The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(59)

Kipps stared at me. ‘Everyone’s a critic. Know how I got these? I was dressed as a workman, painting the railings on the house opposite.’ He shook his head ruefully. ‘I tell you, it’s a devil of a job whipping a camera out of your pocket and pointing it at people without them noticing.’

‘You did fine,’ Lockwood said. ‘Hey, I recognize some of the others. Those are the old twins who run the Sunrise Corporation, aren’t they? The society has some very prominent members. How many are usually in the building overnight?’

‘At a guess, four or five. The secretary always is. He seems to live there.’

Lockwood tapped his fingertips together. ‘Well, it’s not ideal territory for a burglar. Still, they’re just a bunch of old codgers. If any of them do disturb us, we knock them down, tie them up and get on with the operation. It’s not the most refined of plans, but frankly I’m not in the mood for anything more sophisticated. Questions?’

Holly raised her hand. ‘It’s just I’m not quite sure how we’re getting in.’

‘Oh, don’t bother about that. Kipps has sussed it. Any other questions?’

‘What about George?’ I said. ‘Are we happy to leave him with Flo?’

Lockwood nodded. ‘She’s being very attentive. I think he’ll be OK.’

At that moment a raucous and indescribable sound came from upstairs. I’ve never heard the noise of a hyena being ritually disembowelled, but chances are this was less attractive. We drew apart in shock.

‘I think that’s Flo laughing,’ Lockwood whispered. ‘She must be trying to cheer George up. Dear God, what a day.’

The district of St James’s, where the Orpheus Society had its headquarters, was well-defended against the wakeful dead. By night, ranks of ghost-lamps winked and shone along every street, while runnels of water flowed beside the pavements and braziers of lavender burned before the broad black doors. From the rooftop where we stood, catching our breath after the climb, we could see the purple embers glittering far below us and smell the lavender on the air. Somewhere far off, a siren howled. Lockwood was standing on a roof crest, staring out towards the west. A gentle wind swept his hair back, set the ends of his coat flapping. His hand rested on his rapier hilt. He looked pensive, as if he was gazing into the future and finding something sad. It made my heart hurt to see him.

‘He is such a poser,’ a voice said disgustedly from my rucksack. ‘He’s just doing that for effect. There’s no real reason for him to be up there. Bet we’re not even going in that direction.’

‘We are,’ I said. ‘These roofs run all the way to the Orpheus Society building. He’s just checking the route’s clear.’

The skull snorted. ‘Of course it’s clear! That’s the whole point of being up here, isn’t it? Might get a few roosting pigeons, maybe step on a dead cat. Other than that, it’s an easy stroll – if we could all stop looking lost and noble and just get on with it.’

Our route had been easy up until that point. We had walked to St James’s, almost to the very street where the Orpheus Society was based, then detoured under Kipps’s direction to a townhouse in the road beyond that was being renovated. Its frontage was covered with scaffolding. Ladders took us to the uppermost floor, and a quick scramble got us onto the roof. We were in a landscape of moonlit tiles and shadowed gutters, a world of crests and troughs that stretched to the horizon like a frozen sea.

Lockwood beckoned to us; he skittered down the roof on the far side, and reappeared by a chimney further on. Hoisting up our rucksacks, we followed in silence, boots slipping and sliding, trying to ignore the fearful drop into the street below. There were no pigeons, no dead cats; after a few minutes we came to a place where a twist of blue fabric had been tied around a chimney pot, and a length of rope, end noosed securely about the stack itself, lay in a neat coil. Kipps had prepared our way the night before.

‘Here we are,’ Lockwood said. ‘We’re above the Orpheus building now.’ He checked his penknife was fastened to his work-belt, and took his balaclava out of his pocket. ‘It’s time. Masks on.’

Kipps was fiddling with his goggles. ‘Do you think these should be worn on top of my balaclava, or underneath it?’

‘On top, for sure,’ Holly said. ‘Otherwise you’ll look more than usually deformed.’

‘That’s what I thought. Need anything else, Lockwood?’

‘No.’ Lockwood’s face was hidden beneath the balaclava. He tossed the end of the rope out into space. Now he took its length in his hands and began walking backwards towards the edge. ‘Keep your eye on the rope,’ he said. ‘I’ll tug it when it’s safe to come down.’

He reached the lip of the tiles and eased himself out over the void. For an instant he hung there, leaning back, his boots planted on the very edge. Then he went on lowering himself, hand over hand. In a few seconds he was out of sight.

We crouched like gargoyles on the roof, faceless, hunched beneath our rucksacks, swords glinting in the starlight. Wind blew the tips of Holly’s hair where it showed from under her balaclava. From somewhere came a tiny tinkling of broken glass. We waited; we watched the rope. We didn’t move.

‘Bet he’s fallen off,’ the skull said. ‘Bet that tinkling was him hitting a greenhouse far below.’