“Deep gouges were cut in the wooden stairway, alternating in a clear step pattern. They left indentations in the carpet as well. I’m rather surprised any of those were still visible, actually. By the time we had our turn, the police had been traipsing up and down the scene, shuffling most of them to oblivion. The stairs, though, bore distinct marks. An ordinary pair of leather brogues could scarcely mar the wood. It stands to reason, then, that we have a person of interest who is either inordinately massive, or wearing shoes cut from some especially dense material, like steel. Given the size of the tread, I would guess the latter.”

“That’s brilliant! Our killer wears metal shoes! That’s real enough—even Marlowe would have to admit that’s a solid clue.”

“Of course it’s real. We should avoid assuming prematurely, however, that the marks are our killer’s. The recency of the footprints puts their bearer here near the victim’s time of death, but they could have been made just prior to Bragg’s demise, or by an unwitting witness. Traditionally, fairy folk avoid drawing attention to themselves, so any of their kind who stumbled upon Bragg’s body would be understandably reticent to submit testimony to an armed official and might simply have fled as quickly as possible.”

“And you’re absolutely, positively certain we’re looking for someone . . .” I still felt silly talking about wild folktales and real crimes in the same breath. “Someone supernatural?”

Jackaby gave my skepticism a severe admonishing glance.

“Okay, fine,” I said. “So, how many supernatural creatures are known for metal shoes?”

He gave the matter a moment of thought. “I can think of . . . eleven or twelve offhand. Double that, if you consider that the Knights of Ålleberg were a dozen in number, and clad in full armor when they became ghosts. Unfortunately, we also cannot be so hasty as to eliminate other possibilities. Rabbinical golems, for example, are creatures forged of clay. If hardened properly, some ceramics have a density to rival steel.”

I stared at the detective. “How do you know these things?” I asked.

“It is my business to know. Were I a fisherman, I could tell you about . . .” He paused, looking blank for a moment.

“Fish?” I suggested.

“Quite so.”

We arrived at the telegraph office. It was a thin structure with a high ceiling, seated tightly beside the post office. I found my mental map of New Fiddleham slowly filling in with details. It was difficult to believe that it had been only a handful of hours since I had plucked Jackaby’s posting from the board next door. That little slip of paper had turned out to be my ticket into a more remarkable world than I could have imagined.