The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(50)
‘He so did not!’
I nodded. ‘The skull’s sore about it. Definitely sore.’
‘I’m not sore!’ the ghost said. ‘Not in the slightest. I simply don’t understand the relevance of the question.’
I relayed this. ‘Well,’ Lockwood said, ‘whenever I read Marissa Fittes’ Memoirs, I see she makes great play of having spoken with Type Three spirits. She goes on and on about how rare and fascinating it is.’ He smiled at the ghost. ‘Which makes me wonder, Skull, why you ended up in a jar in the cellar for fifty years after this one conversation.’
‘No need to wonder about that,’ I said feelingly. ‘I’ve long been tempted to do the same with it.’
‘But you see my point. She knew the ghost’s value. It could have told her any number of secrets about the Other Side. Yet she chose to ignore it. Why?’
‘Skull?’
‘Search me.’ The face still looked annoyed; the light in the eyes dwindled to a bright green ember. Then, as if from far away, it said, in a small, affectless voice, ‘I will say that she didn’t seem surprised at my being able to speak. At my robust language, yes. At some of my choicer suggestions about what she could do with herself also. But at me actually speaking? No. It was old news as far as Marissa was concerned.’
I repeated all this as best I could. Lockwood nodded. ‘Remember that quote George read out just now – what did Marissa say? The dead “bring with them the secrets of the past”? She’d been chatting to another Type Three.’
‘It’s possible.’ The skull gave a grunt. ‘How it could have been any more fascinating or informative than me, I can’t imagine.’
‘Well,’ George said, ‘maybe the mysterious little book Occult Theories will shed some light on that. I’ll let you know tonight, when I get back from the library.’ He began gathering up his papers. ‘That’s it for now,’ he said. ‘I hope you thought it worth waiting for.’
‘George,’ Lockwood said, ‘you’ve worked wonders. I don’t know what we’d do without you.’
13
Penelope Fittes, director of the great Fittes Agency, was not a publicly minded person. Despite her celebrity, she mostly confined herself to her apartments in Fittes House, the headquarters of the company on the Strand. True, she occasionally emerged for important ceremonies, such as the annual service for fallen agents at the tombs behind Horse Guards Parade. And she was sometimes glimpsed, black hair pinned back, dark glasses on, driving through the capital in her silver Rolls-Royce, on her way to appointments at the Sunrise Corporation or Fairfax Iron. But that was about it. Invitations to meet her in private were not normally forthcoming. So the summons to Fittes House to hear Penelope speak on agency matters that evening was not one to be ignored, even if you weren’t interested in her. And we were interested, very deeply.
Even so, only Lockwood and I attended, since Holly had a prior engagement. George was busy at the library. ‘We’ll compare notes tonight,’ he’d said as he departed. ‘I’ll be back later, hopefully with the book. Meanwhile you go and see Penelope – or Marissa, or whoever she is. Look her in the eye and tell me what you see.’
What we saw when we arrived at the great grey building on the Strand were streams of operatives from our fellow agencies arriving in the dusk of early evening. There they all were: the lilac jackets of Grimble, the sky-blue ones of Tamworth, the striped pink blazers of Mellingcamp, and the rest. They congregated by the flower beds, where ranks of lilies had been planted in the shapes of rampant unicorns; they filed slowly through the etched-glass doors. Traditionally, herding so many agents together would have been like shovelling a dozen tomcats into a sack and expecting them to cuddle up and keep the peace. Rivalry between companies was deeply ingrained, a function of their independence; in the past, chance encounters in the street often led to arguments and even duels. Tonight, with that independence threatened, the mood was different: wary and subdued. Doors were held open for old enemies; muttered greetings exchanged. Under the watchful gaze of many silver-jacketed Fittes agents, we shuffled through reception and into the conference hall.
As the venue for her announcement Ms Fittes had chosen this mighty room, the Hall of Pillars. It was one of the most famous meeting places in London, a grand and gilded space, where marble floors and decorated ceilings showcased the wealth and history of the agency. Nine slender silver-glass pillars stood like birch trees at the centre of the hall. Each contained an artefact of historic significance, a powerful psychic Source collected by ghost-hunting pioneers Marissa Fittes and Tom Rotwell during the infancy of the Problem. By day, electric lamps illuminated the relics for the wonderment of visitors; by night, the trapped spirits swam silently within the pillars. With the light failing outside, they were just beginning to stir.
Lockwood and I took glasses of juice from silent attendants and meandered to a location on the fringes of the crowd. We studied the room. On a wall at the far end, a banner had been raised. It had the words THE FITTES INITIATIVE written on it in assertive black. Below stood a lectern on a little raised platform; this was covered with a curtain emblazoned with a silver unicorn. It was almost identical to the one we’d found lying on Marissa’s coffin, in the crypt just up the road.
Soon attendees had arrived from all the independent agencies (even Bunchurch, which in the absence of their leader was represented by two frightened-looking youths). The hall was almost full. The doors were closed, the lamps turned low. Within the glowing pillars, shadowy forms flared and darted like deep-sea fish. Servants entered, bringing canapés on silver trays.