“Not we, I have something I need to attend to here.” The detective glanced up and down the alley once more. “Meet me back at my offices. I expect the smell should have become tolerable by now. Make yourself familiar with the place—just mind you don’t slip in the pond. The mud is surprisingly slick.”

“I didn’t notice a pond . . . Is it around back?”

“No. Third floor. You can’t miss it.” Jackaby planted a foot on the wobbling pyramid, and quickly mounted the makeshift staircase.

“Wait, what are you doing?” I grabbed the top box with both arms, bracing it as the whole lot threatened to tumble.

Jackaby grabbed hold of a metal railing and swung himself up onto the narrow balcony. “I need to revisit room 301. If Arthur Bragg was a reporter in the middle of a story, and he wound up with a hole in his chest and short several pints of blood . . .” He let the sentence hang in the air.

“Of course,” I called up, “He was probably killed for something he was writing about. But . . . why don’t you want me with you?”

“Because”—Jackaby had planted one foot atop the thin, metal railing and was pulling himself up to the next balcony, his shoes scraping gawkily at the brickwork as he ascended—“you have—oof—been with me all morning and have not fainted, struck me with anything, or metamorphosed into an aquatic bird. I should very much like this to remain the state of things, at least for your first day.”

“Ah,” I replied. I was beginning to find it was easier to merely accept what the detective told me than to ask for explanations. “See you back at your office, then?”

Jackaby had planted his feet firmly on the third-floor balcony and begun to lift open the window. He stopped, eying the windowsill intently and mumbling something. “What is it?” I called up.

“Nothing. This is the window at the end of the hallway, I can see Mr. Henderson’s door just there.” He pulled the window open the rest of the way and slid a leg inside.

“Don’t get nicked!” I cautioned in my loudest urgent whisper.

“That reminds me,” he said, pausing. “There’s a jar in my office marked ‘Bail.’ If you don’t hear from me by tonight, just bring it down to the Mason Street station, would you? I’m usually in the first or second cell. There’s a good girl. See you in a bit!”

The rest of Jackaby disappeared through the window, and an old, familiar sensation tickled its way up my spine. Until that moment, the events of the day had all been new and remarkable, but being left behind was one area in which I had countless hours of experience.