Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(7)
“Where it is pertinent to the resolution of their problems, yes,” replied Jackaby, resuming his brusque walk. “Some of my clients are most grateful, indeed. My property on Augur Lane was a gift from Mayor Spade. He was particularly happy to be rid of a nest of brownies who had settled in a corner of his estate—caused no end of trouble, those little ruffians. At least the mayor’s eyebrows seem to have grown back faster than his wife’s rosebushes.”
“Your clients pay you in real estate?” I gawped.
“Of course not,” scoffed Jackaby. “That was a . . . special circumstance. Most pay in banknotes, some in coin. It’s not uncommon for some to pay with bits of gold or silver they happen to have on hand. I’ve more tea services and candlesticks than I can count. I much prefer the banknotes.”
“But, then . . . why do you wear such dreadfully poor garments?” The tactless question slipped out before I could catch myself. My mother would have been appalled.
“Poor garments?” Jackaby scowled. “My dear woman, my wardrobe comprises priceless fineries.”
I tried to determine if the man was speaking in earnest or simply having me on. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, sir—but that hat is a priceless finery?” I asked hesitantly.
“Silk is more precious than cotton because of the nature of its acquisition, is it not? Fine threads are collected from tiny silkworms over countless hours, whereas cotton can be pulled off nearly any farm in the States, and it ships by the boatload. My hat, Miss Rook, is made from the wool from one of the only surviving yeti of the Swiss Alps, dyed in ink mixed by Baba Yaga herself, and knit by my very good friend Agatha as a birthday present. Agatha is a novice knitter, but she put quite a lot of care into this hat. Also, she is a wood nymph. Not a lot of nymphs take to knitting. So, tell me if my hat is not more precious than the finest silk.”
He was speaking in earnest. “Oh yes. I see.” I nodded in what I hoped was a convincing manner. “Sorry. It’s just—at first glance it doesn’t look quite as impressive as all that.”
Jackaby made a noise, which might have been a huff and might have been a laugh. “I have ceased concerning myself with how things look to others, Abigail Rook. I suggest you do the same. In my experience, others are generally wrong.”
My eyes were on my companion as we rounded the corner, and I had to catch myself midstep to avoid barreling into a policeman. Half a dozen uniformed officers kept a crude perimeter around the entrance to a broad, brick apartment building, holding back a growing crowd of curious pedestrians.
“Ah,” said Jackaby with a smile. “We’ve arrived.”
Chapter Four
A tall, barrel-chested policeman looked down his hawk nose at us, and it became apparent that my companion held no more sway here than I did. Jackaby reacted to the obstruction with mesmerizing confidence. The detective strode purposefully up to the officers. “Eyes up, gentlemen, backs straight. Crowd’s getting a bit close, I think. Let’s take it out another five feet. That’s it.”
The officers on the far end with no real view of Jackaby responded to the authoritative voice by shuffling forward, pressing a small crowd of onlookers back a few paces. The nearer officers followed suit with uncertainty, eyes bouncing between their colleagues and the newcomer in his absurd winter hat.
Jackaby stepped between the nearest uniforms. “When Chief Inspector Marlowe arrives, tell him he’s late. Damned unprofessional.”
A young officer with a uniform that looked as though it had once belonged to a much larger man stepped forward timidly. “But Marlowe’s been inside nearly half an hour, sir.”
“Well, then . . . tell him he’s early,” countered Jackaby, “even worse.”
The hawk-nosed policeman with whom I had nearly collided turned as Jackaby made for the doorway. His uncertain gaze became one of annoyance, and, taking a step toward Jackaby, he slid one hand to rest on the pommel of his shiny black nightstick. “Hold it right there,” he called. I found myself stepping forward as well.
“I beg your pardon, sir . . .” I should like to say that I mustered every bit as much confidence as the detective, using my sharp wit and clever banter to talk my way past the barricade. The truth is less impressive. The officer glanced back and I opened my mouth to speak, but the words I so desperately needed failed me. For a few rapid heartbeats I stood in silence, and then, against every sensible impulse in my body, I swooned.
I had seen a lady faint once before, at a fancy dinner party, and I tried to replicate her motions. I rolled my eyes upward and put the back of my hand delicately to my forehead, swaying. The lady at the party had sensibly executed her swoon at the foot of a plush divan. Out on the cobbled streets, my chances of a soft landing were slim. As I let my knees go limp, I threw myself directly into the arms of the brutish policeman, instead, sacrificing my last lingering scraps of dignity.
I gave myself a few seconds, and then blinked up at the officer. Judging by his expression, I don’t know which of us felt more awkward. Anger and suspicion were clearly more natural expressions for him than care and concern, but to his credit, he looked like he was trying.
“Um. You all right, miss?”
I stood, holding his arm and making a show of catching my breath. “Oh goodness me! It must be all this fresh air and walking about. It’s just been so much exertion. You know how we ladies can be.” I hated myself a little bit, but I committed. A few other officers crowding around us nodded in confirmation, and I hated them, too. “Thank you so much, sir.”