Lockwood (34 page)

The skeleton was stained a peaty brown; the skull had few teeth and was missing its lower jaw. Aside from half of one femur, dangling beneath the pelvis, the legs and feet were gone. ‘Hugh Hennratty seems in rough shape,’ I said.

Penelope Fittes nodded. ‘They say wild dogs dug the body up and ate the legs. This may account for the ghost’s anger.’

‘Chicken satay, anyone?’ A young waiter materialized beside us with hors d’oeuvres on a golden tray. George took one; Lockwood and I politely declined.

‘You must excuse me,’ Penelope Fittes said. ‘Circulation is the bane of a hostess’s life! You can never stay long with anyone – no matter how fascinating they might be . . .’ She gave a twinkling smile at Lockwood, nodded dreamily at George and me, and drifted away. The crowd opened to receive her and the pale man, then closed fast, leaving us outside.

‘Well.
She’s
nicer than I expected,’ Lockwood said.

‘She’s all right,’ I said.

George, chewing on his satay stick, shrugged. ‘She wasn’t as friendly as that when I was here. Ordinary agents never see her; she never comes down from her apartments. That grey-haired guy with her, though – her personal assistant – he used to get involved.’ His spectacles glittered resentfully. ‘He was the one who sacked me.’

I looked into the crowd, but Penelope Fittes and her companion had gone. ‘He didn’t seem to remember you.’

‘No. That’s right. Probably forgotten all about me.’ George stuck the stick into the soil of a nearby potted fern, and hoisted his sagging trousers. A sudden fire of indignation burned in his eyes. ‘You mentioned the Black Library just now, Lockwood. You know what, I don’t see why we
shouldn’t
take a little walk, see if we can peep in there.’

He led the way slowly round the edge of the hall. Outside the windows the summer dusk was deepening. Coloured spotlights cast strange effects of light and shadow across the moving crowd. Weird illuminations glowed inside the pillars – spectral mauves and blues and green. In several cases, ghosts appeared within the glass, staring sightlessly out, drifting ceaselessly round and round.

‘Are we
sure
about this?’ I asked. We were skulking in the shadows near a doorway, watching the throng, waiting for a chance to slip through. Not far away, Penelope Fittes talked animatedly to a handsome young man with a neat blond moustache. A woman with an incredible beehive hairdo shrieked at someone’s joke. On the dais a jazz ensemble began to play a sharp but plaintive bluegrass melody. From the side doors a steady stream of waiters came, each bringing more wonderful dishes than the last.

‘No one’s paying attention,’ George said. ‘Now . . .’

We followed him through the door and into an echoing marble hall. It contained the doors to six elevators, five coloured bronze and one coloured silver. The walls were lined with oil paintings of young agents – girls, boys, some smiling, others sad and serious – all beautifully depicted in their silver-grey jackets. Plinths beneath each one were decked with rapiers and wreaths of flowers.

‘Hall of Fallen Heroes,’ George whispered. ‘I never wanted to end up here. See that silver elevator? That goes straight up to Penelope Fittes’ rooms.’

George led us along a series of interconnecting passages, progressively narrower and less splendid, stopping occasionally to listen. The sound of the party grew dim. Lockwood still had his drinks glass; in his dinner suit, he moved as seamlessly as ever. I tottered along in my stupid dress and shoes.

At last George stopped at a heavy-looking wooden door. ‘We’ve gone the long way round,’ he said, ‘because I didn’t want to bump into anyone. This is a service entrance to the Black Library. It
might
be open. The main doors are almost certainly locked at this time of night. It’s got Marissa Fittes’ own collection of books on Visitors, many rare items. You realize that it’s utterly forbidden for us to go in? If we’re caught, we’ll be arrested and can wave our agency goodbye.’

Lockwood took a sip of his drink. ‘What are the chances of anyone coming in?’

‘Even when I worked here, I was never allowed more than a glimpse through the door. Only senior staff use it, and they’ll be at the party. It’s not a bad time. But we shouldn’t stay long.’

‘Good enough,’ Lockwood said. ‘Just a quick look and then we’re done. Burglary’s more fun than socializing, I always say. The door’ll probably be locked, anyhow.’

But it wasn’t locked, and a moment later we were inside.

The Black Library of Fittes House proved to be a vast octagonal room, rising the height of two full floors towards a glass dome in the roof. It being night, the surface of the dome was dark, but lanterns beneath it shone warm light down into the centre of the library. The walls were bookshelves, tier upon tier, with a metal balcony running around them at first-floor height. In two places, spiral stairs descended from this to ground level, where we stood. The floor was made of wooden tiles, mostly of dark mahogany; but in the centre, a design in paler woods depicted a rearing silver unicorn. The middle of the room was sparsely furnished; here and there were reading tables, and glass cabinets displaying books and other objects. Directly opposite us was a set of double doors, closed and locked. From somewhere came the hum of a generator; otherwise a great hush lay on the library. The air was cool and the light dim.

Inset lamps above each bookshelf glowed like hovering fireflies around the half-dark of the perimeter. The books themselves had been expensively bound in leather – purples, dark browns and blacks. There must have been many hundreds on the ground floor alone.

‘Impressive . . .’ Lockwood breathed.

You might have expected George to be in his element here – along with crisps and weird experiments, libraries are his thing – but he was twitchy, biting his lip as he scoped the balconies for signs of movement. ‘First we need the index to the collection,’ he said. ‘It’ll probably be on one of the reading tables. Hurry up and help me. We mustn’t stay long.’

