The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(15)

‘He’ll be after us,’ I said. ‘He wants us dead.’

Lockwood grunted. ‘Him and all the rest. Maybe he’ll lie low.’

George turned the mask over dubiously. ‘Doubt it.’

We all fell silent for a time. But it was a clear, bright morning, and our fierce satisfaction from the night before still lingered, burning away our doubts and fears.

‘What’s that you’ve drawn, Lockwood?’ I asked, eyeing the thinking cloth. ‘Looks like a piece of angry broccoli.’

‘What? Are you insulting my excellent sketch of a wild-haired ghost?’ Lockwood threw down his pen. ‘I suppose drawing’s not my strong suit. I was trying to capture the face of that Revenant. I got a good look at the end, when it broke clear of the bones. Thought George might figure out who it was, if he had a visual aid to help him.’

‘If he uses that, he’ll end up doing his research in the greengrocer’s.’ When I shut my eyes, I could see the ghost’s livid form hovering over me. ‘It was a man in late middle age,’ I said, ‘with a very lined, lived-in face. Long grey hair. That’s all I can remember – it was his words that struck me more. You off to the Archives again, George?’

‘In a bit. We’ve got a client coming in an hour.’ George set the wooden mask down on the table between the butter dish and the cornflakes. With the dust gone, its bright colours showed through. Exotic feathers plumed from its top like frozen smoke. ‘What do you think of this baby?’ he said. ‘Polynesian shaman’s mask. Got it from Jessica’s room.’ He glanced across at Lockwood. ‘I opened the last crate yesterday. Hope that’s OK.’

Lockwood nodded. ‘Fine. Anything else good so far?’

‘Maybe. Some things I want to show you, actually, after our second breakfast.’

I was gazing at the shaman’s mask, at its beetling brows and ferociously snarling mouth. ‘Think this has any power?’

‘I think there’s some psychic energy in it,’ George said, ‘but I’m not as sensitive as you. Might be worth you taking a look later, Lucy, if you don’t mind.’

‘Sure …’ Suddenly I couldn’t wait any longer; I had to get it off my chest. ‘Lockwood, George,’ I said. ‘What are we going to do?’

They both knew what I meant, of course. Our visit to the mausoleum had been weighing on us all morning. It’s quite something when being chased up a staircase by a disintegrating Revenant isn’t the most memorable thing about a job, but that was certainly the case here. The missing occupant of the tomb preyed on our minds.

‘I’ve been thinking about Marissa,’ Lockwood said, ‘and I believe all we can do is go on as before. There’s so much we still don’t understand, and it would be dangerous to admit to breaking into her tomb without some proper answers. So we keep our noses clean, do ordinary cases, stay out of trouble. Meanwhile we follow all lines of enquiry. In particular, George carries on researching the link between Marissa and the woman we call Penelope.’

George nodded. ‘The Fittes family’s been at the heart of the fight against ghosts since the beginning. If we want to find a solution to the Problem, we’ll need to sort this puzzle out too. Regarding our waxy friend from last night, I’ll look at some newspapers from Marissa’s last years while I’m at the Archives. It’s just possible I’ll get wind of an associate of hers who disappeared around that time. The ghost definitely knew her, you think, Luce?’

‘It knew her,’ I said, ‘and it was very annoyed.’

‘Someone close to her, then. Someone betrayed and murdered.’

‘To be honest,’ Lockwood said, picking up his mug again and frowning at the cold tea inside it, ‘that ghost is just a sideshow. Our priority is to find out what happened to the woman who’s supposed to be in that tomb. Who’s supposed to have died twenty years ago. Lucy, try to get some sense out of that stupid skull. We’re following its lead, after all. I still feel it’s the key to all this.’

‘Someone mention me?’ A ripple ran through the murky depths of the jar. The ghost’s face materialized behind the glass. Never exactly pleasant, today it seemed more than usually repulsive, like a damp corpse that had been stepped on.

I glared at it. ‘Can’t you look less foul for once? You’re making the milk go sour.’

‘So I’m a bit the worse for wear,’ the skull said. ‘I was up all night, wasn’t I? As were all of you. You look knackered, Lockwood’s black and blue, and Cubbins has some vile disease that leaves yellow blotches on his chin.’

‘George has recently been eating egg,’ I said. ‘But none of that’s important. You and I need to discuss Marissa.’

The eyes narrowed. ‘Wrong. We need to discuss my freedom. We had a deal.’

I hesitated. ‘Not here,’ I said at last. ‘Not now. I’ll talk to you later.’

‘Later? What’s that mean? Six weeks? A year? I know your feminine wiles.’

‘Oh, God. In a few minutes.’

The face scowled. ‘Sure, I’ve heard that before. Meantime there’ll be some new crisis that distracts you, and I’ll still be stuck here, tapping my fingers in this glassy prison.’