Lockwood (19 page)

‘No.’

‘But you do know where we might find him?’

Her eyes brightened. She took a sip of coffee, frowned, and tipped another spoon-load of sugar into the black syrup. A frenzy of stirring followed while we watched and waited; at last the ritual was complete. Finally she regarded us both levelly. ‘No.’

I made a movement in the direction of my rapier. Lockwood adjusted a napkin on the table. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘So when you claim to
know
Carver, you mean this in quite a generalized, limited, not to say completely useless way?’

Flo Bones raised her cup, drank the mixture in a gulp. ‘I know the nature of his reputation, I know what he does with the artefacts he steals, and I know how a message could be got to him, all of which might be of some interest to you.’

Lockwood sat back, hands flat on the table. ‘Ah, yes. They would, if true. But how could you get a message to him when you don’t know him from Adam?’

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘You’d put it in a mouldy skull and leave it at midnight in an open grave.’

‘Nope, I’d pin a notice over there.’ She pointed at the corkboard beside the door. ‘That’s how people of my profession keep in touch. It’s not done often, mind, we as a rule being solitary types. But there’s several boards like that serve a certain function.’ She wiped her nose on her fingers, and her fingers on her coat. ‘The Hare and Horsewhip has one, but we can’t use that.’

I frowned, but Lockwood seemed to think it plausible enough. ‘Interesting. I might just do that. How would I address it?’

‘Mark it for the attention of “The Graveyard Fellowship”. That’s relic-men, to you and me. Carver might not see it himself, but someone else might, and pass word on.’

‘This is no good to us,’ I snapped. ‘We need something concrete. What does Carver do with his relics when he’s stolen them?’

‘He takes ’em to Winkman. Can I have another coffee?’

‘No you bloody can’t. Not until you’ve given us the details. Then, all the coffee you want.’

‘Or we can just pour you out a bowl of sugar and you can drizzle a teaspoonful of coffee on top,’ Lockwood said. ‘Might be simpler that way.’

‘Hilarious,’ Flo said unsmilingly. ‘You always was a regular comedian. All right, I’ll tell you about Carver. There’s two types of relic-collector. Those, such as moi, who make our way quietly in the world, looking for forgotten things of psychic significance. We don’t give no trouble, and we don’t look for it neither. Then there’s the others. They’re too impatient to mess about with shore-combing. They like things that give quick profit, notwithstanding they might be another’s property. So these boys haunt the cemeteries, stealing what they can; and they aren’t above robbing the
living
too, even if it means . . .’

I looked at her. ‘Means what?’

‘Killing ’em dead.’ She looked at us with contemptuous satisfaction. ‘Knocking a person on the head, slitting their throat from ear to ear; or throttling them slow, if they’ve a fancy. Then they nick their goods. That’s their game. ’Spect it shocks you – what with your soft hands and lily-white faces.’ She grinned at us. ‘Anyhow, this Carver,’ she went on; ‘he’s one of the lean and hungry ones. He’s a killer. I’ve seen him in places much like this, and I can tell you he wears the threat of violence round him like a cloak.’

‘The threat of violence?’ Lockwood said. ‘How d’you mean?’

‘It’s hard to say. Maybe it’s the gleam in his eye, the cruel thinness of his lips . . . even something in the way he stands. Plus I saw him beat a man almost to death once just for looking at him funny.’

We absorbed this in silence. ‘We heard he’s red-haired, pale-skinned, always wears black,’ I said.

‘Yeah. And he’s tattooed, they say. Remarkable tattoos, and all.’

I blinked. ‘Why remarkable? What are they of?’

‘Can’t tell you. You’re too young.’

‘But we fight murderous phantoms every night. How can we be too young?’

‘If you can’t guess, you’re
definitely
not old enough,’ Flo said. ‘Look, here’s your kippers. Another coffee, thanks, love, and this sugar bowl needs filling.’

‘So it’s all thieves, scavengers and thugs, is it?’ I said, once the waitress had departed. ‘Seems relic-collecting’s a real savoury business, all round.’

Flo Bones stared at me. ‘Really? Worse than what you do, is it? You’d rather I got a legal job like these kids here?’ She nodded over at the night-watchers, all slumped in various attitudes of weariness and dejection. ‘No, thanks. Be taken advantage of by big corporations? Be paid peanuts and given a bloody stick and told to stand in the cold all night, watching for Spectres? I’d rather walk the tideline. Scratch my bum and look at the stars, and do it on my own terms.’

‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Lockwood said. ‘The stars bit, anyway.’

‘Yeah, because you were Gravedigger Sykes’s lad. You got taught right. Keep yourself independent. Be a maverick. Dance to your own drum.’

‘You know about Lockwood’s old master?’ My surprise (and mild resentment) was evident in my voice. Flo clearly knew a whole lot more than I did about Lockwood’s past and education.

‘Yeah,’ Flo said. ‘I keep myself informed. I like to read the papers, before I wipe myself with ’em.’

I paused with a forkful of kipper halfway to my mouth. Lockwood’s toast visibly wilted in his hand.

‘Pity poor Sykes went the way he did,’ Flo went on imperturbably. ‘Still, from what I hear, your company’s successes continue to drive DEPRAC up the wall. That’s what’s made me inclined to help you out tonight.’

‘You mean you’d have helped us anyway?’ I asked. ‘Without us going to the marsh?’

‘Oh, surely.’

‘Well, that’s good to know.’

