Rook, page 11
“It’s not an affliction—it’s who she is,” I said. “And yes. I know about the Om Caini. More than you, I would wager. They aren’t mindless monsters.”
“I agree.” Garabrand spoke gently, but there was grit to his voice. “Werewolves are one thing. Their actions are not intentional. They are victims themselves, in a way. I believe a werehound’s choices, on the other hand, should be considered willful and conscious. Would you agree?”
“Yes—wait, no. It’s not like that.”
“Hmm. I’m always eager to learn how it is.” He tilted his head slightly as he looked at me. “Didn’t get where I am by assuming I already have all the answers. Care to elaborate as to how you came to know so much about their kind?”
“That’s none of your business,” I said, trying not to let him get me flustered. “But I know without a doubt that they are perfectly decent people.”
“Decent or not,” Agent Kit grumbled, “this city never should have given paranormals so much control. Now we have to do all the work to fix your mistakes.”
“What do you mean by that?” Jackaby asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Mr. Kit lacks tact, but he is not wrong,” said Garabrand. “Your friends seem like reasonable folk—but it was a gross oversight to grant them sovereignty over the access point in the first place. A port of entry of this magnitude represents an unfathomable threat. It’s not personal. If anything, it’s unfair to put that responsibility on their shoulders. The matter should always have been under our purview, not theirs. Juliette D’Aulaire’s death was a tragedy, obviously, but perhaps auspicious in the long run for a smoother transition of power.”
“The Om Caini were chosen as sentinels precisely because they are a neutral party,” I said. “Not strictly human, but not of the Annwyn, either. Unbiased guardians prevent either side from abusing the power of the gate.”
“The leader of your so-called unbiased group just murdered the first person who questioned her right to lead,” said Agent Garabrand. “That doesn’t strike you as an abuse of power?”
“Technically not the first person to question her,” I mumbled.
Agent Garabrand raised an eyebrow.
“So you want to order New Fiddleham’s finest to seize control of the veil-gate?” said Jackaby. “With all due respect, police officers can barely keep control of Mason Street. They aren’t equipped to manage interdimensional security.”
“Good point,” said Kit. “All the more reason to man the outpost with fully armed and armored bureau operatives rather than leaving matters in the hands of untrained locals.”
“What?” Jackaby and I both blurted together.
“That’s not decided yet,” Garabrand cut in. “But this is what we do. The Bureau of Curiosities was formed to look into supernatural incidents all over the country and quietly turn problems into solutions.”
“We can find our own solutions,” I said.
Garabrand nodded contemplatively. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did,” he conceded. “Most cities aren’t even aware of the presence of paranormals in their midst. Frankly, it’s a breath of fresh air to find a town whose leadership is open to an earnest dialogue on the topic at all, and I do love to root for the home team. But that doesn’t make the chaos here in New Fiddleham any less dangerous. If Commissioner Marlowe and his existing structures of governance prove inadequate in maintaining the safety and stability of this city—then we will be forced to step in and take control. That’s just the way it is.”
“You can’t simply take over a city!” I said.
“We can, and we have, many times. Sometimes we just insert our own operatives in key governing positions to ensure effective management. Other times the situation calls for a more drastic approach. Ever heard of Brigginsburg?”
“No.”
“And you never will.” Garabrand let the information hang in the air without elaboration. I could tell with certainty that the agent was neither lying nor exaggerating. I swallowed.
“What if she didn’t do it?” I asked. Garabrand’s brow rose, curiously. “What if we can prove that the murder was not her fault? Would that make you trust the Om Caini?”
“That,” said Garabrand, “would be quite a feat.”
“Your friend is guilty,” Kit said, bluntly. “And we’re done here.” His attention turned to Officers McIntosh and Schmitz, who were emerging from Alina’s office with a small stack of books and ledgers in their arms. “You—what do you two think you’re doing in there?”
“Collecting evidence?” Schmitz answered.
“As their commanding officer instructed,” Dupin added, pointedly.
