Charlie nodded. “Yes. We were nearly on the scene when it happened. That Irish woman, Miss O’Connor, was there when we found the body. It was just the same as the others, sir.” His voice was solemn. “Mrs. Morrigan is dead.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Charlie nodded to the duty officer as we left the cell, and the portly man slid the door closed behind us. “The banshee,” I said as we walked. “She was singing her own last song, then. That poor thing. We listened to her die, and we didn’t even know it!”

Charlie led us down the same hallway we had taken to reach the interrogation chamber. This time we took an early turn, and he rapped on the barred window of a desk set into an alcove. Beyond a panel of glass and thin bars stood long shelves of wire baskets. Peeking out of the tops were items ranging from gentlemen’s hats and gloves to a bullwhip and what appeared to be the top of a bowling pin. A few items, obviously too large to fit into the baskets, were arranged along the walls. While we waited, Jackaby chuckled to himself and pointed at an oversized Mexican sombrero with fine beadwork along the brim and a massive hole on one side. It looked as though some great beast had sampled it like a dainty chocolate, then returned it to the box. “That was a memorable afternoon,” he said.

The clerk arrived at last, rolling his eyes as soon as he caught sight of Jackaby. Charlie began to state our names officially, but the man waved him off. He handed Charlie a clipboard through the big slot at the bottom of the window and then trudged back out of sight. When he reappeared, he had a large metal tray and a sheet of paper. He slid the tray onto the desk and read from the paper.

“A. Rook. One coat. One handkerchief. Please sign that all personal effects are accounted for, miss.”

I pulled on the coat Jenny had lent me and tucked the handkerchief back in my pocket. Charlie handed me the clipboard, and I jotted my name on the line where he indicated. The clerk vanished again momentarily, and then returned, hefting three very full trays onto the desk with a loud clank. He sighed and stuffed Jackaby’s empty coat through the slot first. Thick though the material was, with all its pockets emptied, the thing looked like a deflated balloon.

“I hate it when you spend the night,” grumbled the clerk. “I only barely got finished cataloguing this stuff. Always takes me forever just to find all the damned pockets.” He coughed and returned to a flat, professional drone as he slid the first tray out and read from the paper. “R. Jackaby. One coat—brown; one hat—various colors; one rabbit’s foot on chain; one vial, unidentified liquid—blue; one vial, unidentified liquid—amber; one matchbox containing dried beetle; one . . .”