The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(30)

‘All right, Cubbins,’ Flo said. She grinned at George, showing exceptionally bright white teeth, and – as a reluctant afterthought – nodded curtly at Holly and me.

‘Haven’t seen you at ours for a bit,’ George said. ‘Been busy?’

Flo’s shrug cracked the dried mud on the shoulders of her coat. ‘Nah. Not really.’

There was a moment of silence, in which it became clear that Flo was focused intently on George, and that George was watching her expectantly. Holly and I looked from one to the other and back again.

‘Well, so I got it, then,’ Flo said. She scrabbled in the shadows of her puffa jacket and brought out an oilcloth package, tied up with grubby string.

‘Brilliant. Thanks, Flo.’ George unzipped his coat and tucked the package inside.

‘’S all right.’ Flo rubbed at the side of her nose. ‘So you’re good, are you, George?’

‘Yes, fine … What about you, Flo?’

‘Fine.’

‘Great.’

‘Yeah.’

How long this breathtaking dialogue would have continued is uncertain. At that moment there was movement on the pavement a little further on. Flo glanced behind her. ‘Oh, hell,’ she spat. ‘Not them.’ With that she ducked away, and was gone into the alley; the sound of running wellingtons faded in the gloom.

Four men had come out of a side road and were looking in our direction. At a signal from the slimmest, they sauntered over. We drew ourselves up. We knew who they were.

The leader was a young man with short fair hair and a moustache. He wore a greenish tweed suit and moved with fluid ease. Even at a distance, the eye was drawn to him; close proximity made for warier fascination, as one might regard a wolverine slinking nearer through a wood. There was an aggressive jauntiness in his manner; a certainty of violence – not now, necessarily, but soon. The mark of that hung at his belt. Swords were forbidden to anyone who was not an accredited operative. Sir Rupert Gale was officially of no agency at all, but as Penelope Fittes’ feared enforcer, he didn’t see the need for rules. He carried a rapier anyway, glinting in the sun.

The three men with him wore the dark-grey jackets of the Fittes Agency. They were big, muscled and impassive. At some point they had traded in their personalities for a simple air of threat.

As always, Sir Rupert was smiling. He had a lot of teeth. The sharp tang of his aftershave enveloped us. ‘It’s Lockwood’s charming little helpers,’ he said, ‘out on an evening job. But what was that foul creature with you?’ He glanced down the alley. ‘A beggar, I suppose. You didn’t know it, did you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘A beggar, as you say.’

‘I can still smell its stench. If it was pestering you, you should have kicked it, sent it packing. The only mercy is that it won’t survive long out on the streets, the way the Problem’s going. One of these mornings we’ll find it in the gutter, staring up at the sky.’ He was gauging our reaction, watching us closely with his poacher’s gaze. None of us said anything. ‘So where’s your precious Lockwood?’ he went on. ‘I hope he’s not dead. Don’t tell me he’s gone the way of his accident-prone family.’

All day I’d been thinking of that empty grave in the cemetery, of Lockwood’s brief stillness as he sat with me on the stone, of the grief that haunted him worse than any ghost. Rage rose up within me. My hand hovered at my sword hilt. I couldn’t trust myself to speak. George was likewise bristling; I could feel insults incubating furiously behind his glittering glasses. But Holly was good in these situations. She remained impeccably polite. Her smooth, unflustered beauty seemed to have been turned up a notch. As she gazed from under half-lowered lids, her cool demeanour subtly radiated boredom and contempt. By contrast, Sir Rupert’s expensive tweed suit suddenly appeared loud and shabby; behind his yellow moustache, his face was florid, sweaty and much too eager.

‘He’s off tackling a Spectre at a theatre in Stratford,’ Holly said. ‘We’re going to meet him now. Thank you so much for taking an interest in our work.’

‘Hmm, a Spectre? You really need four agents for that?’ Beneath his moustache, Sir Rupert sucked at his teeth. ‘Do you have the relevant papers?’

Holly nodded. ‘Yes.’ She made no move to get them out.

‘Could you show them to me?’

‘I could. It would certainly be possible.’

Sir Rupert’s lips twisted slightly. ‘Then please do so.’

‘Or you could just take our word for it, Gale,’ George said as Holly slowly opened her bag. ‘But probably that’s a concept you wouldn’t know much about.’

‘You know the new rules, Cubbins.’ Sir Rupert took the papers and turned them over in gloved hands. ‘Agents must have their client agreements when out on a job. There’ve been far too many unregulated agencies running about, endangering the decent people of London. It’s been anarchy. Not a week goes by without rapier cuts and salt burns being reported. As for the damage Greek Fire can do …’

‘Don’t look at us,’ George said. ‘We haven’t burned anyone’s house down for ages.’

‘Once a plump, bespectacled pyromaniac,’ Sir Rupert said, ‘always a plump, bespectacled pyromaniac – that’s my philosophy. Well, I suppose these seem to be in order.’ He handed the papers back to Holly. ‘Good luck with your very dangerous mission. Oh, one more thing,’ he added as we moved to go. ‘You were seen near the Hardimann Library yesterday, Cubbins. Not trying to do a spot of illicit research, were you?’