“Indeed?” Marlow made another note. “Impressive that you should come so quickly to find employment with a man who just happened to be involved in a murder . . . one that took place the very night you arrived in town. Did you seek him out because you were interested in getting a second look at the crime scene?”

The blood was pumping in my ears, and I was quickly beginning to resent the inspector’s implications. “With all due respect, sir, I would be employed by half a dozen other respectable townspeople if any of them had been hiring. Mr. Jackaby had work for me, that’s all—and I’m glad he did, Inspector. He’s a bit strange, it’s true, but at least he’s a competent investigator. His methods don’t include locking up everyone who tries to help.” I realized I had let Marlowe throw me completely off balance, and I sat back nervously, waiting for his rebuke.

To his credit, the chief inspector took my comment in stride. He simply made another quiet mark in his notepad, and continued in the same even tone, a faint touch of gravel in his voice.

“Speaking of Mr. Jackaby’s methods, do you recognize this?” He pushed the map across the table toward me.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, meekly.

“Care to explain it?”

“It’s a map. Mr. Bragg seems to have been researching a string of deaths just outside of New Fiddleham. We believe it’s probably why he was killed.”

“A compelling piece of evidence. Care to explain how it came to rest in the offices at 926 Augur Lane?”

“Oh, yes. I guess Jackaby discovered it in Mr. Bragg’s room, and thought it might be worth looking into.”

“And so he stole a crucial piece of evidence?”

“Well, I don’t think he exactly meant to steal it. I’m sure he was planning on . . .”

“Was this before or after I discovered the two of you contaminating the crime scene?”

I swallowed. “After.”

“Before or after the two of you ignored my order to leave the premises and went, instead, to speak with a witness—a witness who was brutally murdered the following night?”

“Er—after that as well, sir,” I admitted.

“Why don’t we start at the beginning, Miss Rook.”

And so we did. I told him everything, from the kobold on my coat to the silent screams torturing Mr. Henderson, and the effect of Jackaby’s tuning fork. I had explained all about Mona and the banshee, and had just reached old Hatun with her shawl-of-partial-invisibility when there came a knock at the door. Marlowe, in spite of his furrowed brow and occasionally rolling eyes, had listened to it all, jotting notes in his book. “We’ll get back to you in a moment,” he told me, and nodded to the policeman at the door.