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A Jackaby Novel
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- Trade Paperback $9.95 $12.95 CAD
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This item is a preorder. Your payment method will be charged immediately, and the product is expected to ship on or around August 2, 2016. This date is subject to change due to shipping delays beyond our control.
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In 1892, New Fiddleham, New England, things are never quite what they seem, especially when Abigail Rook and her eccentric employer, R. F. Jackaby, are called upon to investigate the supernatural. First vicious shape-shifters disguise themselves as a litter of kittens, and a day later, their owner is found murdered. Then in nearby Gad’s Valley, bones from a recent dig mysteriously go missing, and an unidentifiable beast starts attacking animals and people, leaving mangled bodies behind. Charlie calls on Abigail for help, and soon Abigail and Jackaby are on the hunt—for a thief, a monster, and a murderer.
“Follow my lead, Miss Rook,” Jackaby said, rapping on the ornately trimmed door to 1206 Campbell Street. Were my employer a standard private investigator, those might have been simple instructions, but in the time I’ve been his assistant, I’ve found very little about Jackaby to be standard. Following his lead tends to call for a somewhat flexible relationship with reality.
Tall and lanky, Jackaby swam in his long, brown coat. It looked like it might have once been an expensive garment, but it was now battered and affixed inside and out with myriad clinking, jingling pockets and pouches, each loaded with trinkets and tools he insisted were essential to his work. Around his neck he had wound a ludicrously long scarf, the ends of which brushed the cobblestones as he walked.
On his head, stuffed over a dark mess of wild hair, was the main offender. Jackaby’s cap, the knit monstrosity, was a patternless composite of uneven stitches and colors. The threads clashed with his scarf. They clashed with his coat. They even clashed with one another. Alone on a hat rack, the thing would have looked mismatched.
Jackaby was not an ugly man. He kept himself clean-shaven, and always seemed to smell of cloves and cinnamon. In a fine suit and tie he might have been downright attractive to the right sort of girl, but in his preferred garb he looked, by all accounts, like an eccentric lunatic. He was fond of reminding me that “appearances aren’t everything,” but I dare say they aren’t nothing, either. My employer can be single-minded about some things. Most things, in fact.
The woman who answered the door appeared far too overwhelmed by her own concerns to bother about silly hats, anyway. Jackaby and I soon found ourselves ushered past the threshold and into an elegantly furnished sitting room. The house looked like so many of the regal English manors to which my mother had dragged me as a child. My father was a bit of an explorer—you may have read about the intrepid Daniel Rook—but my mother much preferred tradition and civility. Mother took full advantage of my father’s notoriety to find her way into countless London garden parties, and she brought me along in the hopes that a little exposure would make me wish to be a proper lady as well. It generally made me wish instead that I could go outside and play in the dirt, like my father.
In some ways, there was really nothing new about New England. Our current hostess looked as though she would have fit very comfortably into my mother’s social circles. She introduced herself as Florence Beaumont and offered to take our coats. Jackaby flatly declined for both of us. I would have preferred he hadn’t, as the heat of the chamber was a sharp contrast to the breeze outside. The spring of 1892 had arrived in New Fiddleham, but it had not yet fully chased away the last of the winter winds.
Mrs. Beaumont led us to a small alcove at the rear of the room. Within the recess were a pile of blankets, a little pink collar with a bell on the front, and a set of silver bowls perched on white doilies. In one bowl was a bit of what looked to be leftover tuna, and in the other were water, a great deal of cat hair, and a live fish. The fish circled uncomfortably, being nearly as wide as the bowl itself.
Jackaby squatted, resting his forearms on his knees and staring into the water. He watched the fish take a few cramped laps, studying its movements, and then he plucked a bit of damp cat hair from the rim, sniffed it, tasted it, and tucked it into a pocket somewhere in the depths of his coat.
I whipped out the little black notepad Jackaby had given me upon the completion of our first case, trying not to let Mrs. Beaumont see that I was still on the very first page. “Your message said something about a sick cat?” I prompted the woman while my employer poked at the sticky pile of leftovers in the other bowl. “I’m sure Mr. Jackaby will want to see the animal.”
The woman’s lip quivered. “Mrs. W-W-Wiggles.”
“Yes, and where is Mrs. Wiggles, now?”
Mrs. Beaumont tried to answer, but she managed only a sort of squeak I could not decipher and gestured toward the alcove.
