The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(60)
The rope twitched violently – once, and then again. I was nearest. As always where heights were concerned, it was a case of not thinking too much. Following Lockwood’s example, I took the rope and lowered myself out and down. I tried to ignore the drag of my rucksack as it hung between my shoulder blades; also the surrounding empty space.
I focused only on my boots – always seeing them planted safely, first on slate tiles, then on black guttering, then rough, dark brickwork, down and down and down.
Presently I saw white wood beneath my boots, and the glass of a raised sash window. There was a glow of a lantern; Lockwood was below me, signalling. Obeying his gestures, I walked down the side of the window frame until I reached the opening. His arms caught me, drew me inside.
He grinned at me in the dark. ‘Enjoying yourself, Luce?’ He tugged the rope again. ‘I had to break a corner of the pane, but I don’t think anyone heard.’
His lantern was turned to its lowest setting; even so, I could make out the details of the room in which I stood. It contained an oval table with four chairs, a sideboard with bottles of water and stacks of glasses. A cup of pens sat on the table next to a small clock. The wall was covered in dark paper and decorated with framed photographs of Orpheus members from down the years. There was a strong smell of furniture polish and lavender. Automatically I used my Talents too, though I scarcely expected any psychic disturbance. There was none. It was a private meeting room; I’d seen similar ones in countless offices across London.
I turned back to the window to help Lockwood bring the others in. In moments, first Holly and then Kipps were dangling outside the casement. Nothing went wrong; soon we stood together in the little room, listening to the ticking of the clock.
Lockwood took another rope from his bag and tied it to a leg of the table. ‘If we have to leave in a hurry,’ he said, ‘we throw this out and go down. No messing around trying to climb. But this room is our exit – OK? If we’re separated, head back here.’
‘So where to now?’ I said. ‘The reading room’s on the first floor, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but that may not be where George’s book is. We’ll search systematically. Above all, keep it quiet. If we can do this without disturbance, so much the better.’
Leaving the lantern burning at the window, we crossed the room, our torches sweeping the walls. Lockwood slowly opened the door; beyond was a wide, dark corridor running along the spine of the building. It was dark, but lights glowed at the far end, where it opened onto a staircase. Thick red carpets muffled our footfall. From somewhere came the ticking of another clock; otherwise there was no sound in the house.
‘Skull,’ I whispered. ‘Sense anything?’
‘Just the flutter of your hearts, the taste of your fear. Is that what you meant?’
‘I was thinking more of supernatural activity … Let me know.’
Most of the rooms leading off the corridor had their doors open, and we quickly established that these were other meeting rooms, bathrooms, even a little bedroom. All were nicely furnished, but otherwise unexceptional. But there was one door which Holly tried that was of far more interest. As she swung her torch around the dark interior, she gave a stifled cry and sprang back, ripping her rapier free.
In seconds, the rest of us were at her side.
‘It’s all right,’ she whispered. ‘It’s just – for one horrible moment I thought it was filled with people.’
Lockwood pushed the door open; and, despite Holly’s assurances, I couldn’t help giving an involuntary start. Our collective torch beams lit up what looked like a row of hooded figures standing in line. The Bloody Monks of Ashford, one of our earliest cases, had lined up in a pretty similar way, and they’d shone with the same eerie silver light – except for the bloody bits, obviously. But these weren’t ghosts. Even as your skin was crawling and your legs begging you to run, your brain was picking out the very ordinary clothes rack, the row of coat hangers on which the robes were hung. Elsewhere were boxes, stacked neatly, each bearing the imprint of a Grecian harp, which was the Orpheus Society’s symbol.
The house was quiet, and it was too interesting a room to bypass, though there were clearly no books in it. I went to the rack and ran my fingers over the silver robes. To my surprise, they weren’t made of cloth or silk, but had countless tiny scales, light as gossamer and neatly sewn together. They flowed like water through my hands.
‘These cloaks, Lockwood,’ I said. ‘Remind you of anything?’
He nodded. ‘Our spirit-capes were feathery, but otherwise they might almost be the same. Look at the way the silver flakes are held to the mesh.’ I couldn’t see him frowning, but I heard the perplexity in his voice. ‘They are so similar …’
‘And look,’ Kipps said. ‘More goggles like mine.’
He’d opened one of the boxes; inside was a curious helmet, soft and shapeless and also made of silvery scales, with a pair of heavy goggles fixed to it.
‘That’s not so unexpected,’ I said. ‘We stole yours from a member of the society in the first place … Lockwood – they wear these things on the Other Side …’
‘These idiots are doing the same thing Rotwell did,’ Lockwood said. ‘Meddling with things that shouldn’t concern them. Well, we haven’t come here for this. We don’t really have time to spare.’