The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(14)
Someone shone a torch across the room. Flakes of dust were floating down around me. Cobwebs lay scattered across my knees.
‘Lucy?’ Lockwood was bending at my side.
‘I’m all right.’
‘What did it do to you?’
‘Nothing. Lockwood …’ I didn’t quite know how to put this. ‘Have we ever had a ghost-client before?’
He stared at me. ‘Of course not. Why?’
I let my head fall back against the stone. ‘Because I think we’ve just been given a job.’
4
Thirty-five Portland Row, the home and headquarters of Lockwood & Co., was a very special place. Whenever the old black front door shut behind me and I saw the welcoming glint of the Aztec crystal-skull lantern on the key table, the weight of the world was lifted from me like a conjurer snapping a cloak up into the air. I’d toss my rapier into the pot we used as an umbrella stand, hang my jacket on a peg, and walk up the hall past the shelves with their odd collection of jars and masks and painted gourds. If it was daytime I’d peep into the living room to see if anyone was resting or working there; by night I’d check the library, which was where we tended to crash after a job. If all was quiet, I’d stroll past the staircase to the kitchen, where the lingering smells of toast (Lockwood) or teacake (George and Kipps) gave clues to who might be in. Occasionally, if the tin of dried green tea had been opened, or one or two sunflower seeds lay scattered on the worktop, I knew that Holly was around and probably working in the office. You couldn’t always tell, though; she was the tidiest of us, and rarely left such clues. Most rare of all, an odour of stale kippers and traces of dried river-mud kicked off by the back door gave certain proof that Flo Bones had recently called by.
The house was our sanctuary, a refuge from ghosts and other, darker things. And the happiest times of all were the breakfasts we enjoyed after a successful case, with the windows open onto the garden, and the sun streaming in.
On such an occasion, the morning after our visit to the Fittes Mausoleum, Lockwood, George and I were sitting at the kitchen table. Holly had gone out to Arif’s Stores to fetch further supplies; the surface of the table was littered with open jam jars, egg cups, butter dishes and toast crumbs, but we still felt hungry. At one end of the table the ghost-jar was striped by sunlight coming through the blinds. We had our mugs of tea. George, who had eaten well, was sitting in his chair with a hideous wooden mask propped up on his lap. He was using a damp tea towel to wipe the dust off it. Lockwood had a pen and was doodling on a corner of the thinking cloth – the tablecloth on which we noted down ideas – while simultaneously glancing at a newspaper leaning against the ghost-jar. In the jar itself the ghost was dormant. The plasm stirred lazily in the late-morning sun, like green water in a deep and weedy pool.
I sat quietly next to Lockwood, enjoying the companionable silence. My muscles ached, my head was muzzy. Lockwood had a scrape on his left temple, and the lenses of George’s spectacles were soft with grave-dust. Our exertions hung heavy on us. But we had not yet spoken of the night before.
‘Lots of news this morning,’ Lockwood said, indicating the paper.
I opened an eye. ‘Good?’
‘No.’
‘Bad?’
‘Baddish and bad. Two things, and neither particularly great for us.’
‘Let’s have the baddish one first,’ George said. ‘I prefer my misery to come at me in stages, so I can acclimatize on the way.’
Lockwood reached out for his mug of tea. ‘The baddish one is just the usual. Dullop and Tweed this time. They’ve agreed terms with the Fittes Agency. Old Mr Dullop is retiring, and the company’s being absorbed into Fittes, effective immediately.’
‘What does Tweed have to say about it?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. He got killed by a Solitary years ago.’
I frowned. ‘Another small agency swallowed up …’ I looked towards the window, where bright blue sky shone above the houses at the bottom of the garden. ‘There aren’t many of us left.’
‘Adam Bunchurch is still holding out,’ George said. He was dabbing at the teeth of the wooden mask. ‘Did you hear about last week? They made him quite a decent offer to close down, but he went berserk and threw the Fittes guy out on his ear.’
‘Didn’t think he had it in him.’ Lockwood sat back in the chair and gave a tentative stretch. ‘Not sure he’ll last long with open rebellion like that. Ahh … my back is killing me this morning. I blame your skull, Lucy.’
‘It’s not my skull. I just talk to it. You mentioned some bad news.’
‘Oh. Yes. Guess what? They’ve let Winkman out.’
George lowered the tea towel in shock, and I opened my eyes wide. ‘Julius Winkman?’ I said. ‘I thought he got ten years.’
‘He did!’ George cried. ‘For selling illegal psychic relics! And incitement to violence! And desecration of burial sites! He’s not been in prison two years! Where’s the justice in that?’
This was George all over. True, justice was important, but it wasn’t what I was worrying about. It was our testimony that had put Julius Winkman away. And Winkman was a vindictive man.
‘Out early for “good behaviour”, allegedly,’ Lockwood said. He flicked the paper with a fingertip. ‘Says here he was met outside the prison by Adelaide, his wife, and Leopold, his darling little son. Then he drove away, swearing to turn over a new leaf and never be a naughty black marketeer again.’