The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(61)

Even so, we lingered. Other boxes contained silver gauntlets to wear on the hands and mesh boots to protect the feet. Most of the boxes had names scribbled on them, presumably their owner’s; some were familiar ones, including heads of industry. Our eyes flashed at each other from within the balaclavas. There was triumph in our looks, but also fear. Our finds had deep significance. Way too deep. We could feel an abyss opening beneath our feet. If we stumbled, we had a long way to fall.

We left the room and moved soundlessly to the end of the corridor. There was a stairwell there, lit by golden chandeliers. The steps were carpeted in red, and dark portraits of austere, bearded men glowered at us from inside heavy frames. It was the kind of stairwell where you could look over the top to see the hallway, three storeys down. We did so; lamps flickered on the landings below, but otherwise everything was still. Not silent, though. The noise of clocks was louder here. We could hear them ticking deep in the belly of the house. It was a place that seemed very conscious of time.

‘We try the next floor, then,’ Lockwood whispered. ‘Everyone OK?’

Three nods; four shadows stealing down the steps, pressing close to the wall. We’d travelled light for this raid, keeping our swords and explosive weapons, but dispensing with heavy stuff like iron canisters and chains. The carpet absorbed all sound. Tiptoeing round the curve of the stairwell, we saw the second-floor landing before us. It was much the same as the one above. A plaster bust of a heavy-featured woman sat on a plinth, eyeing us with displeasure. There were ferns in plant pots. Beyond was a corridor, and yet more doors.

Somewhere in the bowels of the house a door opened, releasing smatterings of distant conversation. Just as quickly, the noise cut off and everything was quiet again. We stood frozen on the stairs. Nothing further could be heard. At last Lockwood gave the signal and we padded down onto the landing.

A quick glance showed us that the corridor was just as dimly lit and elegantly furnished as its counterpart above. No one was there. Lockwood moved to the nearest door, listened, and eased it open. He gave a soft exclamation. ‘We may not have to look much further,’ he whispered. ‘This is some kind of library.’

In seconds we were inside, with the door closed behind us. Holly lit a lantern, and by its light we saw that Lockwood’s optimism was justified. It was a broad, rectangular chamber running along the street side of the building. Two tall windows looked out at the townhouses opposite. Each wall, painted a dark maroon, was inset with white wooden bookcases; between them hung old maps and paintings. Heavy reading tables were dotted around, along with leather armchairs, each with its own standard lamp. A bust of a dour-looking man in goggles sat on one table. A vast and beautiful globe, made of countless pieces of coloured inlaid wood, hung in a silver frame.

‘Got to be in here somewhere,’ Lockwood said, spinning the globe gently. ‘So, it’s a book called Occult Theories that we’re after. Let’s get looking.’

Holly set the lantern on the table. We spread out, scanning the shelves.

It turned out that most of the books had been bound in black leather, with the Orpheus harp imprinted on the front. They also had the name of the author embossed on the spine, and had been arranged alphabetically, but since the author of Occult Theories was officially anonymous, that didn’t help much. Time passed; occasionally I went to the door and listened, but everything seemed still.

At last Holly sprang up from a shelf near the window with a thin volume in her hand. ‘Got it!’ she called. ‘Occult Theories! This is it for sure.’

We gathered around her. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ Lockwood said. ‘Well done, Hol. George will be pleased.’

‘He’d have loved this room,’ I said. ‘So many weird books. Look at this one: Dark London, an Interim Cartography. What do you think that means?’

‘I don’t know, but—’

‘Did you hear something?’ Holly asked.

We looked at her. ‘Hear what?’

‘Don’t know. A clang somewhere.’

I was closest to the door. I stole over, opened it and looked out into the corridor. As before, the lights were low, the carpet soft and gleaming. I listened intently, but could hear nothing apart from the tick, tick, ticking of the clocks.

‘Skull?’ I said.

‘No psychic disturbance. Everything’s quiet. Remarkably quiet.’

‘Good.’

‘One might almost say ominously quiet …’

I came back in and shut the door. ‘We should get out while we can.’

Lockwood nodded. ‘We’ll study the book at home. Come on.’

We picked up our bags, silently scouring the room in case we’d left anything. Holly adjusted the globe so that it was in the same position as before. ‘Best to leave no traces,’ she said, smiling. We gathered at the door.

Except for Lockwood. He was staring at the bookshelf next to him. All at once he darted over and pulled something out. It was a thin pamphlet bound in black leather.

‘More stuff about Marissa?’ I said.

‘No …’ He held up the spine to show us. The word Lockwood was embossed on it in gold leaf. ‘It’s by my parents,’ Lockwood said. ‘Remember last year, when we met the secretary of the society? He said my parents had once given a lecture here. This must be a transcript of it.’ He flipped the pamphlet open to the first page.