Jackaby stood. “Mrs. Wiggles is right here, isn’t she?”
The woman nodded.
“Mrs. Wiggles is the fish, isn’t she?”
She nodded again. “Only since recently,” she sniffed.
“I see,” Jackaby said.
His matter-of-fact response seemed to burst a dam within the woman. “You must think me mad! I didn’t know to whom I could turn, but your name has come up from time to time. I entertain, you see. Very prominent people come to my soirees. Mayor Spade had tea here, just last week. Some of the people I dine with tell me that you specialize in things that are . . . that are . . . different.”
“To put it mildly,” I submitted.
“Nice to hear I’ve come so highly recommended, madam,” Jackaby said, turning his attention back to the big fish in the little bowl.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call them recommendations, exactly,” she added. “More like anecdotes, some of them warnings, actually . . .”
“Yes, yes, very nice.” Jackaby’s attention had migrated back to his investigation. He dropped to his hands and knees, peeking at the pile of blankets.
“I’ve always taken such good care of Mrs. Wiggles,” the woman continued. “I keep her brushed and washed, and I buy her the most expensive cat food. I even get her fresh fish from Chandler’s Market from time to time. At first I thought she was just feeling a bit off due to her—well—her state. But then she began to sprout s-s-scales, and now . . . now . . .” Mrs. Beaumont broke down again, her voice wavering into uncomfortable octaves.
“Due to her state?” I asked, trying to press forward. “What state was Mrs. Wiggles in?”
“She was pregnant,” Jackaby answered for Mrs. Beaumont.
The woman nodded.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
Jackaby pulled up the corner of the blanket to reveal a pile of adorable, sleeping kittens. Here and there a patch of scales peeked through the fur. The smallest had fuzzy gills, which puffed up and down as it snored, but they were precious nonetheless.
“Do I deduce correctly that, until recently, Mrs. Wiggles has had significantly more freedom to roam about at night?” Jackaby asked.
The woman blinked back to self-control. “Yes, yes, that’s true. I generally leave the window open at night, and Mrs. Wiggles likes to pop out, but she would always be back home in the morning. I decided it was best to keep her in this past month, at least until she had her litter. It’s been freezing cold out, anyway, didn’t want the poor thing—”
“Yes, that’s all very good,” Jackaby interrupted. “You mentioned you purchase fish for her from the market, occasionally. Is it also correct to assume you have been treating her to such morsels more often of late?”
“I just wanted her to be happier, cooped up indoors like—” “Always the same sort of fish?”
“Er . . . yes. Mackerel from Chandler’s Market. Was that wrong?”
“On the contrary, Mrs. Belmont—”
“Beaumont,” she corrected quietly.
“On the contrary, Mrs. Beaumont, it may have been just the thing. Don’t worry. We will have the animals out of your hair momentarily.”
“You’re taking the kittens, too?” She sniffled. Her eyes welled up, and her lip quivered.
Jackaby sighed. “Give me just a moment to confer with my esteemed colleague.” He gestured me closer as Mrs. Beaumont wrung her hands.
Jackaby leaned in and adopted the sort of hushed, secretive tones that one nearby cannot help but overhear. “Miss Rook, on a scale of one to pomegranate, how dangerous would you say this situation has become?”
“Dangerous?” I faltered.
“Yes, Miss Rook,” prompted Jackaby, “in your expert opinion.”
“On a scale of one to pomegranate?” I followed his lead, checking over the notes I had scribbled in my notepad and speaking in my most audible, serious whisper. “I should think . . . acorn? Possibly badger. Time alone will tell.”
My employer nodded solemnly.
“What? What is it? Can you make them . . . better?” Mrs. Beaumont fidgeted, worrying the lace on her collar as Jackaby considered his response.
“Contamination, madam. Viral infection, no doubt. You’ve been thoroughly exposed, but don’t worry, you’re probably just a carrier. It is most unlikely you will display any symptoms yourself. What’s important now is to be sure the litter does not further contaminate the neighborhood.”
“Is it really as bad as all that?” she asked. “Sh-should we tell the police or . . . or the animal control officer?”
“If you like.” Jackaby looked thoughtful. “Of course, it might be best if we simply take Mrs. Wiggles and her litter to our facility and keep the whole thing quiet. I’m no expert in entertaining, but I do not imagine one’s social standing would weather well the news that one is a carrier to an exotic, viral plague. How is Mayor Spade, by the way?”
