Lockwood (32 page)

‘I still don’t understand,’ I said at last. ‘What’s the glass
for
?’

George cleared his throat, a harsh sound. ‘For looking through.’

Lockwood nodded. ‘It’s not a mirror. It’s a window. A window to the Other Side.’

Tap, tap.

It’s not often something startles all three of us at once. OK, the opening of Mrs Barrett’s tomb saw us all set personal high-jump records, but that was at night. In daytime? No. It never happens. Yet all it took this time was the sound of fingernails on glass and the shadow looming behind us at the kitchen window. We turned; a bony hand clawed at the pane. I glimpsed a scrawny neck and shoulders, pale wisps of hair fringing a weird, misshapen head. I leaped up from my stool; Lockwood’s chair went crashing against the fridge. George jumped back so far he got entangled with the mops behind the door, and started lashing out at them in fright.

For an instant none of us could speak. Then common sense intervened.

It
couldn’t
be something dead. It was mid-morning. I looked again.

The sun was behind the figure, rendering it almost black. Then I made out the atrocious outline of the raggedy straw hat, the grimy leering face.

‘Oh,’ Lockwood said. ‘It’s
Flo
.’

George blinked. ‘Flo Bones? That’s a girl?’

‘We assume so. It’s never been conclusively proved.’

The face at the window moved from side to side. It seemed to be talking; at least, the mouth was making a series of alarming contortions. The hand waved violently, clawing against the glass.

George stared, agog. ‘You said she was quiet and refined.’

‘Did we? I don’t remember.’ Lockwood was gesturing towards the back of the house; as the face disappeared from the window, he moved across to open the kitchen door. ‘This’ll be about Winkman! Perfect! It’s
just
what we need. I’m bringing her in. Luce – hide the papers. George, find sugar, put the kettle on.’

George considered the greasy marks remaining on the window. ‘You think she’ll want tea? She looked more of a methylated spirits sort of girl.’

‘It’s coffee,’ I said. ‘And a quick word of advice. No cheap comments at her expense. She’s easily offended and would probably disembowel you.’

‘Story of my life,’ George said.

Outside, the summer birds had fallen silent, perhaps stunned by the figure stomping up the garden steps. Lockwood stood aside; a moment later Flo Bones was bustling into the kitchen in her enormous wellington boots, bringing with her the hempen sack, a frown, and the scent of low tide. She stood at the door and glared around at us silently.

In daylight her blue puffa jacket seemed lank and almost bleached of colour, and it was difficult to tell where her hair stopped and the straw of her hat began. A great smear of grey mud ran across the front of her jeans, while seven shades of dirt decorated her round face. In other words, all the horrid implications of the night were fully realized. Yet her blue eyes looked doubtful, almost anxious, and she carried herself with less bluster than before, as if the daylight – and maybe her surroundings – intimidated her just a little.

‘Welcome,’ Lockwood said, closing the door. ‘It’s really good of you to come.’

The relic-girl didn’t answer; she was staring mutely around the kitchen, taking in the units, the stacks of food, our piled supplies. All of a sudden I wondered where it was
she
ate, where she slept when not working by the river . . . I cleared my throat. ‘Hey, Flo,’ I said. ‘We’ll get some coffee on.’

‘Yeah, coffee would be good . . . Not used to being up this time of day.’ Her voice was quieter, more reflective than I remembered it. ‘It’s quite a place you’ve got here, Locky. Quite a gaff. Even got a personal guard outside, I see.’

‘Oh, Ned Shaw?’ Lockwood said. ‘You met him, did you?’

‘I
saw
him, but he didn’t see me. He was dozing into a newspaper. Still, I went round the back way, came over the garden wall, to keep things quiet-like. Wouldn’t want word to leak out I’ve been socializing with the likes of you.’ She grinned, showing remarkably white teeth.

‘That’s quite right,’ Lockwood said. ‘Well done.’

George was fixing the coffee. He cleared his throat meaningfully.

