Jackaby strode up to an operator, and I hung back a respectful distance while he conducted his business. The operator was an older man, in possession of very few of his teeth and none of his hair. Jackaby dictated a telegraph and the old man read it back, and while I couldn’t make out its full content, I couldn’t help but hear the rhythmic whistle and clop as the old man punctuated each sentence with a “Stop.” From a bench by the window, I watched the foot traffic flow past, and the occasional cart or carriage rattle along the cobblestones.

I thought about the strange details of the case so far, from Bragg’s missing blood and mysterious map to the suspicious footprints made by curiously heavy shoes. If my employer was correct, the poor man’s murderer also looked human, but was actually a very old—what? None of it made any sense. Perhaps, if I really did have a nice leather notebook that flipped open top-wise, I could jot down all the information in neat, orderly lines, and it would fall into place. Unbound, the clues shifted and slipped through my mind, ducking away as I tried to focus on them.

“Young lady . . .” A woman with a high, nasal voice shattered my concentration. I emerged from my thoughts to find a sour-faced character wearing a tiny, fashionable bonnet pinned up with more flowers and ribbons than there was hat to hold them all. She cast a slow glance under drooping eyelids at my employer, and then continued in a conspiratorial whisper. “I do so detest idle gossip,” she said, “but I feel obliged, one woman to another, to inform you that the man you are accompanying is not the most suitable companion. I don’t know what he’s told you, my dear, but he has a reputation for being”—she leaned in close—“uncouth.”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am, thank you for that. I think that being ‘couth’ may actually be somewhat overrated. As it happens, I am now in the employ of Mr. Jackaby, and accompanying him is a part of my job.”

“Ah,” said the woman, and then tutted in disapproval. “A girl your age really shouldn’t resign herself to working for a living. You should be thinking about your wedding. It’s not too late for a pretty thing like you to find a good, respectable husband to look after you.”

“I prefer to look after myself, ma’am, but thank you. I appreciate your concern for my well-being, but some of us have more pressing matters to attend to than practicing our curtsies and turning foolishly sized bonnets into topiaries.”