The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(47)

‘First things first,’ he said. ‘Take a look at this.’ With a dramatic flourish he produced a photograph and set it on the table. ‘Recognize our friend here?’

It was a black-and-white shot of a middle-aged man in a dark suit, with a raincoat folded over his arm. He was pictured getting out of a car; other people stood around him. But it was his face that transfixed us: it was marked by deep and distinctive lines, and framed by a shock of long grey hair. One side was lost in shadow, and the eyes were almost hidden under shaggy brows. It didn’t matter. We had seen that face before.

‘The Revenant in Marissa’s tomb!’ Lockwood said. ‘The one who chased us up the stairs and spoke to Luce! It’s him for sure! Isn’t it, Luce?’

‘It’s him.’ When I closed my eyes, I saw the wild-haired ghost rising through the mausoleum floor. I opened them – and there was this staid and sombre gentleman. No doubt about it. They were the same.

‘You’re a marvel, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘So who is he?’

George tried not to look too pleased with himself. ‘This,’ he said, ‘is a certain Dr Neil Clarke. Not much is known about him, but he was personal physician to Marissa Fittes, and he tended to her in her last illness. It’s he who signed her death certificate, and he who confirmed her cause of death in a report to the media.’ He picked up the documents Flo had found for him and squinted at them through his glasses. ‘According to Dr Clarke, Marissa died from “a wasting disease that affected all the organs of her body, and which had all the aspects of premature old age”. Sounds nasty, but Marissa was cared for up at Fittes House. She didn’t go to the hospital, and only Dr Clarke had access to her.’ George put down the papers. ‘I’ve been hunting around, but after her death he fades from the records and isn’t heard of again.’

‘Not surprising, really,’ Holly murmured, ‘since he was lying in her tomb.’

Lockwood whistled. ‘Marissa didn’t die. And the person who knew that, who’d faked the official records, was silenced immediately afterwards.’

‘No wonder he’s so livid,’ I said. I could still hear an echo of the whispered voice: Bring her to me.

George nodded; he set the photograph aside. ‘That takes care of our friend in the tomb. The next question concerns how Marissa reappears as “Penelope”. I take it we all agree that this is what happened?’

There was a hoot from the jar. ‘You ought to by now!’ the skull cried. ‘I’ve been telling you long enough! Honestly, those digestive biscuits have higher IQs than you.’

‘Shut up,’ I said. ‘Not you, George. The skull.’ I glared at the indignant ghost.

‘In fact,’ George said, ‘I haven’t quite got to the bottom of Marissa’s transformation yet, though I have a terrific lead that I’ll tell you about in a moment. What’s known is that after the old girl’s supposed death, her daughter, Margaret, takes over the agency.’

He produced another photograph, this one of a dark-haired young woman. She was officiating at some agency function and didn’t seem to be enjoying it. Her face was pale and sad.

‘Margaret was head of Fittes for just three years,’ George said. ‘She was a quiet, retiring person, by all accounts not well suited to running a big company. Well, she didn’t have to do it for long, because she died too.’

Holly frowned. ‘How did she die?’

‘It’s not known. I can’t find any proper death certificate. Then “Penelope” pops up. On the face of it, she appears to be a real person. I’ve got birth certificates for her; hospital records – all the rest of it. Everything seems correct and above board. But it isn’t. It can’t be, because that doesn’t square with what the skull’s telling us. If the woman we know is Marissa, masquerading as a younger person somehow, this must all be forged.’

‘But how can it be Marissa?’ I said. ‘How’s she made herself look like that?’

George eyed us all over the top of his glasses. We waited. Even Kipps had paused with his mug halfway to his mouth. With careful deliberation George selected another sheet of paper.

‘I found an article in an old Kent newspaper,’ he said. ‘It’s from sixty years ago, when Marissa and Tom Rotwell were just starting out as a psychic detection team. Back then almost nobody believed in ghosts, crazy as that sounds. They were considered complete eccentrics. The Problem hadn’t yet begun to spread. A journalist interviews them, makes lots of cheap jokes at their expense. But listen to this …’ He adjusted his spectacles and read the following:

‘Marissa Fittes is a slim, bony girl with short cropped hair and an attitude of unusual intensity. In clipped, confident tones she tells me of their strange supernatural experiences. “The dead are among us,” she says, “and they bring with them wisdom and secrets of the past.” She ignores my scepticism and tells me she has already written a monograph on the substance of spirits, which she terms “ectoplasm”. “It is the immortal stuff that is inside all of us,” she says. “Understanding it will bring great benefits to humanity. Perhaps, if we can exploit its transformative power, it will give us control over life and death.” At present, she admits regretfully, her ideas fall on stony ground. Having been unable to find a magazine that would accept her piece, she has had it printed at her own expense.’