The corridor was quiet, punctuated by the occasional clickity-click of a typewriter in one of the offices we passed. I felt like a girl in grammar school, treading the long hallway to the principal’s office with a hall monitor sneering over me all the way. The guard directed me into a room at the end of the hall. The little chamber was slightly larger than the cell had been, but managed to look even more drab and less inviting. The space lacked even the small, barred window that the cell had possessed, leaving nothing to puncture the dull grayness of the walls. The only light came from a single gas lamp, high on the wall behind Marlowe, who was sitting at a table reading over his notes. I took the chair opposite and waited for the chief inspector to speak. The policeman who had brought me in took his position in front of the door, as if I might leap up and race through the police station at any moment.

The table was plain wood, stained and battered, but sturdy. On it sat the handkerchief-bundled tuning fork, Bragg’s map, and Marlowe’s notebook. The latter lay open as Marlowe reviewed some previous entry. I definitely needed a notebook like that. The chief inspector took his time before slowly closing the book and setting it beside him on the table.

“So, Miss Abigail Rook.” He spoke evenly and leaned his elbows on the table, his fingers steepled under his chin. “You only recently arrived in New Fiddleham, is that correct?”

“Two nights ago, yes,” I answered. “I arrived by boat late in the afternoon.”

“Inauspicious timing, Miss Rook. Late in the afternoon, two nights ago, Arthur Bragg was still alive. That is—right up until he wasn’t. Had you met the man before then?”

“I never did meet him. Only saw his body, up at the apartment yesterday.”

“Are you staying at the Emerald Arch Apartments, Miss Rook?”

“No, sir. I’ve taken a room in Mr. Jackaby’s building on Augur Lane.”

Marlowe raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“Yes, sir. He’s hired me on as his assistant.”

“And invited you to live in his home. Is there any more to the nature of your . . . relationship?” He managed to keep his voice cold and emotionless, but something about the way he paused before the word “relationship” left it laden with unspeakable impropriety.

“What? No!”

Marlowe nodded and made a note. “Why were you at the Emerald Arch Apartments, if not to look for some place to stay?”

I did my best not to let the inspector’s blunt questions and stony bearing get me flustered. “I—I had just started working for Mr. Jackaby—or rather, I think I began working for him while we were there. I was following him on his investigation.”