‘Tell us about this Winkman,’ Lockwood said. ‘I’ve heard rumours of the name, but—’

Flo took her second coffee, and a new bowl of sugar. ‘Winkman, Julius Winkman. He’s one of the most important receivers of stolen goods in London, and a very dangerous man. Runs a little shop in Bloomsbury. Outwardly
very
respectable, but if you’ve something dug up in a graveyard, or pinched from a Mayfair townhouse, or acquired in some intermediate hush-hush way, he’s the man to see. Highest offers, quickest sale and furthest reach. Has clientele all over the city, people with cash who don’t ask questions. If Jack Carver has this object that you’re after, it’ll be Winkman he’ll talk to first. And if Winkman buys it, he’ll organize a secret auction, get his best customers together. Won’t have done that yet, I shouldn’t think. He’ll want to maximize his earnings.’

Lockwood had cleared his plate. ‘OK. Now we’re getting somewhere. This Bloomsbury shop: where is it?’

Flo shrugged. ‘Hey, Locky, you don’t want to mess with Winkman, any more than you do with Carver. There’s people tried to double-cross him – their remains have never been found. His wife’s almost as bad; and their son’s a holy terror. Stay clear of the family: that’s my advice.’

‘All the same, I need the address.’ Lockwood tapped his fingers on the table top. ‘Where do these secret auctions take place?’

‘I don’t know. They’re secret, see? Changes every time. But I can find out, maybe, assuming your Fittes friends have left any relic-men on the streets.’

‘That would be superb. Thanks, Flo – you’ve done us proud. Luce, you always carry money. Mind going up and paying? And while you’re there’ – he glanced towards the corkboard – ‘see if they could lend us a piece of paper and a pencil.’

The Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium, also known as Winkman’s Stores, stands on Owl Place, a narrow side road running between Coptic and Museum Streets in central London. It is a dowdy, uneven little lane, with only three commercial establishments: a pizza place on the corner with Coptic; a Chinese psychic healer, whose narrow glass door is shadowed beneath bamboo-and-paper awnings; and a broad-fronted building with two bay windows, which is the Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium.

The windows of this shop are low-slung and hatched with diamond leading. The interior is always dark. Nevertheless a variety of objects can be glimpsed within: an equestrian statue in the Greek style, with one fore-hoof broken off; a Roman vase; a cabinet in red mahogany; a Japanese ghost-mask, grinning from ear to ear. Stickers on the door announce the types of credit cards accepted; and the hours of business, which extend to after curfew. There are no ghost-bars on the door, and no obvious defences. Mr and Mrs Winkman, who live above the shop, seem to have no need of them.

At a quarter past three on the afternoon following our encounter with Flo Bones, two young teenaged tourists, slurping iced Cokes from giant paper flagons, turned out of Museum Street’s hot sunlight and entered the shady side-road. The girl wore a
True Hauntings
T-shirt, a floaty knee-length skirt and sandals. The boy wore a blue cotton shirt, an enormously baggy pair of shorts, and sneakers. Both had large sunglasses; they laughed and joked loudly as they strolled along.

Three doors down, they stopped as if on impulse outside the windows of the Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium and spent a little while staring at its array of dusty exhibits. The boy nudged the girl playfully in the ribs; he gestured at the store. The girl nodded. They walked to the doorway and went inside.

In setting out on our undercover investigation, Lockwood and I knew very well that we were taking risks. Flo had made that perfectly clear. The previous night, as her final favour, she had shown us the shop, pointing it out from the corner of the lane. Then she’d stolen away into the dark, leaving only a faintly unwashed smell behind. This had been as close as she wanted to get to Winkman’s.

We, however, had slipped a little nearer, until we could make out a gas lantern flickering in the left-hand bay window, with the ghost-mask hanging above it like the gory head of a Floating Bride. Lockwood guessed that the light was some kind of signal; he’d been sorely tempted to keep watch, but we were far too weary. The night was halfway over, and we’d had very little sleep the night before. We left Bloomsbury and walked back home, where we slept in late, and came downstairs with the sunlight angled steeply through the windows.

George had already gone out. In the kitchen we’d found a note scrawled on the white paper tablecloth draped over the kitchen table. This is our thinking cloth. We always have some pens lying there, and we use it for memos, shopping lists, messages and doodles, as well as sketches of Visitors we’ve seen. Wedged in a space between an empty doughnut tray, a burger box and two dirty teacups was the following message:

Out on hunt! Developments! Be here later. C
_T

Nearby was a series of obscure scribblings:

BUY MORE CRISPS

We’d considered the cryptic notes in silence for a few moments. Then Lockwood crossed to the oven. He opened it slowly to discover the ghost-jar jammed inside. In places, the surface of the glass was slightly blackened. The plasm was almost translucent, the skull at its heart clearly exposed. You could see the little fissures in the bone, the brown staining on the teeth.

This was the first time we’d seen the skull since our squabble over its comments two nights before. I glanced nervously at Lockwood, who was making a fleeting effort to prise the jar out of the oven, but he didn’t look at me. Instead he stood back and passed his hand across his face. ‘I don’t have the strength to think about this now,’ he said. ‘George’s experiments are getting slightly out of control. Remind me to have a word with him this evening.’

First, however, we had other things to attend to, and Lockwood had already come to his decision. As far as tracking down Jack Carver went, there was little more that we could presently do. The previous night he had left a note at the café, carefully addressed to ‘The Graveyard Fellowship’. It requested that anyone with information concerning ‘a recent incident’ at Kensal Green Cemetery should get in touch with us, and offered a small reward. Carver himself would clearly not respond, but since half the relic-men seemed to be at each other’s throats, it was possible someone else might bring us information. Meanwhile Flo had promised to let us know if word got out about a special black market auction in the next few days; and we would hear the results of George’s research later. Everything, in other words, was well in hand.