Constable & Toop (23 page)

Mr Tiltman closed the door behind him, leaving Sam alone in the room. Sam wondered that a man with such a house could be so trusting and not assume he might steal some ornament then make his escape. He walked to the door and listened for footsteps. He didn't want to betray Mr Tiltman's trust, but he needed to find the ghost.

‘You'd better not be planning on stealing nothing from this house. This family have been through enough as it is,' said a voice behind him.

He turned to see the ghost of a ragged little girl standing behind him.

‘I'm not going to steal anything,' said Sam.

In different circumstances Sam might have laughed at how the girl jumped as she realised that he had heard what she said. ‘You can see me?' she said, astonished.

‘My name is Sam. I'm a Talker.'

‘I'm Emily. What's a Talker?'

‘It means a living person who can see and hear the dead. How did he get you in here?'

‘Who?'

‘The man who got you into this house. How did Jack persuade you to enter?'

‘You know his name? You know that man's name?'

‘Yes. He's my uncle. How did he convince you?'

‘He didn't convince nor persuade me,' said Emily. ‘He slashed my throat and dragged me in.'

Sam's eyes were drawn to the slit in Emily's throat. He had to steady himself as Emily's words sunk in. He remembered Jack showing him his knife, with its sharp blade and stained handle. He remembered Inspector Savage talking of his previous victim having his throat cut. It was suddenly extremely clear what was happening. Jack was using Tanner for something and in return he was filling infected houses, but Jack wasn't negotiating with ghosts. He hated talking to ghosts. Jack was taking innocent people off the street and murdering them. He was killing them for their ghosts.

Emily was talking. She wanted to know why she had died, but Sam didn't know what to say. He couldn't bring himself to utter anything other than, ‘I'm so sorry . . .'

‘Father?' The voice came from the hallway. The door opened and another girl stepped in, this one very much alive. The girl's hair was as short as a boy's. She had large hazel eyes and was undoubtedly the most beautiful thing Sam had ever set eyes on.

‘Who are you?' she asked.

‘I'm Sam,' he replied idiotically. ‘I'm waiting for . . .' but he couldn't remember the name of the chimney sweep and his voice trailed away.

‘Who were you just talking to just now?' she asked.

‘No one,' said Sam. ‘That is to say, I was speaking to no one but myself.'

‘You haven't told me who yourself is,' said the girl.

Mr Tiltman entered the room behind her and Sam was struck by the family resemblance. ‘Clara,' he said. ‘I see you've met Master Toop. He's waiting for Mr Compton.'

Sam felt confused. Emily was still talking to him, demanding an explanation about why she had been killed. He glanced at her and saw Clara following his gaze.

‘He's very clean for a chimney sweep,' said Clara.

‘I'm learning the trade,' replied Sam.

‘Yes, I suppose it must take some training to get that dirty,' said Mr Tiltman, making Clara laugh.

‘I have to go,' said Sam.

‘But Mr Compton hasn't arrived yet.'

‘I don't think he's coming,' replied Sam.

‘Very well, then.' Mr Tiltman moved out of his way. Sam saw him exchange a glance with his daughter, both of them clearly amused by his behaviour, but Sam couldn't concentrate enough to even attempt to act normally. He had to get out and escape this house. He felt terrified by what he had just learnt and paralysed by the girl's beauty. Emily was crying.

‘I'm sorry,' said Sam, making for the door.

The Tiltmans looked confused at the apology, not realising it had not been meant for them.

Lapsewood stepped into the Central Records Library trying to look as if he was supposed to be there, but it had been a while since he had been inside and he couldn't help looking up to take in its splendour. It was without a doubt the most spectacular room in the Bureau. Its walls rose up higher than the highest cathedral and every one was filled with books and files detailing all aspects of post-life business since records began. Great ladders on runners adorned the walls, which librarians used to reach their required records. The use of ladders was another example of how the Bureau attempted to normalise the business of being dead. Occasionally one of the more doddery librarians would topple and be forced to turn to Ether Dust while the ladder clattered to the floor, but it was strictly forbidden to float up to a shelf.