“It’s fine,” Garabrand said. “Inspector Dupin has the situation here well in hand, Mr. Kit. And we have a suspect to interrogate. Good day, folks.”
Dupin scowled at their backs as they exited the building.
“We should probably be going as well,” said Jackaby.
“One more thing, Inspector,” I said. “I don’t suppose the name Terwilliger Highcourt means anything to you?”
Dupin shook his head. “Should it?”
“Just something Alina mentioned before you arrived. It might be unrelated, but I only wondered.”
“Excuse me, miss?” Officer Schmitz stepped over, his arms still laden with Alina’s paperwork. I could see the red logbook about halfway down the stack. “Didn’t mean to overhear, but I don’t expect the inspector would have anything to do with that, on account of it’s not the sort of case he oversees.”
“You know the name?”
“Pretty sure. Not a lot of Terwilligers. I helped process the paperwork before I was transferred to the Paranormal Division. It’s a standard missing persons case. Friend of his from work came and filled out the report when he didn’t show up for a few days. They were under the impression he was human, or else I’d have stamped it for paranormal earlier.”
“Hmm. Reported missing from both sides of the veil, it seems,” said Jackaby.
“That’s where I’ve seen that name!” I said. “It was on one of those posters in the street. Sounds like his grandfather was right to worry about him.”
“Not that that helps Alina,” Jackaby said. “Ignoring a concerned grandparent when it turns out he was right to worry? That story won’t exactly make her appear likable to the public.”
Dupin shook his head. “Things aren’t looking very good for your friend,” he said.
A thought was bubbling in the back of my head. “What if she didn’t ignore him?” I said. “The last thing Alina remembers is talking to the old man—what if she listened to him and went looking for Terwilliger Highcourt after all? What if her investigation somehow brought her into conflict with Juliette D’Aulaire?”
“That would be stepping well outside of her jurisdiction,” said Dupin. “They’re supposed to turn cases like that over to our division to handle.”
“Which she would have known would be as good as doing nothing at all,” Jackaby mused. “No offense, Inspector.”
“How is that not offensive?” Dupin asked.
“Stepping outside her jurisdiction,” I said, “and pursuing a not-strictly-legitimate investigation would be a good reason not to write her plans down in the logs or tell anyone where she was going.”
Jackaby nodded. “It’s a better lead than anything else we’ve got. Shall we look into it tomorrow morning? I did promise your parents dinner.”
“Don’t remind me,” I said. “Oh, lord—Charlie is stuck with them right now. How am I supposed to come home and tell him—in front of my parents—that we just arrested his sister for murder and that his entire clan is on the cusp of being labeled public enemies and dishonorably stripped of their posts?” I closed my eyes and pressed my fingers to my temples. “No. No, I can’t do it. We need more answers first. He might not be enjoying the company, but an evening of sitting with my parents is better than a morning of running from an angry mob.”
“I can pull the missing persons report for Highcourt,” said Dupin. “But if we’re looking into this, we’re looking into it together. You report directly to me. No ducking away and hiding evidence, got it?”
“And no going over your head to the despotic duo?” Jackaby added.
Dupin’s nostrils flared.
“We’re with you,” I assured Dupin. “Take us to Highcourt’s home so I can have a look around. If there’s something there that can explain all of this, then at least I can give Charlie that much.”
“And what if what you find is only more proof that his sister is a cold-blooded killer?” said Dupin.
“Then tonight’s dinner conversation is going to be rough,” I said.
chapter thirteen
The contents of chapter thirteen have been omitted. To assuage any fears eager readers might experience that these missing pages are the result of a villainous theft or that they imply some worrying memory loss—rest assured that I recall every step we took that chilly afternoon in vivid detail. I’m just not telling you.
chapter fourteen
Terwilliger Highcourt’s home was spacious for a walk-in closet with plumbing and brown drapes. For any reasonably sized person, it left one with the sensation of being hugged by muted floral wallpaper. The windows rattled as a train thundered past, and the front door bumped into a steamer trunk when Inspector Dupin attempted to push it farther open than it wanted to go. The main room of the apartment was a living room right up until it was a dining room and also a slim kitchen, and there were crates and empty canning jars and books stacked against every wall. The countertops, too, were cluttered with balls of twine, tinned beans, and all sorts of odds and ends. A door to the left was open, revealing an unmade bed and more clutter.
