“Charlie Cane, sir. You can call me Charlie. The chief inspector is down the hall right now, talking to witnesses.” He stepped aside, opening the doorway for Jackaby. “I know all about you. You help people. Helped a friend of mine, a baker down on Market Street. No one else would help him. No one else would believe him. He had no money, but you helped anyway.”

“Anton? Good baker. Still saves me a baguette every Saturday.”

“Be quick, Mr. Jackaby.” Charlie glanced up and down the hallway as the detective slid into the room behind him. “And you, Miss—?”

“Rook,” I answered in my most professional tone, hoping I did not sound as flustered as I felt. “Abigail Rook.”

“Well, Miss Rook, will you be examining the room, also?”

“I—of course. Yes, I am Mr. Jackaby’s assistant. I will be, you know, assisting.”

Jackaby shot me a momentary glance from within the room, but he did not correct me. I slipped inside and was immediately overwhelmed by the coppery stench. The apartment had only two rooms. The first was a living area, populated by a small sofa, a writing desk, a bare oak table, and a simple wooden cupboard. Not many decorations adorned the area, but there was a dull oil painting of a sailboat on one wall, and a small framed portrait of a blond woman propped up on the desk.

The door to the next room hung open, revealing the grisly source of the smell. A small halo of dark crimson stained the ground beneath the body. The dead man wore a simple vest and starched shirt, both of which were dyed vivid red at the chest and tattered so thoroughly, it became impossible to discern where clothing ended and flesh began. I felt light-headed in earnest this time, but drew on all my practiced stubbornness not to succumb to a genuine faint. I forced my eyes away from the bloody scene, following the detective instead as he hastened around the first chamber.

Jackaby gave the spartan living room a cursory examination. Wrapping a finger in the end of his scarf, he opened and shut the cupboard, then peeked beneath the table. He lingered briefly by the writing desk, pulling out the chair and returning it. Beside the desk sat another chair, which Jackaby examined more closely, leaning in and delicately brushing a finger along the grain of the wood. Rummaging in his crowded pockets, he removed a blue-tinted vial and held it up, staring at the chair through the glass.