The howling wails of the banshee were becoming more distinct from the wind and rain with each passing minute. The storm seemed to be abating. Wisps of rain, rather than heavy sheets, struck the small, barred window. The mournful cries, however, had not diminished in the least. They were, in fact, becoming unbearably intense. I had just crossed to peer out the window when another wave of sadness slammed into me. My eyes clenched shut, and I felt my knees give out and crack into the floor. With my hands clamped over my ears, I forced my eyes open and peered around.
In a muffled semivacuum of sound, with the echoes of the last cry bouncing about my head, I tried to reorient myself. The man in the far cell had curled into a fetal position and was rocking slightly. Jackaby was shouting something about his tuning fork at the desk officer, but the portly man had slouched back in his chair, keeping his hands clapped to either side of his head. I took my hands tentatively away from my own ears, only to be caught by another terrible wail.
I forced my eyes open again, my vision swimming slightly. Jackaby had abandoned his efforts with the policeman, and looked as though the task of simply standing upright was commanding all of his willpower. There was no noise at all now, save the sorrowful voice of the banshee in my ears. As the song and scream entwined, the painful beauty of the melody came into focus.
On the crest of the building wave, a few last thoughts—tumbling wishes and regrets—breached the surface. I longed to see my parents one last time, and tell them that I loved them—that I was sorry. I imagined my mother, scooping me into a deep hug, as she had done when I was small. The image changed, and she became my father, and he held me still more tightly in his big broad arms. Again the vision gently shifted, and now he was the handsome Charlie Cane, and I could not be bothered to shy away from the thought of his embrace. Gradually my mind cleared until nothing but the mournful sound remained.
So, this is it, I thought. I am about to die. A strange peace washed over me. The harrowing song reached its peak and came toward a lilting end, the melody drawing at last to one elegant final note. I breathed in deeply and let my hands fall to my sides, opening my ears to the long, sustained finale. The tones of pain and fear subsided, and it was a sound of pure release and relief. As if on cue, a beam of sunlight cut past the last dwindling raindrops and through the little window. Then, just as the trembling note began to soften, the voice abruptly stopped.
It was a jarring shift, like falling out of bed in the middle of a dream. Mundane sounds returned suddenly, alien at first in their normalcy: the soft slosh of water in the gutters, the pitter-patter of droplets slipping from the wet branches, the heavy breathing and occasional sniffle of the man in the far cell. Wondering, briefly, if I was dead, I blinked and patted down my torso. Finding no gaping wounds, I looked dumbly to Jackaby.
He glanced about the station and then met my eyes. “Interesting,” he said.
“We’re alive,” I said.
“So it would seem.” He crossed to the window and looked outside. Everything had returned to normal, except for the oppressive quiet. The usual patter of footsteps and carts on the street had stopped, and the faintest of noises hung too clearly in the absence of other sounds.
“Do you think they caught him?”
Jackaby raised an eyebrow. “It’s possible. It would account for the rapid shift in our fates.”
“I thought for sure the whole lot of us were dead,” I said, letting the idea warm up inside me. “But, no one died at all! We’re safe! Everyone’s safe!” I smiled at my employer, who allowed himself a hint of a grin in response.
And then a distant scream cut across the silence. It was a woman’s voice—not the banshee’s, but a very human cry, full of shock and sadness and distress. It sounded very small and alone as it echoed across the quiet streets.
I swallowed hard, the elation of our survival draining out of me. “Who do you think . . . ?” I left the question hanging in the air.
“I haven’t a clue.” Jackaby’s voice took a hard edge, and he scowled out the little window for several silent moments. “I need to get out of this cell. This has gone on long enough.” He began to pace.
“And how do you intend to go about that?” I asked him. The constant stresses that seemed to be riling my employer had the opposite effect on me. No longer in immediate danger, I felt my adrenaline rapidly wane, and the exhaustion of a day full of heady emotions weighed heavily on my eyes. I slid down to sit on the cool ground against the wall, and rested my head on my knees.
“I’ll have to employ delicate and deliberate elocution. I’m sure our jailer can be persuaded to see reason.”
“You’re going to try to talk your way out?”
“Don’t sound so skeptical. Just you watch, Miss Rook. We’ll be back out and on the trail in minutes. I’m very good with people.”
Many hours later, I was roused from near sleep by the loud rattle of my cell door opening. Jackaby was restlessly waiting by his own door, his persistent but fruitless efforts to negotiate our release having apparently abated some time earlier. A glance showed me that my release had come at the hands of Junior Detective Cane. He gave me a reassuring smile, and opened Jackaby’s cell while I shook myself fully awake and rose. Charlie’s posture was alert and professional, as usual, but I doubted very much if he had slept at all in the last two days. His hair was mussed, dark stubble was coming in thick across his jaw, and his eyes still looked bloodshot.
“So,” I said, “we’re free now?”
“We’re being released on our own recognizance, Miss Rook,” Jackaby announced, dusting off his sleeves and stretching.
Charlie nodded. “Marlowe’s still not happy with you about hiding evidence, but he agreed that being in police custody during the murder is a fairly convincing alibi.” His voice was hoarse and a little gravelly, and even his accent was slipping slightly, more Slavic syllables inserting themselves in his words.
“So there has been another murder?”
Charlie nodded. “Yes. We were nearly on the scene when it happened. That Irish woman, Miss O’Connor, was there when we found the body. It was just the same as the others, sir.” His voice was solemn. “Mrs. Morrigan is dead.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charlie nodded to the duty officer as we left the cell, and the portly man slid the door closed behind us. “The banshee,” I said as we walked. “She was singing her own last song, then. That poor thing. We listened to her die, and we didn’t even know it!”