The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(22)
‘Some of the usherettes, Vanessa the make-up artist; I think an ice-cream girl.’
‘And they all survived?’
‘They live with the horror to this day. Vanessa’s hair turned white.’
‘So, in other words, La Belle Dame’s victims are all male?’ Holly asked.
Mr Tufnell nodded. ‘Not one of them could resist her charms. In death as in life. You and this lad here would need to beware, Mr Lockwood.’
Lockwood chuckled. ‘Oh, I think George and I can handle whatever La Belle Dame might throw at us. Wouldn’t you say so, George? Very well, Mr Tufnell, we’ll look into this for you. Give us twenty-four hours to research the case. If you think Charley can last that long?’
Our visitor looked at the chained boy, motionless and blank-eyed at his side. ‘I would hope so, Mr Lockwood … But for pity’s sake, don’t delay any more.’
I was glad to see our clients go: I disliked one, and pitied the other. In short, their presence disturbed me. I led them to the door.
As I opened it and stood aside to let them pass, Mr Tufnell bowed to me. In doing so, he let the chain go loose in his hand. At once, Charley Budd pulled sharply to the side, tearing the chain free. He fell against the opposite wall, beside the big chipped plant pot with its umbrellas and rapiers. Hands still bound together, he grasped the hilt of Lockwood’s second-best sword and wrenched it up, out of the pot, so that the blade shone in the morning light. Then he thrust it down and inwards, seeking to drive the tip deep into his stomach. His arms were too short, the blade too long. It stabbed into the leather of his belt and caught there.
While he struggled to free it, I was on him, grappling for the blade. Mr Tufnell caught his arm, pulling at the chain. The youth fought back frenziedly, desperately, with frightening strength. We collided with the coat rack, then the key table. He made no sound. For several silent seconds we wrestled back and forth, his pale face next to mine, our eyes locked together. Then Mr Tufnell clouted him hard on the side of the head and I pulled the rapier away.
Like a switch had been flicked, Charley Budd was placid again. His face was calm and expressionless; he allowed himself to be led out of the door and into the sun.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mr Tufnell said, turning at the gate. ‘You see now how finding the ghost really is his only chance? Please do everything you can to help us.’
With that he raised his battered felt hat, tugged at the chain and led the boy away along the road.
6
If we had been largely unmoved by Mr Tufnell – his combination of sleazy theatrical bombast and slippery evasion wasn’t wildly attractive – the evident plight of Charley Budd affected us all. According to Lockwood, who knew such things, it was a rare example of psychic enchainment, in which the victim’s mind was snared.
‘It’s like ghost-lock,’ he said. ‘But it’s not the body that’s been trapped this time, it’s the intelligence. The will to live just seeps away and the victim is pulled towards death. Tufnell’s right – destroying the ghost is probably the only way to sever the connection.’
‘Poor boy.’ Holly was tidying up the mess left in the hall. ‘How awful to want to do that to himself.’
‘And did you see his blank, expressionless face?’ George added. ‘Eerie.’
‘His eyes were empty,’ I said. ‘When I fought him, there was nothing there.’
‘Well, it’s clearly a formidable spirit that’s snared him,’ Lockwood said, ‘and there’s no way I’m facing it until we’re properly prepared. Can you look into the story when you’re at the Archives, George? I’ll order more equipment for tomorrow; we left half our stuff in the mausoleum.’
‘Lots to do,’ George said. ‘Marissa, the Problem and La Belle Dame Sans Merci. I’d better get going. But first, I want to show you the stuff I found in your parents’ crates, Lockwood. Mind if I quickly do that now?’
We followed him upstairs to the first floor. It was a place where the representatives of DEPRAC, checking on our activities in the basement office, never thought to venture. Which was lucky for us, because it contained a dark and terrible wonderland, filled with things that threatened one’s health and sanity, and I’m not just talking about George’s bedroom. There was another room that had once belonged to Lockwood’s sister, Jessica – the room she’d died in. Here her death-glow still hovered, dramatically but harmlessly, above the stripped-back bed, while stacks of crates lined the walls, each stamped with faded export permits from foreign lands. And set out on the one clear area of floor, surrounded by a circle of iron chains, were selected items from those crates: items strange, dangerous and forbidden.
There were masks fashioned in the shape of wild animals and monstrous spirits. There were two newly discovered cloaks, one covered in feathers and one in moulting fur. There were peculiar constructions of bone, beads and animal gut, which Lockwood said were Javanese ghost-catchers. And there were pots sealed with lead and wax. These in particular we treated with extreme caution. It was in breaking one of these that Jessica Lockwood had lost her life seven years before.
It was quite a haul. The tweedy, placard-waving ghost-cultists who paraded through Trafalgar Square most days would have fallen on their knees before the items on display. Fittes researchers would have sold their grandmothers to have seen them. Rich collectors would have fought each other for them tooth and nail, while relic-men would have cut our throats for them while we slept. Inspector Barnes of DEPRAC would simply have arrested us and confiscated the lot. So we took care to ensure that the collection remained secret, known to nobody except us, Kipps and Flo.