She stood beside me, looking over Charlie. “He’s doing quite well, all things considered.”
I nodded. He was improving impossibly quickly, it was true. In a peculiar way, that was a part of my frustration. I wanted to balance the scales, but I had no special gifts to lend to his recovery—he had to manage that all on his own, and he was. I was surrounded by the spectacular. Charlie, Jackaby, Jenny—they could all do such astounding things, and I was just Abigail Rook, assistant.
“He saved my life,” I said, “and all I could do was watch while he was sliced to ribbons.”
“That isn’t how Jackaby tells it,” Jenny said. “As I understand, you were pretty heroic yourself last night. I think he was downright impressed.”
“Jackaby said that?”
“Well, he might have focused a bit more on the hurling about of antiques . . . and I believe the term he used most was ‘foolhardy,’ but you learn to tell with Jackaby. Did you really fight off a redcap with a handful of books?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled.
“Sounds like you did the saving, then.”
“I suppose we took turns.” I returned to the sleeping junior detective and brushed back the loose lock of dark hair. He stirred ever so slightly at my touch, breathing in deeply. His tense brow relaxed and he softened into a more peaceful slumber.
It was well into the afternoon before Charlie was fully awoken by the sound of Jackaby banging in through the front door. “You’re awake! Good. About time. How are you feeling, young man?”
“I have been better. Swift . . . is he . . . ?” Charlie began.
“Dead? Yes. It’s over.”
Charlie stiffly eased himself to sitting and accepted a cup of tea. “There is much I still don’t understand,” Charlie said. “Why now? Why them? And if you could see me for what I am, why did you not recognize Swift right away?”
Jackaby nodded and looked out the window as he gave his reply. “The last question is the easiest. Swift had repeatedly avoided meeting with me, and I with him. I never actually saw the man, or creature, until last night—possibly a coincidence, but it is likely he had heard of my reputation as a seer and did not want to risk the rumors being true. For my own part, I don’t make a habit of engaging police bureaucracy if I can avoid it. I find those nearer the bottom of the chain are more inclined to collaboration—and are also less likely to expel me from matters of interest.
“Regarding the scoundrel’s victims, they fell as follows: Mr. Bragg, the journalist, clearly stumbled upon the pattern of Swift’s killings, and must have made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning the discovery to the commissioner, probably during an interview for some silly political piece. Swift couldn’t have the newsman alerting the public to his villainy, so he dispatched the fellow, then followed centuries of instinct and practice by soaking up the blood in his grisly red cap. Having murdered Bragg, Swift had to make his escape. He hastened first to the window, but Hatun was in the alley below, so he retreated down the stairwell instead. In his hurry, he allowed his iron shoes to leave their impressions in the wood.
“That might have been the end of the bloodshed in New Fiddleham, but it was you, Mr. Cane, who unwittingly sealed the next target’s fate. To avoid mentioning our visit with the banshee, you fed Marlowe a convenient lie about Mr. Henderson having had some information regarding the killer. This proved truly inconvenient for Henderson, because the commissioner was close at hand, privy to every word. Swift could not risk his identity being exposed by a victim’s nosy neighbor. Thus, even though the poor man knew nothing to endanger Swift, Henderson became victim number two.”
Charlie swallowed hard and looked to the bottom of his teacup. Jackaby continued. “Henderson’s demise was far more rushed than Bragg’s. Your standing guard in the hallway forced Swift to make his entrance and exit through the window. Either because of your presence, or possibly because Swift’s hat was still freshly damp from the night before, this time the commissioner barely brushed the corpse before hurrying away. He left the telltale smear, but he abandoned most of the blood to pool on the floorboards. If it weren’t for Marlowe’s bullheadedness, you might have tracked him then.
“Swift’s third victim, alas, is on our hands. Miss Rook and I both testified openly about the identity of Mrs. Morrigan, the banshee, and it was shortly after Swift looked over our statements that she began her own final lament.”
“But why kill the old woman?” he asked. “She didn’t even know about the redcap.”
“It wasn’t for her blood, not that time—she wasn’t human, after all. I believe Swift perceived her as a warning system, an alarm before each kill—too great a liability for him to leave in peace. Bragg, Henderson, Morrigan—one by one Swift snuffed out the threats to his secret, but the whole thing was unraveling too quickly.”
“I see.” Charlie looked up again. “And . . . last night? I’m afraid it’s rather a blur.”
“After we left you, Marlowe helped me put the last piece in the puzzle. His nonsense about not questioning the chain of command told me precisely where a brazen monster would hide: the top. I recalled Miss Rook’s detailed descriptions of the commissioner, and the answer plowed into me. Now I knew what I was up against, I looked for a means to stop the fiend. The most infamous of their brood, one Robin Redcap, was coated in lead and then burned along with his malevolent master—but in the end we did not have time for that. The surest, fastest way to destroy the creature was to destroy its red cap. The cap and the beast are one. I employed a more modern use of lead and a few Bible verses for good measure, but burning the hat was the real deed.”
Charlie nodded and opened his mouth to speak again just as the horseshoe knocker sounded out three loud clacks.
Jackaby peeked through the curtains and scowled. “Marlowe. I was hoping for a little more time, but I suppose this was to be expected.”
I offered to help Charlie down the hall, but he refused to run from his chief inspector. Jackaby grumbled something about stubborn loyalty, and opened the door. Pleasantries were brief, and not particularly pleasant. Marlowe took up a position just inside, maintaining his distance from Charlie.
“Well then,” said Jackaby cynically. “I suppose you’re ready to cart the young man off? Tell me, will it be chains and cement walls, or straight to the firing squad?”
“Neither,” responded the inspector. His voice was rough and tired. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re going to let the man be, Marlowe. We both know that’s not in the cards.”
There was a pregnant silence as Marlowe took a deep breath. “No,” he said at last. “No, that’s not possible. Too many people saw his . . . transformation, and that’s not something they will quickly forget. Even if I did let Officer Cane stay, his life here is over.”