“Of course not,” scoffed Jackaby. “That was a . . . special circumstance. Most pay in banknotes, some in coin. It’s not uncommon for some to pay with bits of gold or silver they happen to have on hand. I’ve more tea services and candlesticks than I can count. I much prefer the banknotes.”

“But, then . . . why do you wear such dreadfully poor garments?” The tactless question slipped out before I could catch myself. My mother would have been appalled.

“Poor garments?” Jackaby scowled. “My dear woman, my wardrobe comprises priceless fineries.”

I tried to determine if the man was speaking in earnest or simply having me on. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, sir—but that hat is a priceless finery?” I asked hesitantly.

“Silk is more precious than cotton because of the nature of its acquisition, is it not? Fine threads are collected from tiny silkworms over countless hours, whereas cotton can be pulled off nearly any farm in the States, and it ships by the boatload. My hat, Miss Rook, is made from the wool from one of the only surviving yeti of the Swiss Alps, dyed in ink mixed by Baba Yaga herself, and knit by my very good friend Agatha as a birthday present. Agatha is a novice knitter, but she put quite a lot of care into this hat. Also, she is a wood nymph. Not a lot of nymphs take to knitting. So, tell me if my hat is not more precious than the finest silk.”

He was speaking in earnest. “Oh yes. I see.” I nodded in what I hoped was a convincing manner. “Sorry. It’s just—at first glance it doesn’t look quite as impressive as all that.”

Jackaby made a noise, which might have been a huff and might have been a laugh. “I have ceased concerning myself with how things look to others, Abigail Rook. I suggest you do the same. In my experience, others are generally wrong.”

My eyes were on my companion as we rounded the corner, and I had to catch myself midstep to avoid barreling into a policeman. Half a dozen uniformed officers kept a crude perimeter around the entrance to a broad, brick apartment building, holding back a growing crowd of curious pedestrians.

“Ah,” said Jackaby with a smile. “We’ve arrived.”

Chapter Four

A tall, barrel-chested policeman looked down his hawk nose at us, and it became apparent that my companion held no more sway here than I did. Jackaby reacted to the obstruction with mesmerizing confidence. The detective strode purposefully up to the officers. “Eyes up, gentlemen, backs straight. Crowd’s getting a bit close, I think. Let’s take it out another five feet. That’s it.”