Correct procedure required Lapsewood to take a request docket to the enquiries desk for validation, then take the validated docket to the record request desk, await for an available assistant, hand over the docket (which would have to be verified with the same officer who validated it) before it was put into the queue of requests to be dealt with. All this could take weeks.

Instead, Lapsewood found a directory which would tell him the section of the library he was looking for. While he was flicking through the pages a librarian arrived, also wanting to use the directory, but didn't think to question Lapsewood's authority. The idea of someone doing anything unprocedural was virtually unthinkable so no one thought it. By the time Lapsewood had found what he was looking for, there was a queue of librarians waiting behind him.

When he located the section, he found ten blank-faced librarians waiting patiently to use the ladder. Turning to Ether Dust would attract too much unwanted attention so he needed to find a way to jump the queue. No easy task when there were so many signs on the walls warning of the dire consequences that awaited queue jumpers without the correct documentation. Lapsewood watched the elderly librarian slowly make his way down. He tapped the shoulder of the man at the back of the queue. His name tag read:
mr bryson
.

‘Mr Bryson?' he said quietly.

‘Yes?' said the librarian.

‘I've a message from Mr Doddrington. You're to go to the front of the queue.'

The man looked at Lapsewood as if he had just suggested something utterly unspeakable. ‘Me? Why?'

‘Your priority rating has been upped. You should go now before the next librarian goes up.'

‘Do you have fast-track documentation for me?' asked the librarian, twitching nervously.

‘It's being generated as we speak.'

‘Should I not check it with Mr Doddrington?' said Mr Bryson.

‘No time,' said Lapsewood. ‘Come on, now.'

Without further argument Mr Bryson walked to the front of the queue just as the previous librarian stepped off the ladder. ‘I'm sorry,' he said to the next in line. ‘I have been given permission to queue jump.'

As Lapsewood had hoped, the other librarian demanded to see his paperwork. Lapsewood moved out of sight to avoid being dragged into the dispute. It wasn't long before voices were raised, accusations were being flung and threats were being made. More of the librarians in the queue got involved. Choosing his moment carefully, Lapsewood slipped past the throng, and quickly climbed up the ladder, unnoticed by the bickering librarians.

He found the correct shelf and looked for the London Tenancy List. It wasn't there. He checked again. Perhaps it had been put back in the wrong place. But there was no list. He quickly climbed down the ladder, where the argument was still in full swing, and made his way over to the enquiries desk, in search of the signing-out ledger.

The old female clerk behind the desk was looking anxiously over at the corner of the room, where there was an unacceptable amount of noise.

‘What's going on over there?' she asked.

‘There's some kind of ladder dispute,' replied Lapsewood. ‘Perhaps you should remind them of the rules regarding noise.'

‘Yes, I will,' she said. ‘Will you mind the desk?'

‘Certainly.'

As soon as she stepped out from behind the desk, Lapsewood found the huge ledger and turned to the page where the list had been signed out. There, under the name of the signing-out clerk, was the name
Alice Biggins
. Lapsewood stared at it for a moment but was brought to his senses when he realised that Mr Bryson had spotted him and was pointing him out to the desk clerk. It was time to go.

Clara no longer knew what she was writing. She only knew she couldn't stop. It was certainly not the well-argued unpicking of Reverend Fallowfield's trickery her father had requested. There was no doubt in Clara's mind that the exorcisms she had witnessed in her home and St Winifred's School were as genuine as they were cruel and brutal. She wrote page after page, putting down her thoughts, trying to order them, to give them structure, to make sense of them. She wrote about her brief encounter with Lady Aysgarth's ghost. She wrote about the ghost in the school and the list of haunted buildings that had ended up in her hands. She wrote of her frustration of having such a list when she was unable to communicate with their ghostly inhabitants.

