The industrial districts to the west smelled of coal fires and wood pulp, and the docks to the east of salt spray and fish. In between lay the sprawling, pulsing heart of New Fiddleham, along with every aroma its inhabitants could make. Savory spices of frying, baking, and boiling food would mingle with the whiff of pig slop and chicken coops, only to be shoved aside by the thick, nearly tangible stench of outhouses and steaming sewer drains. A bucket of foul wash-water would evaporate in minutes on the hot paving stones, but its essence would linger for days, wandering the rows of the tenements like a stray cat.
Jackaby and I skirted past a street sweeper whose horse and cart took up most of the narrow alleyway. The man barked a few words at us that I don’t care to record and made a rude gesture.
I loved New Fiddleham. I still do. New Fiddleham had been very kind to me since my arrival—it had only tried to kill me once—but there are two New Fiddlehams: one that knows the light and another that keeps to the shadows. Some corners of the city, I was coming to find, were always dark, as if to spite the sun. At the bottom of a steep hill, I saw a clothesline hung with wash that looked as though its ground-in stains might be the only things holding the tattered fabric together. Between the rags hung a little burlap dress sized for an infant. It was stitched with care, but the words “Gadston Golds” and a picture of a potato were still visible on the side of the skirt. The fabric looked itchy. A pang of sympathy ran through me. I had been raised in privilege, always looking up a little wistfully at the aristocracy, hardly aware that there were people lower down on the social ladder who did not know the bother of having a maid put too much starch on a day dress. I had never thought about the children born in the dark.
Jackaby pressed forward up the hill. He rarely took the same route twice, but I had come to know the landscape well enough to tell we were not bound for the police station.
“Sir,” I called after him. “I thought you said we were going to talk to the commissioner.”
“We are, though we will not find him behind his desk this afternoon. Commissioner Marlowe has scheduled an impromptu meeting with Mayor Spade. He has postponed all other matters and explicitly forbidden any of his subordinates to interrupt, so I gather their conference is of a sensitive and urgent nature.”
“I don’t suppose we’re going to wait patiently for that meeting to conclude?”
“Given the news Lieutenant Dupin delivered him this morning, the news which I relieved the good lieutenant of before leaving the station, I think it is safe to assume we know the topic at hand. Our business is one and the same, so they will have to pardon the intrusion.”
“I suppose it won’t be the first time you’ve needed a pardon from the mayor.”
“Some cases go more smoothly than others,” he confirmed with a wink. “Not everyone appreciates my methods.”
As we climbed the hill, the housing improved visibly with each block. We came to neighborhoods whose properties were spaced more and more comfortably apart, until it became a bit of a misnomer to call them neighborhoods at all. Proud white houses—houses that looked as though they might prefer to be called manors—were bordered not by their neighbors’ walls, but by sprawling, elegantly manicured gardens. Here we found the mayor’s home, a stately colonial building. Marble pilasters framed his broad front door, and the whole structure was a testament to right angles and symmetry. It could not have been less like our abode on Augur Lane.
Jackaby rapped the knocker soundly. A long-faced man in a starched collar and black necktie opened the door. “Oh dear,” the man moaned.
“Bertram!” Jackaby patted him on the arm affably as he bustled past him into the front hall. “It’s been ages, how are the kids?”
“I remain unmarried, Mr. Jackaby, and I’m afraid you can’t be seen just now.”
“Nonsense. Miss Rook, can you see me?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Well, there you have it. You must have your eyes checked, Bertram. Now then, is our meeting in the drawing room? I hope I’m not late, I would hate to keep the commissioner waiting.” Without giving the butler time to reply, Jackaby strode past him into the house.
Bertram hurried after, urgently trying to get ahead of Jackaby, but my employer spun gaily. I followed close on their heels.
“No, he is not, Mr. Jackaby. And you are not expected today. Please!”
“Ah, the study, then—of course. No need to bother yourself, I remember the way.”
“Mr. Jackaby! This is a private estate, not the mayor’s public offices. My lady, Mrs. Spade, is very particular about the sort of person she admits into her home.”
“Come now, Bertram. I’m sure I’m just the sort of person your lady Spade would be happy to admit.”
“Actually, you are the only person she has mentioned by name to refuse.”
“Then she does remember me, after all these years—how sweet! And we were never even properly introduced. I guess I do tend to leave an impression.”
“More of a smoldering crater,” Bertram grumbled.
Jackaby quickstepped through a hall with a high arched ceiling and came to a mahogany door. “Please, Mr. Jackaby!” Bertram implored.
“Very well. If you insist,” Jackaby said, throwing open the door. “I will. Thank you for the escort, Bertram. You’ve been too kind.”
Bertram was red in the face. He looked as though he were about to object again when his master called from inside the room. “Don’t bother, Bertram. It’s fine.” The man huffed and turned, giving me a disgruntled look as he trudged away. I shrugged apologetically and hurried after my employer.
The room was accented with rich woods and carpeted in tones of deep red and chocolate brown. The shelves were decorated with a collection of leather-bound books, all of which looked expensive and none of which looked as if they had ever been read. Mayor Spade and Commissioner Marlowe sat in high-backed chairs on opposite sides of a cherrywood desk whose ornate legs curved into elegant clawed feet. A third chair sat empty.
Marlowe wore his usual double-breasted uniform, with a silver eagle pinned to his lapel. He looked, as usual, tired but resolute.
“Jackaby,” said Marlowe.
“Marlowe,” said Jackaby. “Good morning, Mayor Spade.”
Spade had doffed his jacket. It was draped over the back of his chair, and a coffee brown bow tie hung undone over his beige waistcoat. He had a full beard and a perfectly bald dome, and he wore a thick pair of spectacles. Spade was not an intimidating figure at his best, and today he looked like he was several rounds into a boxing match he had no aspirations of winning. He had seemed more vibrant the first time we met, and that had been at a funeral.
“I haven’t been up here in years,” continued Jackaby. “You’ve done something with the front garden, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” said Spade. “We’ve let it grow back. Mary still hasn’t forgiven you.”
“Is that why she’s been avoiding me? Your eyebrows have filled in nicely, by the way, and you can tell your wife the roses look healthier than ever. I’m sure being rid of that nest of pesky brownies did wonders for the roots. I understand a little ash is good for the soil, too.”
“I never saw any brownies, but there was certainly plenty of ash to go around,” Spade mumbled. “That fire spread so quickly we’re lucky we managed to snuff it out at all.”
“You should try blowing up a dragon some time,” I said. “No, scratch that. That went terribly. I don’t recommend it.”