Daffi sighed as she righted Garlick just before he reached the ground. As soon as he did, the bubble surrounding him burst with a pop.
“There he is,” she shrieked like a banshee, threatening the structural integrity of the nearest windows, and stabbed a finger at Oberon.
“Unregistered fae,” she hissed. “He’s dangerous, I tell you, dangerous!”
“What the moon are you going on about?” Daffi asked, ignoring the cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Ron is a natural born fae, registered in Charnwood, in the Midlands.”
The lie slid easily off her tongue, but sweat slithered down her spine. They couldn’t arrest Oberon. She was too close to cracking the case and she needed him.
She nudged Garlick with her foot. If he could get them all on the MPI register, she was sure he could manage some papers for Oberon. Somehow. A little chirp at ankle height told her the message had been received and understood.
“He’s fae!” Whippy shrieked again. If she’d been wearing pearls, she would’ve clutched them.
“He came through with the dragon. A high court fae,” she added, giving Abberline a pointed look. “They hate the lower classes of fae with a passion. There’s your killer of the little boggle. You mark my words!”
“What?” Oberon’s expression of surprise was almost comical. Then he laughed. “I didn’t kill the boggle. Why would I? I only met him once.”
“Hatred does not need familiarity,” Whipsnide snapped. “You are high court and he was lesser fae. You killed him because of it.”
Oberon folded his thickly corded arms over his massive chest. “I did not kill the boggle. And even if I had, I would not have used a cold-iron blade to do it.”
“See?” This time Whipsnide’s shriek was high enough to send the pigeons on the nearby buildings into the air. “He even knows what murder weapon was used! He’s the killer!”
“He was at the murder scene with the body, Sergeant,” Daffi pointed out. “You yourself stated it was a different murder weapon to that used on… the first victim.”
“Poor Sybil, moon rest her soul,” Whipsnide wailed.
“Different weapon, yes,” Abberline replied. “But your fae here told us it was a cold-iron blade. Forensics have yet to confirm that.”
“He knows because he killed the boggle!”
No one was listening to Whipsnide’s dramatics anymore as Daffi’s gaze locked with the sergeant’s.
“Why would he kill with a cold-iron blade, though?” she pressed Abberline.
“They’re just as fatal to him and painful to hold. Am I right?” she directed to Oberon, who nodded.
“Like ice and cold fire.”
“To put us off the scent!” Whipsnide pushed forward to insist. “Sergeant, I demand you arrest this… this fae!”
Abberline shot her a stern look. “Ms. Whipsnide, may I remind you that I am in charge of this investigation. I take orders from my superiors, not a private citizen.”
Daffi smothered her grin as Whippy backpedaled so quickly she practically fell over her own ass.
“Yes, of course, sergeant,” she murmured, folding her hands in front of her waist. “You must do as you see fit.”
“Indeed.” Abberline looked at Oberon sternly. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that you come with me, sir. I’m arresting you on the suspicion of the murder of Jack the Kipper.”
13
“I don’t like leaving him here,” Daffi muttered to Garlick as the pair left the City Watch House. Based in Whitechapel it had occupied the same site since before the police force itself had even been thought of. Around the corner from the norms’ police station, the two were rarely mistaken for each other.
They passed by the main desk where a watchwoman was in conversation with a member of the public, a norm who had wandered in.
“So you can’t repair this?” he asked, holding out a wrist watch.
“No, sir,” she replied in the tones of someone who had heard that question and all its variants. “We are not horologists.”
He frowned. “But the sign says this is a watch shop?”
“Not that kind of watch, sir.”
“So you can’t fix my watch? It only needs a new battery.”
“No sir, try the cobblers next door.”
The old man huffed and turned to storm off, almost trampling Garlick in the process. Daffi snatched him up so he didn’t get hurt.
“Young ’uns!” he huffed, obviously in a snit because his watch couldn’t be repaired even though he’d walked into the wrong establishment. “Should respect their elders!”
“Absolutely!” the cat agreed. “It’s a disgrace.”
“Indeed,” the elderly norm replied, his eyes crossing and a look of confusion on his face as he experienced the confusion most norms did when they found themselves conversing with a familiar.
“Behave,” she hissed to the cat as they walked out after the very confused norm. “You know you’re not allowed to confuse them that way.”
He snorted and allowed her to carry him. It was easier here, so he didn’t get trodden on by someone in the crowds.
“You do realize that grotesque was under Whippy’s window?” he asked suddenly.
“No. I didn’t.” She blinked. In the confusion and drama of Oberon’s arrest, she’d not thought about exactly where they were. But the cat was right. The windows there were west facing, which was the side where all the offices were on the second floor. “Crone’s tits… she could have just dropped the wig out of the window!”
“And there were cake wrappers back there as well,” Garlick informed her.
She sighed and closed her eyes for a second. The missing afternoon tea was such an insignificant detail in the grand scheme of things, but it had niggled at her like a scab. She’d just had to pick it at. But Whippy had been adamant it had been just her that afternoon, showing her the single cake wrapper in her office rubbish bin.
“So… Whippy was the last person to see Sybil alive,” she breathed. “She threw the wrappers out of the window and then got rid of the wig the same way… Jack saw her at the original murder scene so she killed him off as well…”
She blinked and looked at Garlick. “She’s our murderer… but why?”
“They will
