Ghostly Echoes (Jackaby #3)(11)
“What happened?” I asked.
“It blew up, quite literally. There was an explosion. The Technological Center was decimated. The observatory collapsed, walls came tumbling down. Years of work and thousands of dollars vanished. Poplin’s bold new plan to change the world was suddenly a pile of scrap metal and cinders. I’m told the blast bent metal girders in half and melted the glass right out of the windows.”
“Don’t look at me,” Jackaby said. “I didn’t move in until eighty-seven.”
“Don’t think I didn’t check,” Marlowe said.
“Two of the bodies they uncovered were identified as scientists who had gone missing, Shea and Grawrock,” Spade continued. “There were other remains, but they were too far gone. Carson was notably not identified among them.”
“Then he might still be alive?” I said.
“And long gone by now if he is. He took his money and disappeared. Poplin was indicted, accused of everything the court could throw at him, from sabotaging his own project to kidnapping and killing his architects. None of it stuck, of course, because nothing could be proven. If anyone knew what really happened, they were either long gone or buried in the wreckage. Poplin’s political career was over, obviously. He was completely ruined.”
“I see,” said Jackaby. “And now, ten years later, men of science are disappearing again, their loved ones slaughtered in their homes. The parallels are hard to ignore. It’s a good thing you haven’t rebuilt the Technological Center as well, or we should be watching the skyline for fireworks.”
Mayor Spade swallowed hard.
“You haven’t . . .” I said.
“Not exactly.” The mayor took a deep breath. “Poplin mismanaged his affairs, but he wasn’t wrong. We do need to keep above the current or we will flounder beneath it, so in the past few years I’ve made another push toward modernity in New Fiddleham. The city of Crowley is already phasing out gas lamps. The university district down in Glanville looks like something out of a Jules Verne novel. We’ve fallen behind. The people are ready. With all of the hubbub about the World’s Fair coming to Chicago next year, the public is clamoring for innovation. The city council was unanimous. We installed electric lights in Seeley’s Square, remodeled the Cavendish district, everything was going smoothly. But it’s like some invisible force doesn’t want New Fiddleham to move forward. I fear it’s all happening again.”
“Wait a moment,” I said. “Cordelia and Professor Hoole lived in Glanville. It’s a tragedy to be sure, and a most urgent case—but not a mark against New Fiddleham.”
“Except that Lawrence Hoole was my chief architect.” Spade sank in his chair. “I enlisted his help for the New Fiddleham project. He was a central part of my elite team. Together we were going to achieve what Poplin never could. But now . . .”
“Your team?”
Spade nodded, his complexion wan and his eyes unfocused. Marlowe spoke for him. “Professor Hoole was not the only member of the intellectual community whose expertise the mayor solicited, nor is he the only one to go missing.”
Spade nodded his head in confirmation and pointed to a picture on the shelf behind him. It showed Mayor Spade beaming at the camera as he shook hands with a man I recognized from the newspapers as Professor Hoole. A third man stood proudly at their side. “Julian McCaffery,” Spade said sadly, “—missing. Lawrence Hoole—dead. I brought them both into this, and now I’m the only one in that photograph whose corpse the police aren’t either looking at or looking for. Lawrence was a good man. He told me last month that he was having misgivings about the project, that something felt wrong. I should have listened. Poor Cordelia wasn’t even a part of this.”
I stared at the picture. Lawrence Hoole was smiling in that way my father always had before an expedition. It was an eager smile, a smile of grossly misplaced optimism. I looked away and found my eyes drifting across the other portraits on his shelf. A beautiful woman with brunette curls stood beside Spade in several of them.
Spade must have followed my gaze. “Her name is Mary,” he said softly. “My wife. I think the two of you would get along very well, Miss Rook—so involved and inquisitive.” He took a deep breath. “Please, gentlemen, Miss Rook. Whoever is behind this didn’t stop at Carson or McCaffery. The wretch went after their families. He killed Jennifer Cavanaugh and Alice McCaffery. Lord knows what’s become of the widow Hoole. I’ll put my own neck on the line for this town—but not Mary’s. I would give anything to keep Mary out of this.” Spade’s jaw was set and his expression hard, but his eyes glistened in the warm light of the study.
“Don’t worry, Mayor—” I began, but Jackaby cut in.
“Worry. It is worrisome indeed, and you’re at the core. This all started up again precisely when you picked up where your predecessor left off. Is it possible our culprit is an economic vigilante who doesn’t want another mayor playing in the public coffers?”
“I guess it’s possible,” Spade said. “But we’ve avoided making the same mistakes that Poplin made with the city’s money. The whole project has been negotiated quietly and kept separate from public works. We held private fund-raising dinners and petitioned sponsors through the post. It was a very successful campaign. We found stable benefactors interested in supporting our work at a very early stage.”