His expression suddenly contorted and he broke the silence. “Oh good God! You stared at the frog, didn’t you? Well, don’t just stand there. Get the window up on your side. It’ll be hours before it clears.” He rapidly unclasped and drew up a window on the far side of the room. I glanced behind me, spotting another, and repeated the motion. The acrid stink crept from the terrarium and assaulted my nostrils, gradually easing into full force like a boxer warming up before a fight.

“Are you . . . ?” I began, and then tried again. “I’m here about the posting posted in the, er, post office. You . . .”

“Out! Out!” Jackaby snatched his knit hat from a hook beside the door and gestured emphatically. “You can tag along if you like. Just get out!”

We managed to reach the sidewalk before my eyes began to water, and I welcomed the fresh, cold air. I glanced back at the red door and hesitated, wondering if I should dart back in for my luggage. Jackaby pressed on down the lane, tossing his long scarf over one shoulder. After a rapid consideration, I left the case behind to hurry after the enigmatic man.

Chapter Three

I had to jog to catch up to Jackaby. He had nearly rounded the corner as I matched his stride. He moved his lips rapidly, mouthing thoughts he did not bother to share aloud. Wild locks of hair scrambled to free themselves from under his peculiar hat, and I couldn’t blame them for plotting their escape.

“Do you work for the . . . er . . . the service?” I asked.

He glanced my way. “Service?”

“The investigative service. You’re one of their detectives, aren’t you? I knew it—didn’t I say so? I said you must be a detective!”

Jackaby smiled. “And so I must.” He turned sharply, and I followed at his heels.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if they’ve filled the assistant’s position, would you?”

“If they’ve what, now? Who are ‘they’?”

I handed him the posting. Jackaby scowled at it for a moment.

“I think you must be a bit confused,” he said. “But don’t feel bad—it’s a common state. Most people are.” He folded up the advert and tucked it into his jacket, rounding another sudden turn. “My name is Jackaby. I am, as you said, a detective. I am not, however with the investigative service . . . I am the investigative service. Or, I should say, I provide it. That is to say, they are I and I am they. And you are . . . ?”

“Oh—Abigail,” I answered. “Abigail Rook.”

“Rook,” he repeated. “Like the bird or like the chess piece?”

“Both?” I answered. “Neither? Like . . . my father, I suppose.” This seemed to either appease or bore Jackaby, who nodded and turned his attention back to the cobbled road and his own thoughts.