Jackaby wrapped his scarf up to his chin and pushed open the front door of the Emerald Arch Apartments. Charlie stepped up quickly to hold open the door as I followed him. The crowd of curious onlookers had grown, and the police had acquired a few sawhorses and roped off an official barrier line. At the end of the sidewalk, Chief Inspector Marlowe had come outside and was speaking to a pretty young woman with blond ringlets and tears streaming down her cheeks. She blew her nose into a handkerchief and sobbed. I had been doing so well, keeping the fear and pity and horror stuffed down in my gut, but the woman’s unmasked emotions churned them up and left me uncomfortable and queasy. I willed the feeling to pass. Marlowe was making no effort to comfort her, but listened as he flipped through the pages of a small leather notebook, occasionally nodding and scribbling additions. The chief inspector did not seem like the sort of man who could ever be overwhelmed by empathy. He would fit right in to the crime adventures in my magazines. He held the little pad like a shield, stoically barricading himself from the human tragedy. I wondered why Jackaby didn’t carry a little notebook. It struck me that a detective should have a little notebook.

Charlie Cane was more interested in a shiny black carriage coming down the cobbled street. It had stalled as the driver shooed pedestrians out of the way. New Fiddleham was a growing city, and streets originally designed for the quaint, rural township it must once have been now found themselves easily congested with the traffic of everyday urban life. Gossip and chatter drew a bulky crowd as well, and despite the heavy police presence, onlookers spilled into the streets to watch the drama unfold.

“I appreciate all of your help, sir, but now I really must insist that you go,” said Charlie, gesturing at the carriage. “That’s Commissioner Swift’s personal carriage. If he’s actually coming out to a crime scene, you can bet Inspector Marlowe will be even less . . . cheerful.”

Jackaby scowled. “Curious. The commissioner has taken quite an interest. Surely Marlowe has handled homicides unsupervised before.”

“Not so curious,” answered Charlie, looking more uncomfortable about our continued presence as the carriage pulled nearer. “The mayor appointed Commissioner Swift a few months ago. First thing he did was push up quotas and double street patrols. He’s trying to get into politics, very concerned about numbers and public image. The rumor is that Arthur Bragg was helping get him some publicity in the Chronicle. You can see why he’d be a little upset.”

“You say the victim worked for the newspaper?”

“That’s right. He was a reporter, mostly political stuff and local news. Really, sir, you need to get going now!”