Jackaby sighed. “Give me just a moment to confer with my esteemed colleague.” He gestured me closer as Mrs. Beaumont wrung her hands.
Jackaby leaned in and adopted the sort of hushed, secretive tones that one nearby cannot help but overhear. “Miss Rook, on a scale of one to pomegranate, how dangerous would you say this situation has become?”
“Dangerous?” I faltered.
“Yes, Miss Rook,” prompted Jackaby, “in your expert opinion.”
“On a scale of one to pomegranate?” I followed his lead, checking over the notes I had scribbled in my notepad and speaking in my most audible, serious whisper. “I should think . . . acorn? Possibly badger. Time alone will tell.”
My employer nodded solemnly.
“What? What is it? Can you make them . . . better?” Mrs. Beaumont fidgeted, worrying the lace on her collar as Jackaby considered his response.
“Contamination, madam. Viral infection, no doubt. You’ve been thoroughly exposed, but don’t worry, you’re probably just a carrier. It is most unlikely you will display any symptoms yourself. What’s important now is to be sure the litter does not further contaminate the neighborhood.”
“Is it really as bad as all that?” she asked. “Sh-should we tell the police or . . . or the animal control officer?”
“If you like.” Jackaby looked thoughtful. “Of course, it might be best if we simply take Mrs. Wiggles and her litter to our facility and keep the whole thing quiet. I’m no expert in entertaining, but I do not imagine one’s social standing would weather well the news that one is a carrier to an exotic, viral plague. How is Mayor Spade, by the way?”
Mrs. Beaumont sniffed and digested the detective’s words for a moment. “Let me fetch you a bigger bowl,” she squeaked. “I want Mrs. Wiggles to be comfortable, at least.” With one last sniffle, she ducked away into the house.
Some girls work in shops or sell flowers. Some girls find husbands and play house. I assist a mad detective in investigating unexplained phenomena—like fish that ought to be cats but seem to have forgotten how. My name is Abigail Rook, and this is what I do.
Chapter Two
In a few short minutes, my employer and I found ourselves back on the cobbled road, now with one box of somewhat fishy felines and a bulky, crystal punch bowl full of fresh water and a slightly hairy mackerel. Jackaby nobly opted to carry the kittens. The cool New England breeze was picking up in sporadic bursts, whistling through the narrow alleyways and making me keenly aware of the small patch of damp developing on my shirtwaist where the bowl occasionally sloshed.
“What was that show about back there, sir?” I asked, straining not to completely soak my blouse with fishy water.
“Show?” Jackaby raised an eyebrow.
“One to pomegranate? And I’m an expert, now?”
“As I understand it, you are a bit of an expert, albeit in the rather monotonous field of digging up and studying old rocks. I found the title convenient at the time.”
“Paleontology, not geology. I was studying fossils before we met, not old rocks, thank you.”
“Ah, yes, fossils. In other words, bones that, over a great deal of time, have mineralized and turned to . . . what?”
“To stone.”
“Stone. As in . . . rocks?”
“Oh, fine. I don’t know if a handful of classes and one failed expedition qualify me as an expert, but all the same, I’d prefer that you not use my scant few credentials to lie to old ladies.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when next I find it necessary.”
“Thank you for that. Speaking of which, shouldn’t she be quarantined or something?” I asked, glancing back at the stately old house.
“What on earth for?” Jackaby tickled a soft orange nose as it poked gingerly out of the box. “Oh, that whole plague business. No, no—there isn’t any virus. Nothing to worry about. I simply felt it would be much less jarring to the poor woman than the truth.”
“And what’s the truth, then?”