. “You? Certainly not. Marlowe, keep the both of them locked up tight until this is over. Should keep them out from under foot so you can do your damned job, and teach them a lesson for wasting our time. At least we can tell the press we’ve already taken the prime suspects into custody. The public likes fast action. Justice is swift and all that. Oh, that’s not bad. I should have my campaign boys do something with that. Dixon!”
The commissioner moved stiffly to the door, hollering down the hallway until a scrawny man in a suede suit and straw boater hat popped into view. The two of them disappeared from view around a corner, and the sound of the commissioner’s booming voice faded away.
Marlowe slowly shut his notebook and slid his chair back from the table. “This isn’t over,” he said. Collecting the bloody tuning fork and Bragg’s map, he walked out the door.
The dirty uniform escorted me back to my cell, and I plopped down on the bench. A barred window on the wall across from us had been opened to let in some fresh air. It had begun to rain while I was in interrogation, and the pitter-patter from the window was pleasant, if a bit chilly.
“Did you have a nice time?” Jackaby asked, leaning against the bars between our adjoining cells.
“Did I have a nice time? Being interrogated for a double homicide at a police station on my second day of work?”
“That’s a ‘no,’ then?”
“It was . . . illuminating,” I conceded. “I shouldn’t have thought a young lady would fit the role of murder suspect for a man like Marlowe. It’s almost refreshing to be mistreated equally.”
“Oh, not at all,” Jackaby said. “Culture and lore shape our societal expectations—and Marlowe has no doubt internalized countless archetypes of wicked women. La Llorona and her slaughtered children, Sirens and their shipwrecks, Eve and the apple.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel much better.” I slumped against the wall.
“So, Marlowe has his vigilant eye on you, as well, does he? I suppose he’ll even have poor Douglas pilloried before this is over.”
I proceeded to tell him about the commissioner’s dramatic entrance and exit, and the extension of our custody.