Jackaby ran a finger along the thick bars of the cell, a scowl twisting his brow into a knot. “My home, unlike this jail cell, has been fortified against the sort of dangers presently at large in the city. I would feel far more secure within the premises of my own property on Augur Lane.”

“I saw you setting up ‘fortifications.’ I think bricks and steel might actually be a slightly more effective deterrent than a pinch of salt and powdered garlic. Besides, we don’t exactly make easy targets; we’re surrounded by police.”

“I suppose that’s fair, Miss Rook, and true enough,” answered Jackaby, “unless, as I am beginning to suspect, our villain wears a badge.”

I glanced at the officer on duty behind the desk. His little stamp continued to thup rhythmically. He was a portly, rosy-cheeked man with a walrus mustache, the bristles of which were smattered with white frosting. “Do you think that’s likely?” I asked.

“It is a decided possibility.”

My mind flashed back to the crime scene. “The door,” I said. “Charlie said he’d had to kick it in.”

“Hmm? Yes, that’s right. He also reasoned, logically, that the murderer must have entered and escaped through the window.”

“Then whose claws raked into Henderson’s door?” I asked.

“Ah.” Jackaby leaned his back on the bars and watched the drunkard snoring for a few moments. “You noticed that, did you?”

“The thing was in poor shape, all splintered and cracked. It had clearly been forced open, as he said, but footprints are footprints and paw prints are paw prints. I know you spotted them, too.”

“Indeed. I managed to collect a few small hairs, as well, but until I have my coat back, and can return to my laboratory to test them, they might as well be turnips, for all they’ll tell us.”

“But why would Charlie lie?” I asked, lowering my voice as a door opened on the far side of the office. Inspector Marlowe came in, trailing a pair of uniforms. “It doesn’t make sense—he’s been the most helpful of the lot! What’s he hiding?”

“That is an excellent question,” said Jackaby. “It seems the detective has a few secrets.”

“Funny,” said the chief inspector, from the doorway, “that’s precisely what I was thinking about you. Maybe you really can read minds, or whatever it is you do.” He drew to a stop in front of Jackaby’s cell.

“Ah, Marlowe,” answered Jackaby, “so good of you to join us. I’d offer you refreshments, but I’m afraid we’re all out in here.”

“There’s cake in the corner,” I offered, helpfully.

“Good, yes. There does appear to be cake, as my young associate observes, in the corner.”

“Enough, both of you,” Marlowe snapped. “I have tolerated your lunatic claims and your blatant disregard for authority. I will not tolerate withholding evidence in the middle of a homicide investigation.”