“That’s a seven.”

“Oh.” We both looked at the board. I tilted my head. “Oh right—I see. I think.”

Jackaby handed me the chalk and plucked the paper from my hands. We traded positions without further comment and recommenced. Shortly, with Jackaby reading off numbers and locations while I wrote, we had produced a list of twelve dates. On average they were five or six days apart. Beyond that, no discernible pattern existed. Jackaby moved on to the abbreviations.

“C and N,” he thought aloud. “The Wd. is consistent, whatever it means. What could C and N signify?”

“Central and Northern?” I suggested. “It is a map.”

“Possible, but they’re certainly not accurate, if that’s the case. Look, there are two marks around Glanville, south of us, and the southernmost of those is an N. What else could they be?”

“Let’s see, Bragg was covering the election, and he interviewed the current mayor. C for Current, perhaps, and N for what? New? Maybe he was taking a poll?”

“That’s good—only most of these marks are out of our district. In fact, all of them are. Look. We’ve got three up in Brahannasburg, four in Crowley, two each in Glanville and Gadston, with one more out in Gad’s Valley. That’s at least four separate jurisdictions with their own . . .” Jackaby froze. He stared at the map in his hands.

“What?” I asked. “Have you worked something out?”

Jackaby’s eyes were dancing back and forth, chasing thoughts. “What? No, nothing. Maybe nothing. Possibly nothing. Just a hunch. I’ll need to pop out to send a telegram or two. You’re welcome to stay and settle in if you like.”

My eyes flashed to the ceiling as Jackaby folded the map and headed into the hall. “Before you go,” I ventured, “tell me, have you got anyone else staying in the building? Lodgers or tenants of some sort?”

“Oh, ah, hmm.” Jackaby stumbled toward a response. “Yes, yes, I suppose I do, indeed,” he called out from across the hall.

“That’s fine, then. Anything I should know about them?”

“Which one?”

“ ‘Which one’? How many people have you got living here?”

Jackaby popped his head back through the doorway. His mouth opened as if to speak, and shut again, his lips pursed in concentration. “Well,” he managed at last, “that depends on your definition of people . . . and also of living.” He pulled on his baggy, brown coat. “It’s complicated. Fetch you a meat pie while I’m out?”

I gave earnest consideration to my definitions of people, and living, and found the prospect of remaining on the property less and less appealing. “Wouldn’t it really be best if I accompany you on your errands?” I said. “For . . . learning purposes?”

“Suit yourself, Miss Rook.”

My employer was on his way with no further discussion, and I hurried after.

Chapter Eleven