We followed him swiftly out into the bright centre of the room. All around was watchful silence. Somewhere beyond the double doors I heard a murmuring: echoes of the party elsewhere on this floor.

The table nearest the door had a large leather book lying on it; George hauled it open with an eager cry. ‘This is the index! Now we just need to see if “The Confessions of Mary Dulac” is here.’

While he turned the pages, I glanced at the nearest display cabinets. Lockwood was doing the same. ‘More relics,’ he said. ‘There’s no end to their collection. Good Lord, these are the knitting needles in the Chatham Puncture case.’

I peered at the inky label on the side of my cabinet. ‘By the looks of it, I’ve got someone’s pickled lungs.’

George gave an agitated hiss. ‘Will you two stop messing about? This is no place—’ He stopped short. ‘Yes!
Yes
– I don’t believe it! They
do
have “The Confessions”! It’s listed here as book C/452. It’s somewhere in this room.’

Lockwood drained his glass decisively. ‘Very good. What are we looking for?’

‘Check out the books. They should all have numbers written on the spines!’

I hurried to the shelves, inspected the volumes upon them. Sure enough, each had its number in gold leaf, stamped into the leather. ‘Got the As here,’ I said.

Lockwood ran to the nearest stairs, vaulted the steps two at a time. His shoes tapped softly on the metal balcony. ‘B/53, B/54 . . . Nothing but Bs . . . I’ll check further along.’

‘What was the number again?’ I said.

‘Shh!’ George had suddenly stiffened where he stood. ‘Listen!’

Voices beyond the double doors; the rattling of a key in the lock.

I moved. I didn’t see what the others were doing. I flung myself towards the nearest display cabinet, positioned between the shelves and the illuminated centre of the room. Just as the door opened, I ducked down low behind it, scrunching up in high heels and party dress, bare knees pressed close to my chin.

A brief burst of party murmur, cut off by the firm closing of the door.

Then a woman’s voice. Familiar; deeper than you’d have expected.

‘It will be quieter here.’

Penelope Fittes.

I squeezed my eyes tight shut, and pressed my teeth hard against the surface of my knee. That Lockwood! Yet another of his impulsive ideas had steered us towards disaster. This part of the evening was supposed to be relaxing – we were meant to save the dangerous part for Winkman.

Footsteps on wood. They were walking into the centre of the room, just where George had been a moment before. I waited for the inevitable outcry, the shock of disclosure.

‘What was it you wished to say, Gabriel?’ Penelope Fittes asked.

I opened my eyes; as I glanced to the side, my heart jumped. My rapier was sticking out beyond the edge of the cabinet. The tip of the silver blade gently sparkled in the light.

A man was speaking, polite and deferential. ‘The members are getting restless, Ms Fittes. They feel that you are not helping them sufficiently with their work.’

That same husky little laugh. ‘I’m providing every assistance. If they aren’t up to the challenge, it’s not my problem.’

Very slowly I began to inch the rapier blade back in.

‘You wish me to tell them this?’ the man said.

‘Certainly you must tell them. I’m not their nursemaid!’

‘No, madam, but you
are
their inspiration— What’s
that
?’

I froze, bit my lip. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of my face and pooled beneath my chin.

‘The pickled lungs of Burrage the poisoner,’ Penelope Fittes said. ‘My grandmother had a great interest in crime. You would not
believe
the things she collected. Some of them have been of immense use over the years. Not these lungs, admittedly. They have no psychic charge at all.’

‘Odd choice of decoration for a library,’ the man said. ‘It would put me off my reading.’

The laugh again. ‘Ah, it doesn’t disturb those of us who come here. We have our minds on higher things.’

The quality of their voices changed, became suddenly more muffled. I guessed they’d turned away from me. I rapidly pulled the remaining length of blade out of view; then, with infinite care, I leaned to the side, and peered round the edge of the cabinet.

Not fifteen feet away, I saw the backs of two people: Penelope Fittes conversing with a dumpy, middle-aged man. He wore the black tie and dinner jacket of a party guest; from what I could see, he had a rather thickset neck, a pinkish jowly face.

‘Speaking of unusual artefacts,’ Penelope Fittes said, ‘I
do
have something to give you.’ She moved suddenly, and I ducked back into hiding. I could hear the points of her shoes clicking crisply on the dark wood floor. ‘Think of it as a token of my good will.’

I couldn’t tell where she was going, whether or not she was getting closer to me. I pressed myself tighter against the back of the cabinet.

Something made me look up. Lockwood was lying flat on his stomach on the surface of the balcony almost directly above. He was doing his best to merge in with the metal and the darkness. The black dinner jacket helped. His pale face didn’t. I signalled at him to turn his head away.

‘
Lucy!
’ he mouthed.

‘
What?
’

I couldn’t make it out at first. He mouthed it several times. His eyes swivelled from me towards the centre of the room. Then I realized what he was telling me: ‘
My glass
.’

I craned my head round the edge of the cabinet and, sure enough . . . my heart skipped another beat. There it was, his punch glass, sitting on top of the little display case in the centre of the room. It was almost as if the spotlight was deliberately trained on it. How it sparkled. You could even see the little residue of red liquid at the bottom.

Penelope Fittes had crossed to that very cabinet. She was standing right beside it; the glass was at her shoulder. She had opened a drawer below the case, and was bringing something out.

All she had to do was glance up and focus on it, and she would see the glass right there.

But she didn’t. Her mind was on other things. She closed the drawer and turned to her companion.