The Empty Grave (Lockwood & Co. #5)(94)
‘I’ve found a row of guns,’ he said cheerily. ‘They’ve got the Sunrise Corporation logo, and they seem remarkably similar to those electrical jobs you were telling me about – the ones the Orpheus bunch had. And look at these babies …’ He patted some large egg-shaped metal objects. ‘These look like industrial-strength flares to me – the sort Fittes sometimes use for clearing big ghost clusters. I was wondering if we might nick a few samples of each, Lockwood, just in case we run into any problems.’
Lockwood’s smile was wolf-like. ‘You know, George, I think that’s a very good idea.’
It was a shame not to take the silver lift. Its door was inscribed with the Fittes emblem: a noble unicorn, rampant, holding a lantern in its hoof. There was a tortoiseshell button on the wall, and a floor dial overhead, showing numbers from -4 to 7. Right now the arrow pointed to 7, the penthouse floor. That was where we ought to be going. But Lockwood was right: getting Kipps to safety was the most important thing.
We called up a bronze lift. One arrived quietly and admitted us all, though it was a squeeze. Lockwood pressed the button for the ground floor. We stood inside it, listening to the smooth hum. No one spoke. I adjusted my rapier. Even though it was the early hours, many Fittes agents would certainly be at work; we expected a confrontation before we were done.
There was a melodic ting, the humming stopped; the door opened onto the ground floor. Lockwood & Co. stepped out of the lift into the Hall of Fallen Heroes. We had all removed our capes now, and were more or less as nature intended – swords at our belts; hands hanging loose; calm, implacable expressions on our faces. I had the ghost-jar under one arm. Kipps lay quiet on the trolley. The remains of Lockwood’s coat had been laid over him as a blanket to keep him warm.
In the hall, flames burned on plinths to commemorate the many young agents who had died in action down the years. Urns of flowers and ancient rapiers sat beneath each shrine. Oil paintings of sombre, serious-looking girls and boys lined the walls – all legendary, all celebrated, all long since dead and gone. They’d been cut down in their youth fighting the Problem; the same Problem that had in all probability been caused by the woman upstairs.
Our jackets swung, our boots tapped quietly on the marbled floor, the ghost in the jar grinned evilly as we strode in a line down the centre of the room. The impressive effect was only slightly undermined by a squeaky wheel on Kipps’s trolley. Even so, everyone we met stepped aside to let us through. Clerical workers stared from above their sheaves of typing; Fittes operatives gawped as we passed by. One old adult supervisor called out sharply to us; we paid him no heed and continued on our way.
At the end of the corridor was the Hall of Pillars – that grandest of all shrines, testament to the achievements of Marissa – where the nine famous ghosts hung imprisoned in their Relic Columns. At that hour it was dark – or almost so. The lights in the chandeliers had been turned down low, so that the ceiling frescoes glinted in the shadows, bright but out of focus, like fragments of remembered dreams. In their pillars the ghosts moved soundlessly, spilling out twisting rainbows of other-light. The floor was stained with shifting blues and greens.
The hall was deserted. Beyond it was the foyer, and our exit to the street. We began to walk across it, boots tapping, wheel squeaking. In the nearest column I saw the translucent shape of Long Hugh Hennratty, the highwayman, grinning at us from behind his billowing rags. And nearby, an array of other horrors: the swirling Dark Spectre that hung above the tiny Frank Street coffin; the Gory Girl of Cumberland Place; the Morden Poltergeist; the Phantasm of the mad inventor G?del, forever searching for his missing arm.
We reached the centre of the hall. As we did so, Lockwood slowed, then brought the trolley to a halt. He sniffed the air.
‘Hello, Sir Rupert,’ he said.
A slight, slim figure stepped out from behind the Gory Girl’s pillar, bringing with it a brash and overpowering whiff of aftershave. Sir Rupert Gale was bathed in the ghost’s deep blue other-light. He clicked his fingers; a set of burly shadows pulled clear of the other pillars and stepped forward to block our way. More men emerged from the darkness at the periphery of the room; they formed a ring around us. They wore the grey jackets of the Fittes Agency and were armed with cudgels and swords.
George, Holly and I stood silently next to Lockwood. On the trolley, Kipps was a limp form.
‘Well,’ Sir Rupert said, ‘it’s Lockwood and his friends again! You do turn up in the most unexpected places.’ His voice was as urbane as ever, and his clothes were dapper too; tonight he wore a grey-green jacket with black lapels, dark trousers and a vibrant yellow tie. But the smile he gave was a gap-toothed grimace. There were bruises on his face, and a red weal from Lockwood’s sword-cut on his forehead. When he moved his hand, I could see strapping at his wrist where I’d struck him more than twenty-four hours previously. His eyes glittered with incivility.
‘It’s not unexpected to see you here, Sir Rupert,’ Lockwood said, smiling. ‘In fact, I’ve been actively looking forward to it. We’ve some unfinished business to attend to.’
Sir Rupert Gale nodded slowly. ‘I thought you’d robbed me of the pleasure, stepping through that circle. It’s good of you to give me a second crack at it.’ He gestured at the ring of men. ‘You’ll see I’m not relying on stupid criminals this time.’