Lockwood frowned. ‘Oh, sorry. Introductions, yes. Flo, George. George, Flo. Now, Flo – what have you got for us? Hear anything about Julius Winkman?’

‘I have,’ Flo said, ‘and the word is he’s holding his auction tomorrow night.’ She paused to let the information sink in fully. ‘Now that’s
fast
for Winkman; he’s only had this thing a couple of days, but he’s already lined something up. Course, maybe it’s just because it’s so valuable, but maybe he’s trying to get shot of it as quickly as possible. Why? Because it’s nasty. Oh, there’s lots of rumours going round.’

‘Do some of those rumours say Winkman killed Jack Carver?’ I said.

‘I heard about
that
little incident,’ Flo said. ‘Died right here in your house, I understand. What is it with you, Locky? You’re going to get a reputation. No, they don’t say Winkman did it, though I’m sure he might have, but they
do
say that it’s bad luck for anyone who comes into contact with that mirror. One of Winkman’s men – he looked in it. No one was there to stop him. And he died. Yeah, I’ll have a spot of sugar, thanks.’ George had handed her a coffee cup and saucer on a little tray.

‘Give her a tablespoon with it,’ I said. ‘Saves time.’

The blue eyes flicked towards me, but Flo said nothing as she dealt with her drink. ‘So, about the auction,’ she said. ‘There’s a place near Blackfriars – north side of the Thames, mostly old warehouses for the shipping companies that used to operate there. Lot of them are empty now, and no one goes there at night, ’cept for wanderers like me. Well, Winkman’s using one of these places tomorrow – the old Rostock Fisheries warehouse, right on the shoreline. He moves in, sets up his men, makes the sale and melts away. All over in an hour or two. Happens very quick.’

Lockwood was gazing at her fixedly. ‘What time’s the auction?’

‘Midnight. Selected customers only.’

‘He’ll have security?’

‘Oh yeah. There’ll be heavies on watch.’

‘And you know this place, Flo?’

‘Yeah, I know it. Do a bit of combing there.’

‘What height will the river be, midnight tomorrow?’

‘Deep. Just past high tide.’ She scowled at me – I’d given a gasp. ‘Well, what’s wrong with
you
?’

‘I’ve just remembered,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow night! It’s the nineteenth – Saturday the nineteenth of June! It’s the great Fittes party! I’d forgotten all about it.’

‘Me too,’ Lockwood said. ‘Well, I don’t see why we can’t do both. Yes . . . why not? We’ll make it a real night to remember.’ He strode to the table, swung a chair round. ‘George: kettle, Lucy: biscuits. Flo, why don’t you please sit down?’

No one moved; all of us stared at him. ‘Do both what?’ George asked.

‘It’s really very simple.’ Lockwood was grinning now. The radiance of his smile filled the room. ‘Tomorrow night we’ll enjoy the party. Then we’re going to steal the mirror back.’

If there’s one thing more stressful than being attacked by ravening ghost-rats, it’s finding that you’re going to a posh party and haven’t got a thing to wear. According to Lockwood, who subscribed to a magazine called
London Society
, the dress code on such occasions was dinner jackets for men and cocktail dresses for women. Agents were also permitted to wear agency uniforms, with rapiers, but since Lockwood & Co.
had
no uniform, this wasn’t much help. It was true I had certain items in my wardrobe that might, at a stretch, be termed ‘dresses’, but ‘cocktail’ they most definitely were not. This fact, on the morning of the great Fittes Anniversary Party, sent me into a sudden panic. A frantic trip to the Regent’s Street department stores ensued; by mid-morning I was back and breathless, laden with shopping bags and shoe boxes. I met Lockwood in the hall.

‘I’m not sure any of this is right,’ I said, ‘but it’ll have to do. What are you and George wearing?’

‘I’ve got something somewhere. George wouldn’t recognize a suit if it walked up and smacked him round the head. But he hasn’t done anything about it; his friend Joplin’s been here for the last two hours. They’re looking at the manuscript.’

