My stomach was growling audibly as Jackaby paid the vendor for two steamy meat pies. I was all the more grateful I had come along, and that the little pie shop had been en route to the telegraph office.

They were sturdy things, with a thick crust that held together and made them fairly easy to eat as we walked. Jackaby held his gingerly with the end of his scarf, blowing on it to cool it down. Far too hungry for patience, I devoured mine with less grace, and with manners that would have made my poor mother blanch, losing more than a little crust and hot filling to the cobblestones.

“So, what we know thus far,” Jackaby said suddenly, as if the ongoing conversation in his head had bubbled over and simply poured out his mouth, “is that our culprit left poor Mr. Bragg with a wicked chest wound and a grieving girlfriend, and he made off with a good deal of the fellow’s blood. From the look of it, just the blood. The heart and other organs appeared to be intact, and his wallet and watch were still safely in his vest pockets.”

“Who steals blood?” I asked, wiping my mouth.

“More creatures than you might think, and many you would never suspect. Blood is a hot commodity in many circles, used for any number of things. Legends suggest a certain Hungarian countess actually bathed in the stuff back in the sixteenth century. Earned her titles like ‘the Blood Countess,’ and ‘the Bloody Lady’ among the terrified townsfolk.”

“You think Arthur Bragg was killed by a sixteenth-century Hungarian countess?”

“Of course not. The Bloody Lady was human. We’re looking for something decidedly supernatural. True, though, it’s likely our culprit appears human enough. He or she clearly stopped to sit in Bragg’s chair for a spell before dispatching the poor fellow.”

“So, we’re looking for someone who looks human. Hardly narrows it down, does it?”

“On the contrary, it does so quite considerably, Miss Rook. We’ve eliminated a good many species in one deft stroke. Also, it seems likely we are in pursuit of an exceptionally heavy creature, or one who wears particularly stout footwear.”

“Heavy footwear? I’m sorry, you’ve lost me.”

“The footprints, of course,” Jackaby answered. “Did you not see them? I am quite certain that the figure who made those marks also visited Arthur Bragg’s room. The aura was unmistakable. This doesn’t prove anything absolutely, of course. A great many people might have visited the man’s room before his untimely demise, but it is a decided point of interest. The marks were solid enough—surely even your eyes must have been able to pick them out.”

“And yet they did not. Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to just describe them?”