“It didn’t work,” Jenny chimed in.

“Well, of course it didn’t work,” snapped Jackaby. “He has to want to change back! It has to be his own will.”

“But . . . why should he want to stay a duck?” I asked.

“Because,” Jenny answered, “no one wants to let go of himself. Douglas may have all of the memories of a man, but he is a duck.”

“It’s not as though he came by it naturally,” Jackaby grumbled.

“It wasn’t his choice to lose the life he had—it was taken,” said Jenny. “But it is his choice whether or not to lose the life he has now—to lose himself.”

“He would still be himself! He would be Douglas. He just has to decide to be human, again.”

“No.” Jenny’s voice was patient. “He would be a different Douglas. The Douglas who has to make that decision would be gone.”

“Utter foolishness. It’s birdbrained stubbornness.”

“Don’t be so hasty to impugn a stubborn spirit, Detective,” she said meaningfully. “You’re speaking to one.”

Jackaby rolled his eyes and sighed. “Fair enough, fair enough,” he conceded, “but don’t think being dead makes you the authority in every argument.”

“No, but being right tends to. No one wants to let go of themselves, whatever form they may take—and I do know a little something about that.” Jenny rose from the bench and began to descend, slowly, through the grassy ground. “And now, I think I’ll leave you two to your business. Don’t forget to ask about the room, Abigail!” In another moment her silvery hair melted out of sight beneath the floor.

“What was that about a room?” Jackaby asked.

I stood. “Nothing. Find something in your research?”

“Too much.” He brandished a small crumpled envelope and handed it to me. “And we’ve gotten our telegrams.”

“Ah, excellent. Did your hunch lead to something after all?”

“Oh yes.” answered Jackaby. “Yes, indeed, Miss Rook. It seems the plot is much larger and more wicked than we’d feared.”

Chapter Sixteen

The envelope contained telegrams from three cities. Contacts in law enforcement, the identities of whom Jackaby did not feel compelled to reveal, had responded quickly from Brahannasburg, Gadston, and Glanville. The telegraph office had collected and sent the posts all together, per the detective’s request. Two or three more would likely arrive soon, he told me, but from just one he could extrapolate the content of the rest. They all bore the same message in various shorthand phrases, and the message was simple: murder.

I looked over the pages while we climbed down the spiral staircase back to Jackaby’s office. CONFIRM INCIDENTS IN BRAHANNASBURG -STOP- read the top sheet. DETAILS FIT DESCRIPTION -STOP- NOVEMBER ELEVENTH BUTCHER COD NECK WOUND -STOP- DECEMBER FIFTH POSTMAN COD CHEST WOUND -STOP- DECEMBER TWENTY-SEVENTH TRANSIENT COD CHEST WOUND -STOP-

“Cod?” I asked as we descended.

“Cause of death,” he said simply.