Mrs. Beaumont sniffed and digested the detective’s words for a moment. “Let me fetch you a bigger bowl,” she squeaked. “I want Mrs. Wiggles to be comfortable, at least.” With one last sniffle, she ducked away into the house.
Some girls work in shops or sell flowers. Some girls find husbands and play house. I assist a mad detective in investigating unexplained phenomena—like fish that ought to be cats but seem to have forgotten how. My name is Abigail Rook, and this is what I do.
- “In this sequel to Jackaby (Algonquin, 2014), Ritter seamlessly presents enough backstory for newcomers to thoroughly enjoy this hybrid of historical fiction and fantasy . . . On a scale of ‘one to pomegranate,’ this volume is undoubtedly a pomegranate; it offers humor, adventure, mystery, gore, and romance all rolled into one well-written package. The best news? There is more to come, as Ritter sets up Jackaby and Rook’s next case regarding the ephemeral Jenny, murdered many years ago.”—School Library Journal, starred review
- “Recommend this to readers who enjoy Doctor Who, Supernatural, Grimm, Dresden Files, Harry Potter, and, of course, Sherlock Holmes stories, and who are ready to stay up into the wee hours reading.”—VOYA, starred review
- “[A] fast-paced sequel to Jackaby . . . As bones go missing--and then small livestock--methodical investigation and scientific experimentation yield to madcap chases, slapstick humor, and romance. Ritter's blends--fantasy and mystery, action and tension, oddball detective and able sidekick--employ but exceed their stock elements. With one case closed but two unsolved, the well-matched, well-written duo will undoubtedly return to fight a more fearsome foe. A witty and weird adventure equal parts Sherlock and Three Stooges.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
- “The fun continues in this Holmsien follow-up to Jackaby. . . Fans of the first novel will be pleased with this entertaining sequel, rich in intrigue and imagination.”—Booklist
- “Jackaby’s sense of humor, ever droll and capricious, shines once again in this sequel. The storytelling is just as solid and absorbing, too, even with quite the crowd—shape-shifters, rival paleontologists, an avid hunter, a livestock-pillaging predator, an intrepid journalist—and there’s a bit of romance as well.”—The Horn Book
- "With tension as taut as a high wire, this series blends laugh-out-loud humor and ghastly horror with supernatural skill. You don’t have to read the first book to enjoy this one, but we highly recommend it because reading the series is straight-up fun. Perfect for fans of Harry Potter, Grimm and Sherlock Holmes."—Justine Magazine
- “Critics laud William Ritter’s Jackaby series as perfect for fans of Sherlock, Harry Potter, Doctor Who, and Supernatural – and while that’s a tall order for any book, I’m happy to report that Jackaby and its sequel, Beastly Bones, more than fit the bill! Utterly charming.”—Mugglenet
- “Jackaby — aptly described as a mix between Sherlock and the Doctor — is in fine form with this sequel, which picks up nicely following the events of the first book. Fans will eagerly dive into his latest adventure with his assistant Abigail, as they find themselves on another mysterious and possibly magical case. The tone and atmosphere of Ritter’s novels are immersive and delightful.”—Novel Novice
- “Jackaby was one of my stand out reads last year and when I found out there would be a series I was so excited…If you’re looking for a fun read, filled with quirky characters and lots of the paranormal, you definitely need to be reading these books. Ritter tells an amazingly unique story full of action and mystery.”—Fiction Fare
- "Fast-paced and full of intrigue."—EW.com
- "I really enjoyed the plot of Beastly Bones. It was definitely fast-paced and so fun! The mysteries themselves weren’t that easy to solve, and I liked that even when I thought I had everything figured out, there was another twist. I really loved the characters as well. Jackaby is still the right mix of the Tenth Doctor and Sherlock and Abigail is spunky and interesting in her own right. She doesn’t stand at the sidelines nor does she attempt to follow the stereotypical expectations that others expect of her."—Read.Sleep.Repeat
- "Beastly Bones will make you smile. I found myself grinning ridiculously in public at the bits of humor in Beastly Bones. It’s subtle, but very effective in breaking the serious moments. You find the humor in Jackaby’s mannerisms, his interactions, and what he says (he made a rolling-your-eyes type of pun that had me snickering despite myself). It makes everything so much delightful, and I cannot stress how wonderfully timed they were."—The Novel Hermit
- On Sale
- Aug 2, 2016
- Page Count
- 320 pages
- Algonquin Young Readers