Now that he mentioned it, I could hear the murmur of voices in the living room, talking over one another at great speed. ‘Can he translate it?’

‘I don’t know. He says it’s very obscure. But he’s mightily excited. He and George have been hooting over it like a couple of owls. Come and see. I want him off, anyway. We’ve got to get ready for tonight, and I need to go out and see Flo.’

It had been three days since we’d seen Albert Joplin, and to be honest I’d almost forgotten his existence. The little cemetery archivist was that kind of man. Last time I’d set eyes on him, shortly after the theft at Kensal Green, he’d cut a distressed and angry figure, loudly criticizing the lack of security on the site. His mood, clearly, had improved. When we went in, he and George were sitting on either side of the coffee table, talking and chuckling loudly as they stared down at the Bickerstaff papers laid out before them. Joplin was just as stoop-shouldered and tweedy as ever; light coatings of dandruff still iced his shoulders. But today his face shone, his eyes sparkled. If he’d been lucky enough to possess a chin, it would no doubt have been jutting with excitement. He was scribbling rapidly in a notepad as we entered.

‘Oh, hello, Mr Lockwood!’ he called. ‘I have just finished transcribing the text. Thank you so much for showing it to me. It is such a remarkable find.’

‘Any luck with the translation?’ Lockwood asked.

Joplin ran a hand through his mat of disordered hair; a small grey cloud of particles floated loose into the air. ‘Not yet, but I’ll do my best. This seems to be some kind of medieval Italian dialect . . . it is rather obscure. I will work on it, and get back to you. Mr Cubbins and I have had excellent discussions about it already. He’s a lad after my own heart. A most intelligent, enquiring mind.’

George looked like a cat that had not only got the cream, but had been nicely stroked for doing so. ‘Mr Joplin thinks the mirror may be uniquely important,’ he said.

‘Yes, Edmund Bickerstaff was ahead of his time,’ Joplin said, rising. ‘Quite insane, of course, but a kind of pioneer.’ He gathered a mess of papers together and thrust them into a satchel. ‘I think it’s tragic that the mirror has been stolen. Tragic too that – if it’s ever found – it would immediately be handed over to the DEPRAC scientists. They share nothing with those of us working on the outside . . . Speaking of such problems, I told Mr Cubbins that I haven’t managed to find that other document you wanted – Mary Dulac’s “Confessions”. I cannot think of another library that might have it – short of Marissa Fittes’ Black Library, perhaps, which is also out of bounds.’

‘Ah well,’ Lockwood said. ‘Never mind.’

‘I wish you luck with all your investigations,’ Joplin said. He smiled at us; taking off his thick round spectacles, he rubbed them contemplatively on a corner of his jacket. ‘If you have success, I wonder, perhaps you might give me a little glimpse of . . . No, I can see I’ve said too much. Forgive my impudence.’

Lockwood spoke with studied coolness. ‘I can’t comment about our work, and I’m sure George wouldn’t do so, either. I look forward to hearing what you make of the writing in due course, Mr Joplin. Thank you for your time.’

Bobbing and smiling, the little archivist made his departure. Lockwood was waiting for George when he came back up the hall.

‘Kipps has stationed Kat Godwin outside our house today,’ George said. ‘I told Joplin not to talk with her, if she asks him anything.’

‘You two got along well again, I saw,’ Lockwood said.

‘Yeah, Albert speaks a lot of sense. Especially about DEPRAC. Once they get hold of something, it’s never seen again. And this mirror could be something special. I mean – the idea that this might be some kind of window is extraordinary. We know that normal Sources somehow provide a hole or passage for ghosts to pass through. This thing is a
multiple
Source – made from
lots
of haunted bones – so just maybe that would make the hole big enough to look through . . .’ He glanced sidelong at us. ‘You know what, if we
do
get the mirror back tonight, there’ll be no harm in checking it out ourselves before we hand it over. I could bring it back here, and we could try—’