The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(72)

Someone did. Flo offered round the remaining chocolates. Everyone politely refused.

‘The book’s definitely by Marissa,’ George said. ‘No question about it. I recognize her style from the Memoirs and other writings. But it’s a strange piece of work. She must have written it when she was very young, because there’s nothing about her being an agent, or psychic detection, or anything practical. It’s all much more airy-fairy than that, full of weird theories about life and death. The thing that really jumps out is her obsession with the stuff that spirits are made of. She thinks ghosts are proof that this substance is immortal. The body falls away, and the spirit continues on.’

‘We’re back to ectoplasm, then,’ Holly said.

‘Yes,’ George said, ‘though she calls it by other fancy names too: “the soul”, “eternal essence”, stuff like that. And she doesn’t see it as dangerous, like it is when a ghost touches you over here. She thinks that on the Other Side it gets much purer. She reckons that if you could get hold of it somehow, if you could capture it and absorb it, it would rejuvenate your body and make it young again.’

‘Which is exactly what’s happened!’ I said. ‘The woman we call Penelope is really Marissa – only young again! That would explain what the skull’s been telling us.’

‘Absorb it?’ Kipps echoed. ‘How would that work? What, does she bathe in it or something? Does she eat it? What?’

George shook his head. ‘In the book she waffles on about an “elixir of youth”, but I don’t think she really knew at that point. It’s all theory. Clearly she’s got it figured out now, though. She and her pals must use a spirit-gate to go over to the Other Side and collect the plasm. But there’s one other thing I noticed … I had to scribble the passage down, it was so good. It’s stuffed down the back pocket of my pyjama bottoms, if you could just reach it for me, Lockwood. My arms are too stiff.’

‘Must I? Oh God, all right – there you go.’

‘Thanks.’ George took the crumpled piece of paper. ‘Remember how we were guessing that Marissa had a pet Type Three of her own to help her? Well, she does. Listen to this quote. It’s a beauty: Such matters are beyond the wit of man or woman, and we must turn to the spirits themselves to help us. One such, fair of form and wise of countenance, comes regularly to me. I have spoken with him since I was a child. Dear Ezekiel is learned in matters of life and death, he understands buried secrets and the minds of mortals. With his help, we can transcend our baser natures and make ourselves pure.’ George put the paper down with an air of finality. ‘Couldn’t be much clearer, could it? She’s had a spirit adviser all along.’

‘This Ezekiel sounds a tad more informative than your tatty old skull, Luce,’ Lockwood commented. ‘Thanks, George.’ He sat back and considered us, his team and his associates, all sitting silently round the table. ‘Well, here’s the situation as I see it,’ he said at last. ‘If we could get into the inner regions of Fittes House, we’d no doubt find ample proof of everything George has discovered. We’d find evidence of Marissa’s crimes. We’d find the gate she’s using to get to the Other Side too. But we can’t get in. The place is too well guarded. Barnes might do it, but there’s no way he’d risk a confrontation with Marissa. I went to ask him yesterday, and he again said no.’ Lockwood shook his head. ‘The upshot is: we’re on our own right now, with Winkman and his men likely to pay us a visit very soon. So I suppose I should say at this point that anyone who wants to leave is free to go. Me, I’m staying at Portland Row. It’s my home, and I’m not abandoning it for anyone. But you—’

‘Shut up, Lockwood,’ Holly said. ‘None of us are turning tail at this point.’

Kipps grunted. ‘No matter how crazy your plans.’

Lockwood’s grin was wide, infectious. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘In that case the question I’d ask you is a very simple one.’ He looked at us. ‘What are we prepared to do to win?’

An hour later, Holly and I were sitting with Lockwood outside his sister’s bedroom. The door was wide open, and cold emanations from the death-glow above the bed pulsed across the landing. We had emptied the final shipping crate and, amid a sea of scattered wood shavings, were unwrapping the objects it contained. There were wooden masks, carved sticks, brightly coloured pottery jars sealed with wax, and opaque glass bottles. Anything that had the remotest psychic potential we piled in one corner; the rest we cast aside. It was the same procedure we’d used when emptying the other crates, only now carried out in double-quick time.

The skull in the jar was with us too. It was still in a bad mood after our argument the night before. So was I, for that matter. Everything was pretty much as usual, then.

‘Don’t tell me,’ it said. ‘Another crisis. Or is sitting knee-deep in haunted objects the latest craze for all idiot agents? What are you going to do – play Pass the Parcel now? “When the music stops, the Source explodes and a ghost will eat your face.” I can’t really see it catching on.’

‘If you could try to be helpful for a moment,’ I growled, ‘we’re separating out all the strongest Sources. Some we’re sure of, others we’re not.’ I pointed to our ‘of interest’ pile. ‘What do you think of these?’