“Hmm.” He straightened and quickstepped to the macabre scene in the bedroom. The vial disappeared back into the coat. I followed, breathing through the fabric of my sleeve—which helped only a little. Jackaby took a rapid tour of this room as well, checking in the closet and under the pillow before bringing his attention to the corpse. I tried to survey the room—to take a careful and deliberate mental inventory of the dead man’s belongings—but my memory of that space remains a faded blur. Almost against my will, my eyes fixed themselves on the horrific sight of that poor body, instead, the picture burning itself into my mind.

“Tell me, Miss Rook,” Jackaby said as he knelt to examine the victim, “what did you notice in that last room?”

I dragged my gaze from the slain body and back to the doorway as I tried to remember anything unusual. “He lives simply . . . lived simply,” I corrected myself awkwardly. My mind peeled very slowly away from the corpse and began to find focus as I considered my surroundings. “I would guess he lived alone. It looks like he had a girl, though—there’s a picture of one in a nice frame over there. Not much food in the cupboards, but a lot of papers on the desk, along with a very modern typewriter, several pens, and at least one spare inkwell. By the letterhead on his stationery, I take it his name was Arthur Bragg. The wastebasket is full of crumpled papers. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was a writer.”

“Huh.” Jackaby glanced back at the door. “Wastebasket?”

I tried to read his expression without looking back at the body. What sort of detective didn’t look in the bin? The men in my adventure magazines were always finding important clues in the bin. “Yes. Back there, just beside the desk.”

Jackaby went back to looking at the body. He lifted a corner of the rug and peered beneath it. “What about the chairs?”

I thought a moment. “The chairs? Oh, of course—there are two at the writing desk. One where you would expect, but the other—he must have had company!” I looked out again. “Yes, I can see where it’s been taken from its place at the table. Someone was sitting opposite him at his writing desk. That’s why you were so interested in it. Is it strange they didn’t sit around the table, instead? What do you think it means?”

“Haven’t a clue,” answered Jackaby.

“Well, have I got all the important bits? Did you notice something I missed?”

“Of course I did,” said Jackaby, with such a matter-of-fact tone as to almost obscure the arrogance of the statement. “You entirely ignored the clear fact that his guest was not human. I suppose that could, in other circumstances, be inconsequential—but given the state of the man now, it seems rather pertinent.”

I blinked. “Not human?”