“Anything?” Jackaby asked, almost as soon as I had set foot inside.
I let my gaze roll over the scene. The aura was distinctly elven, but it was stale and old. Terwilliger Highcourt hadn’t been home for weeks. Alina’s aura, on the other hand, was fresh.
“She was here,” I said quietly. “She must have been looking for Highcourt.” I followed the aura as it wove in and out. Lying on the floor in the corner of the room was the baton she had borrowed from Charlie. His aura still clung to it. I bit my lip, grateful the investigating officers could not see what I could. Alina incriminating herself was bad enough without getting her brother mixed up in it all.
I narrowed my eyes, peering around. There were other auras littering the place—old and new, earthly and unearthly—but floating over it all like a fine layer of dust was the same energy I had sensed in the jewelry shop.
“What is it?” Jackaby whispered.
“Turnips,” I said. “And turpitude.”
“You’re sure?”
“Rarely.” I stood up straight. “But I think so. The air tastes the same as it did in Talman’s.”
“Squiffy Rick is getting pretty ambitious if he’s gone from snatching necklaces to kidnapping interdimensional immigrants,” said Jackaby. “Any idea what Alina was looking for?”
I peered once more around the cluttered room. In the mystery stories I used to smuggle into my book bag, the crime scenes detectives had to investigate were always conveniently neat and tidy, save for some muddy shoe print or a single hairpin on the carpet. Anything and everything in this room could be a clue. Was the bottle of hair tonic a clue? The unidentifiable canned fruit? The stack of old newspapers?
“What sorts of energies would you look for?” I asked.
Jackaby shrugged. “I never really knew until I found one. I just looked around and went wherever things seemed most oddish. What seems oddish?”
“I don’t know. What color is oddish?”
Jackaby shook his head. “If you’re going to insist on trying to be me, then perhaps what you need is a you to do your side of the job. Actually, that’s not half-bad. Maybe all you need is a handy Rook to point you in the right direction. Let’s see. What would you do if you were me being you? Oh! Wastebaskets. You do love rooting through garbage.”
He crossed the floor and picked up a rubbish bin, rummaging around inside it eagerly.
“I never said that,” I protested. “It’s just the sort of thing that detectives check, isn’t it?” I let my eyes wander around the room. Dupin was poking at jars in a cupboard. Highcourt’s aura was, unsurprisingly, everywhere in the cramped apartment, but it was a slightly different tone in different places. It carried fatigue with it to the bedroom, and it glimmered with hope by the windowsill. The trunk beside the door, on the other hand, was alight with nervous importance. I could almost feel the elf’s heart beating faster as I approached it.
“There’s a broken tobacco pipe in here,” said Jackaby, behind me. “And spent matches. Banana peel. Piece of string.”
I ignored him and knelt to open the chest. Within it was a pile of innocuous knit sweaters and scarves—but the heap practically glowed from the light of something magical beneath them. Gingerly, I moved the winter wear aside. Beneath them rested scores of smooth, polished stones, each about as wide across as my palm and glowing a pale green. The light was so intensely elven, it hurt my eyes to stare at them for too long.
“I’ve got something!” Jackaby declared triumphantly. “This matchstick is made out of cardboard!”
I stood and turned. “Erm. Mr. Jackaby.”
“Look! The rest of the ones in there were wooden matches. But this one’s different. That’s something, I think.”
“Mr. Jackaby.” I nodded toward the open steamer trunk and the hidden cache of stones.
