The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(18)

It made a difference.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we had it. I’d just have liked a bit of clarity, that’s all.

It didn’t help that, being Lockwood, he never talked about these emotions much. It didn’t help that, being me, I never saw an easy way to broach the subject, either. And it certainly didn’t help that we were always so busy, dealing with ghosts, with DEPRAC, with the ongoing mystery of the Problem.

And also with clients who came knocking on our doors half an hour before their scheduled appointments, bringing fresh terror into our lives.





5




We’d only just finished eating our doughnuts when the bell rang on the path outside. The echoes died away.

Lockwood frowned. ‘They’re hellishly early. Are we ready for them?’

‘Cake’s on the coffee table,’ Holly said. ‘But the living room is a tip, as usual.’ She got up, made for the door. ‘George, put the kettle on again, please. Lockwood, Lucy – you’ve got thirty seconds to make everything presentable.’

We were well practised at this: twenty-eight seconds later, cushions had been plumped, salt bombs put in cupboards, and the living-room window opened to admit the sunny air of early autumn. In the kitchen George was making appropriate sounds with crockery. Lockwood and I stood waiting by the coffee table as our visitors came in.

They certainly made an immediate impression. The elder of the two was a short, stout person in a startling yellow-checked jacket, not overly new, with leather patches on the elbows. He wore a grey waistcoat, pushed out to bursting by his protuberant belly, and a shiny white shirt, behind the open V of which grey-white chest-hairs played and spilled like summer brambles. His corduroy trousers were a vigorous deep red. His face was also red; it suggested too close an acquaintance with the wine bottle. He had an impressive crop of very curly grey hair, wedged beneath a worn green felt hat; a snub nose; a wide, elastic mouth; and a pair of small, bright eyes that seldom stopped moving and never properly met your gaze.

Beside him was a thin youth of scrawny, malnourished appearance. He wore old jeans and a baggy jersey that emphasized rather than concealed his lack of width. His nose was large and rather hooked, and beneath a shock of unruly black hair, his skin had an alarming bone-white pallor. His face was utterly expressionless. In contrast to his companion, he stared out straight ahead. He didn’t seem to focus on the room at all.

‘This is Mr Lewis Tufnell,’ Holly said. ‘Mr Tufnell and …’ She looked at the boy.

‘And Charley Budd,’ Mr Tufnell said. ‘Come along, Charley.’

Mr Lewis Tufnell loped forward to meet us, with much nodding and winking and touching of his hat; as one in a trance, the boy shuffled at his side. They were an odd-looking pair, but it was only when they were halfway across the room that I noticed what was amiss.

The man was holding the lad on a chain.

As chains went, it was discreet and clean, with lots of neat, bright links, but that wasn’t the issue. It was a chain. It ended in a loop of rope tied fast around the boy’s wrists.

I glanced at Lockwood to see if he had noticed too. One look told me that he had. He wasn’t alone. George, coming in with the tea things, had halted, open-mouthed. Holly, following the visitors, was gesticulating furiously at us behind their backs.

Our clients reached the coffee table. Without waiting for an invitation, Mr Tufnell settled himself into the sofa. At first the lad remained standing; by placing a hairy hand on his shoulder and applying pressure, his companion encouraged him to sit. There was a gentle clinking of chains, then silence.

One after the other, we sat too.

Lockwood cleared his throat; he was still rather taken aback. ‘Er, good morning,’ he began. ‘I’m Anthony Lockwood. Now, Mr Tufnell—’

‘Call me Lew!’ the gentleman interrupted with a flourish of his worn green hat. ‘Plain Lew Tufnell! That’s how I like it. No airs and graces about me, I hope. Proprietor of Tufnell’s Theatre, not to mention Tufnell’s Marvels and Tufnell’s Travelling Fairground of Astonishment and Delight. More to the point, I’m also a man at his wits’ end, for my establishment is cursed by an evil spirit that threatens me with ruin.’ He gave an extravagant sigh, then noticed Holly’s seed cake on the table. ‘Ooh. Is that little morsel for me? Smashing!’

‘Well, we were kind of hoping to share it out between us,’ George said.

Lockwood raised his hand. ‘Before we deal with cake or curse,’ he said, ‘there’s one thing we need to discuss …’ He paused significantly, hoping the visitor would get the hint. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘we can’t help noticing the chain …’

Mr Tufnell gave a little start, as of mild surprise; a weak and liquid smile sloshed across his face. ‘What, this chain here? This chain? Oh, that’s just for Charley Budd’s own safety. Don’t go worrying on your own account.’

Lockwood frowned. ‘I’m not. But—’

‘He won’t hurt you, not poor Charley.’ With his free hand Mr Tufnell ruffled the lad’s hair. ‘Only, he isn’t so particular about himself, if you take my meaning. See that cake knife there? If I weren’t vigilant, he’d be on it in a trice. Bury it in his own heart, he would, and spoil your lovely carpet.’