The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(57)

‘He’s been muttering all kinds of stuff. He asked for water. I gave him some.’

‘I suppose that’s all right, if you’ve washed your hands. Come to think of it, while we’re at it, you could always take your boots off as well.’

‘Take it from me, Locky, my socks would mark your carpet worse.’ Though Flo spoke with her usual gusto, she kept her voice low, and I saw her watching me closely as I moved past her to the bed. It was a rare experience for her to linger any length of time in our dry, roofed world. She preferred living under stars and bridges, with water lapping at her wellingtons, in an isolated and amphibious life. None of that applied now. She was here in our moment of crisis. She was here for George.

The thing that struck me first was how small he looked, how low and sad the bump was under the sheets. You might almost have missed him, your eye drawn instead to the piled pillows or the bedspread half on the floor. But no – there were the distinctive glasses set carefully on the bedside table, with a diagonal crack running neatly through one lens. And there, wedged between the pillows – the sight of it made me catch my breath – was a roundish object, both dark and light. The light part was bandages, with a few sad wisps of sandy hair protruding. The dark part was bruises. There wasn’t much in between.

‘Oh, George,’ I said.

The shape stirred feebly, making me jump; it gave a groan and said something unintelligible. An arm emerged and flopped down upon the sheet.

‘Now look what you’ve done, you silly mare!’ Flo hissed. ‘You’ve only gone and woken him up!’

But Lockwood and I were already by the bed, bending close beside him.

‘George!’

‘Hey, George. It’s me, Lucy.’

George tried to speak. It shocked and horrified me how feeble his whisper was. More even than the sight of that battered face or the shrunken body in the bed, that whisper was an atrocious thing. He tried again: husky, urgent, impossible to hear. We craned our heads nearer. George hadn’t opened his swollen eyes. His hand clutched blindly, seized Lockwood’s arm.

This time the words came out. ‘They took it,’ he whispered.

‘What?’

‘Marissa’s book. I had it, but …’ The words trailed away.

Lockwood’s expression frightened me, but his voice was light and airy. ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ he said. He patted George’s hand. ‘All that matters is that you’re here at Portland Row. Luce’s here, and me, and you know you’ve got good old Flo here beside you too …’

George’s hand fell back. ‘Yes … yes, that’s good.’

‘Yes. So the important thing is that you need to sleep now, George.’

The bandaged head erupted from the pillow. We both jerked back. ‘No! I had it! Marissa’s book! The evidence, Lockwood—!’ He subsided in a fit of feeble coughing.

Flo bustled forward. ‘Right. You’re exciting him. Time’s up.’

‘No, it isn’t, Flo. Who was it, George? Who did this to you? Did you see them?’

‘No. But …’

‘But what, George? Was it Sir Rupert Gale?’

It took a long while for him to answer. I began to think he’d drifted off. The whisper was barely audible. ‘I smelled him. His aftershave. As I hit the ground …’ The voice trailed off. ‘I’m sorry …’

‘Nothing to be sorry about, George. Just rest up.’ Lockwood patted the limp hand; he stood up slowly, straight-backed, looking at nothing. ‘We’re going now, Flo,’ he said. ‘You’ll call us if you need anything?’

She nodded; she was already at the bedside, doing things with blankets. Given that she normally slept on riverbanks and muddy shingle, I was quite impressed. George had sunk back between the pillows. Once again he was just a small, low mound in the centre of the bed.

We exited the bedroom and softly shut the door.

‘I’ll kill them,’ I said. ‘Lockwood, I swear I’m going to kill them.’

He said nothing; he was very still, standing in the shadows of the landing. I kicked out at the banister, hurting my foot in the process. I had to move. I had to strike at something. The fury I felt was otherwise too great.

‘Sir Rupert Gale and those big bloody henchmen of his! I’m going to take my sword and go out and find them, and make them pay.’

‘You’re not going to do that, Lucy.’

‘I am. I’m going to kill them.’

‘You’re not.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’d only fluff it somehow. Also because it’s not our style. We’re going to do something better. And we’re going to do it as a team.’

I stopped trying to destroy his house and looked at him. A shaft of light was coming through the landing window; in its brightness Lockwood looked insubstantial, like he was some figure on stained glass. ‘Our enemies think we’re weak,’ he went on. ‘Truth is, I’ve been holding back until now.’ He smiled at me, his eyes as hard as flint. ‘Well, all that ends today. We’ll strike them where they least expect it. We’ll strike them, Lucy, and we’ll take them down.’





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Lockwood’s vow sounded good, especially spoken in that shaft of sunlight and all, but I couldn’t help noticing that he wasn’t spelling out any details. In fact, he was damn vague. This didn’t bother me particularly – I knew he’d think of something. I just guessed it would take him a while to figure out a plan.