Jackaby leaned in to have a better look. “Ah. Those are also something.” He glanced a little dejectedly at the spent match in his hands, but rallied quickly and tucked it into a pocket. “Right. I haven’t seen these with plain eyes before, but I’d wager these are elven dwimmerstans. They glow, yes? Pastel green? That’s them, then. They’re a bit like chemical batteries, but instead of storing electricity, they store magical energy. Not generally very strong, but handy for the modern elf on the go—especially on this side of the veil. Just enough kick in each one to boost a simple spell or two. I knew a sailor who liked to keep a dwimmerstan in his pocket when he was out to sea. Didn’t even tap into it. Said just holding it made his joints feel better on the cold nights.”
“So—these are commonplace? They’re not . . . oddish?”
“Well . . .” Jackaby hedged.
“They’re illegal,” said Dupin, peeking over my shoulder. “At least in that quantity. One or two would be a reasonable allowance—but with this many, he’s probably selling them.”
“That’s not a real law,” Jackaby said.
“It is the law,” Dupin said.
“It’s a regulation,” Jackaby corrected. “Barely.”
Dupin shook his head. “It could have landed Highcourt some serious fines or jail time. Devices that store or generate magical energy can’t be stockpiled or distributed in New Fiddleham. Too dangerous and too much of a liability.” He shook his head. “Of course, it’s almost impossible to enforce from our end. The Om Caini are supposed to screen for this sort of thing. We’re still trying to work out which artifacts will blow up in our evidence locker and which ones won’t.”
“Oh, dwimmerstans are harmless,” Jackaby scoffed. “This is why the magical community doesn’t like you.”
“It might explain his disappearance,” I said. “If Highcourt got mixed up with a criminal element out of necessity to distribute his stones, that could have landed him in some dangerous circles.”
“I’ll have an officer circle back to collect the evidence.” Dupin nodded at the trunk. “He wouldn’t be the first contraband trader who’s gone missing recently. You ever meet Alfie Scather?”
“I know Alfie,” Jackaby said.
“Alfie’s been in and out of lockup for the past few months for peddling hex bags and single-use spells. His auntie reported him missing last week. I had him pegged for skipping town, but it’s possible Scather and Highcourt both crossed paths with the wrong bad guy.”
“Ooh. A mysterious criminal kingpin? That’s good.” Jackaby closed his eyes, his hands hovering in front of his face as if preparing to conduct an invisible orchestra. “Maybe Alina went to check on Highcourt and stumbled onto his admittedly shady but ultimately harmless underground business.” Dupin rolled his eyes, but Jackaby continued. “One thing leads to another, and the trail takes Alina into the lair of this mysterious unknown kingpin, who, in turn, gets her mixed up with D’Aulaire. Oh, wait!” Jackaby’s eyes popped open. “Maybe D’Aulaire is the nefarious kingpin. It’s the perfect cover. Denounce magic by day, deal in magic by night.”
“Except that Juliette D’Aulaire was doing more than denouncing,” Dupin cut in. “She’s put pressure on the mayor from day one to close the gate entirely. She spearheaded the anti-magic campaign for increased restrictions. She’s half the reason the laws have become as tight as they are.”
I shook my head. “Dupin’s right. D’Aulaire wasn’t working with magic. I’m pretty sure Alina was the only paranormal to pass through her house in a long time. If our victim had anything to do with a supernatural underground, it would have left traces. We’re not going to get anywhere with a lot of wild conjecture. We need more pieces to this puzzle. Who else has been taken, Inspector? Anyone who lived nearby?”
Dupin leafed through his notes for a moment. “A tailor. Three blocks from here. Next closest is a greengrocer about a mile away, a pipe fitter uptown, and a midwife and her daughter a little north of that.”
“Then I guess we have a lot of ground to cover before the sun goes down,” I said.
chapter fifteen
The nearest site to Highcourt’s apartment was the home of the tailor, a gnome by the name of Pip Townsend. He was the most recent victim on Dupin’s list to have gone missing—the report had been filed only a few days prior. A white-haired neighbor peered over her fence at us as we stepped into Townsend’s house to have a look around.
