“You don’t need to make them easy, either,” I said. My employer raised an eyebrow at me as we walked. “Swift tries to kill me and gets to be a public hero. Charlie saves my life, and now he’s a public enemy. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

Jackaby nodded contentedly as we headed back to 926 Augur Lane.

Chapter Thirty-One

The following morning, I planted myself at the front desk and began sorting the mound of bills, case notes, and receipts that lay before me. Jackaby had conveniently disappeared before we could return to discussing my future duties, so I resolved to just make the best of the task. After several hours of stacking and shuffling, I was finally drawn out from behind the mess by my employer’s return. He hung his scarf and hat on the hook without apparently noticing me.

“Good morning, sir. I didn’t know you had gone out.”

“The postman’s come,” he said, riffling through a handful of mail. He paused on a small brown parcel, pursing his lips.

“What’s that, then? Something you ordered?”

“No.” He tucked it hastily beneath the rest of the mail. “Or yes, actually, but I’m not sure I should . . .” He trailed off. “This one’s addressed to you. Here.” Still without making eye contact, he dropped an envelope into the empty space I had cleared on the desk, and continued on his way down the crooked hallway.

The letter was from Mr. Barker of Gadston, Charlie’s new identity. Gad’s Valley, he wrote, was as lovely as Marlowe had suggested. Commander Bell had offered him a quiet post on the police force there as soon as his injuries healed, and Charlie was strongly inclined to accept. He was feeling better every day, and took frequent opportunities to slip out to enjoy the countryside now that he was walking again. The detective and I, he insisted in his postscript, must come and visit when next we had the chance. Since Charlie’s departure, I had tried to put my feelings for him to rest, but butterflies rose in my stomach at the thought of seeing him again.

Jackaby burst energetically back into the room just as I finished reading the note. “We’ve gotten word from Charlie,” I informed him.

“No time for that now, I’m afraid. I’ve urgent business in town.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I should say so, fantastically wrong!” He brandished a letter of his own, waving the page with enthusiasm. “A woman with a lamentably forgettable name has asked me to look into a matter of her ailing cat. The cat, I believe, is called Mrs. Wiggles.”

“Bit of a step down, isn’t it? From catching a serial killer to a sick pet?”