“I should have liked to see Marlowe sweating for once.” Jackaby chuckled.
The wind was picking up and it whistled against the buildings, spattering the windows with rain. Apparently the weather had grown too warm for more snow, but only just. I shivered involuntarily, but not from the cold. The processing officer had taken my long, fitted coat, but the heavy shirtwaist Jenny had lent me was thick and warm, and suited for the cold weather. Something else was sending tremors down my spine. It could not be more than midday, but the sky was growing dark as more clouds rolled in.
“Well, I guess we’ll be here for a while,” I said, trying to remain light. “I suppose we should make ourselves comfortable. At least they feed you in jail, right? It’ll probably be the first proper meal I’ll have had since making port.”
Jackaby looked focused on his thoughts. His eyebrows were knit in concentration. “Hmm? Oh yes. It’s not bad, if you’re partial to creamed corn.”
“Should’ve gotten myself arrested sooner—could’ve saved us the trouble of clearing out a room for me, eh?”
The wind was really wailing now, and a sudden, hard gust danced through the station house, sending a stack of paperwork flying around the room. The portly duty officer latched the window tightly and quickly busied himself sorting out the mess. Even with the windows sealed, the angry gale roared against the panes.
Jackaby was sitting on the bench in his cell, but his eyes were a million miles away.
“Quiet a moment,” he said, putting a finger to his lips. He shut his eyes, and his head cocked to the side as he listened. I listened as well, though it was getting impossible to hear anything over the howling wind.
And then, like a match struck in the dark, my mind made sense of the sound. It had been growing steadily louder on the tails of the storm. I felt the blood drain from my face as icy tingles shot down my spine and danced through my extremities. A drop struck my cheek, and I brushed away my own hot tear.
“You hear it, too?” Jackaby’s voice came somberly through the wind.
I nodded solemnly. “So sad,” I managed.
“Yes,” said Jackaby. “Mrs. Morrigan has a remarkable voice.”
At the mention of the banshee’s name, a burst of lightning lit the little window, and the thunderclap was not far behind. I slumped in my seat, my head reeling, and listened to the banshee’s cry—listened to the sound of our own deaths riding after us on the storm.
“Cake?”
My misty eyes found focus. The policeman with the walrus mustache was holding a tray with a few cheerful slices of birthday cake. He pushed one through the slot at the bottom of my cell.
“It’s just gonna go stale, anyway,” he said, kindly. “And we get ants.”
Jackaby managed a weak smile as the man slid one to him as well. “Thank you, Officer,” he said. “Many happy returns.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The following hours, during which the stormy winds continued to harass the station-house walls, felt like days. We were half a mile from the Emerald Arch, but, like currents against a sinking ship, the banshee’s wail continued to wash over us in rhythmic waves. I recalled the image of Mr. Henderson, pillows belted to his ears to drown out the sound, and his actions seemed much less like madness now.
The song was a whirlpool, powerful and disorienting, and pulling me ever deeper. At times it was melodic, sung with beautiful, sweeping tones of exquisite sorrow—but then it would collapse into the wretched discord of a woman in the throes of anguish, and back again. There was no break between the two, and the further into the lament I fell, the more I saw them as one and the same. It was my mother’s voice, and it was my voice, and it was no voice at all. No words in any language could have more precisely conveyed the sadness and foreboding flooding through my senses. It was the last song I would ever hear.
With great difficulty, I pulled my mind back into the dim police station. I looked into the next cell at Jackaby, who was standing by the thin, high window, looking out into the tempest. How long had he been there? Minutes? Hours? It was a blur. He looked inexplicably calm.
I pulled the scratchy, woolen blanket tighter about my shoulders, wondered briefly when I had received it, and walked over toward him. His breaths were deep and even. His storm gray eyes flashed for an instant with the brilliant reflection of lightning outside.
“What do you see?” I asked through the bars.
“Nothing,” he answered softly. “Just the rain.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” I asked, wiping my eyes with the wooly corner of the blanket.
He looked at me for a moment and smiled gently. “Of course I am.”
“You don’t look it.”
“I suppose I am curious, first. I’ll let myself be afraid when my curiosity is satisfied—and as my curiosity will only be satisfied when I’ve looked our murderer in the face, it is unlikely I shall need to spend much time in fear.”
“Ah,” I said. “That’s convenient.”
“Quite.”
I followed his gaze out the window. “So,” I said, “we’re going to die.”
“Well, of course we are, Miss Rook. Don’t be dense. Everyone dies.”
“Tonight,” I said.
Jackaby sighed. “Yes.”
“Any thoughts about what sort of creature we should be expecting?” I asked.
“Many thoughts, yes.”
“Any conclusions?”
Jackaby’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced my way. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes. Madness? Excitement? Hope? The banshee’s melancholy melody howled through the trees and I shivered, holding my attention on that glimmer like a hot ember in a pile of cold ash.
“There is someone who has aroused my curiosity,” he mused, turning away again. “Just a theory. Suspicions with no proof.”
“Someone—a suspect? Who?”
Jackaby’s answer, if he had intended to give me one at all, was interrupted. The banshee’s wail came to a crescendo as the wind picked up. Icy chills danced up my back, and even the detective winced. The door at the far side of the room swung open, and Junior Detective Charlie Cane stepped inside.