Reverend Fallowfield was never far from her thoughts, but she had not referred to him in front of her parents since the visit to the school. Aunt Hetty had been the last person to bring up his name, during a recent visit, when she announced that although he was undoubtedly gifted, he really only ever did the same thing. Hetty had hoped he might extend his act to include, say, the summoning of the ghosts of famous historical figures, but he had dismissed this idea out of hand and Hetty had found alternative entertainment in a Spaniard who claimed to be able to eat absolutely anything. Mr Tiltman seemed reluctant to have this new person over for a dinner party, fearing that he would have to buy yet more replacement cutlery.

Clara allowed her parents to believe she too had lost interest in Reverend Fallowfield, just as they hoped she would one day drop the notion of becoming a journalist. The newspapermen who had visited after the discovery of the dead girl in the kitchen had certainly not made the profession seem any more glamorous to her. Intrusive, rude, snivelling men, who smelt of tobacco and augmented every quote with a string of sensationalist adjectives, they were more interested in the bloody details than in the reason behind the girl's death. Still, Clara read every word of their overblown reports while her mother went to great lengths to avoid them. Since the incident, Mrs Tiltman habitually checked the doors were locked and spoke incessantly about moving away from the city, causing a number of heated rows with her husband.

Clara knew that eventually her father would give in. Her days in London were numbered. Her mother would get her own way and they would move to a boring suburb. Clara didn't want to leave the city. Nor did she want to abandon Aysgarth House. Since the discovery of the girl the place felt different. It felt how it used to when Lady Aysgarth's ghost had still been there.

‘It is as if the ghost of the girl has replaced that of Lady Aysgarth,'
Clara wrote.

She stopped and read the sentence back. Yes, that was exactly what it felt like. She looked at the toy theatre. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she could have sworn she saw something move. She took a couple of steps towards it. She glanced at the window. There was no breeze outside and the window was shut tight, preventing any draught. Yet one of the paper actors had moved.

‘Hello?' she said.

Nothing.

‘Hello?' she repeated.

There was no movement.

When a bell rang Clara jumped out of her skin, but it was only Hopkins announcing dinner. She glanced at the theatre one more time before leaving the room.

Sam placed the plate of eggs on the table and sat down to breakfast with his father.

‘Thank you, Sam.' Mr Toop carefully folded his newspaper and picked up a knife and fork.

Sam had not spoken to him of his discovery about Uncle Jack. His father had protected Jack from the police once already. Would he do it again if he knew what was happening? Since his disappearance Mr Toop had taken to buying a newspaper every day. Sam didn't need to ask why. He understood he was looking for news of his brother's arrest. Whether he was hoping they would capture Jack or that he would get away, Sam was unsure. All he knew was that his father had once been close to his brother. As close as brothers. As thick as thieves.

‘Anything in the paper?' asked Sam.

‘The usual assortment of death and theft,' Mr Toop replied wryly.

‘Theft is a subject you know something about,' said Sam quietly.

Mr Toop folded the paper. ‘So Jack has told you of our past. You're upset,' he said.

‘Not upset,' replied Sam. ‘I know that for those who have nothing, stealing can seem like the only option. You have always taught me that.'

Mr Toop picked up his empty mug. ‘Is there more tea in the pot?'

Sam stood up to pour his father another cup.

‘I taught you it because I believe it to be true,' said Mr Toop. ‘Not as an excuse for what I did. Nor does it alleviate my guilt. I am ashamed of what I did then.'

‘So you chose to forget,' said Sam.

‘Memory does not allow such simple selective decisions. In my experience, fond memories are too easily lost. It is the terrible ones that lodge themselves firmly in one's mind.'

‘So why put Jack in my room with me? You must have known he would tell me.'

‘Perhaps I wanted him to,' confessed Mr Toop. ‘I never chose to hide anything from you, Sam. It is just that some things are more difficult to say. After all this time . . .' He trailed off.

‘Jack said you only got your apprenticeship because you stole from the carpenter and that you abandoned him after that.'