Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy (12 page)

“Well, she was at Rotwell for years, working pretty high up—for one of Steve Rotwell’s deputies, I think—so she’s clearly well qualified as a personal assistant.
She has some psychic Talent, too. Not as much as us, obviously—but, in a pinch, in an emergency only, she could possibly help us in the field. Also, she seems to know a lot of important
people, which might be useful to us one day.” He cleared his throat and deposited himself back on his battered leather seat. The usual cloud of dust did not rise up. “All in all, Luce,
I think we’re very lucky to get her.”

“She’s cleaned your chair,” I observed.

“You make it sound like that’s bad. Yes, one of Holly’s main roles will be to keep the place tidy and well organized. In fact, the first thing she did on Monday was roll up her
sleeves, put on an apron, and do the whole housemaid bit. George and I couldn’t believe our eyes.” He caught my gaze and threw up his hands. “Well, isn’t that good? One more
chore off our list. And she even got us a nice new vacuum cleaner! You were always moaning about lugging that old one up to the attic.”

“
What?
She’s not been in my bedroom too?”

“Anyway”—Lockwood suddenly became interested in his desk again; he reached out hurriedly for the topmost paper—“I’d better read this, I’m afraid. Some
new DEPRAC regulations just came in. Important stuff. Needs a rapid response, and Holly wants me to get it to the mailbox by five…” He looked at me full-on then, serious-eyed and quiet.
“I know it’s all a bit sudden, Lucy, but you need to give it a chance. Holly’s here to help us. You’re the agent; she’s the assistant. She’ll do what we ask, and
make life simpler for us. It’ll work out well.”

I took a deep breath. “Guess it’ll have to.” After all, we
did
need some help. Things
could
be made simpler. Still…

“Thanks, Lucy.” Lockwood
really
smiled, then. The sudden warmth of its radiance made my misgivings seem mean and needlessly hostile. “Trust me,” he said.
“It’ll be fine. Soon you and Holly will be getting on like a house on fire.”

It certainly didn’t take our new admin long to make an impact. According to Lockwood, who seemed to know all her statistics, she was eighteen, but in raw competence and
efficiency she seemed a good deal older. She arrived at Portland Row each day on the dot of nine thirty, letting herself in with a key. By the time we slouched down for breakfast an hour or so
later, whatever debris had been left from the previous night’s 3 a.m. post-work snacking had been spirited away. Our work belts hung from their hooks beside the iron stairs; our chains had
been oiled, our bags restocked with appropriate levels of salt and iron filings. Our kitchen was spotless, the table set; a golden stack of hot buttered toast waited on the plate. Holly Munro
herself was never present when we got there; before we arrived, she always diplomatically removed herself to the office below. She thus allowed us time to wake and compose ourselves, and also
cleverly avoided the very real possibility of seeing George without his pants.

The very first day had set the tone. We’d had several difficult cases the night before, and were in fragile shape. Coughing, scratching, we made our sorry way to the office to find Ms.
Munro dusting the suit of armor by Lockwood’s desk. She was full of perk and polish; a bunny rabbit sitting in a chive bed could not have been more chipper. She bounded forward. “Good
morning,” she said. “Made you all some tea.”

There were three cups on the tray, and the tea in each was different. One was a milky brown, just how I like it. One was strong and teak-colored, which is Lockwood’s preferred taste, and
the last (George’s) had the strength and consistency of the wet earth you find in exhumed graves. In other words, they were perfect. We took them.

Holly Munro held a piece of paper neatly inscribed with a short list. “It’s been a busy morning already. You’ve had five new requests so far.”

Five! George groaned; I sighed. Lockwood ruffled his unkempt hair. “Go on, then,” he said. “Tell us the worst.”

Our assistant smiled, pushing a stray twist of hair back behind a shell-like ear. “It’s really not too terrible. There’s an interesting-sounding Visitor in Bethnal Green,
something that seems to be half-buried in the sidewalk yet hobbles at great speed along the Roman Road, trailing a cloak of shadow.”

“Following the ancient level of the street,” George grunted. “Another legionary. We’re getting more and more of those.”

Ms. Munro nodded. “Then there’s a strange hammering in a butcher’s cellar; four orbs of yellow light revolving outside a house in Digwell; and two cobwebby ladies seen in
Victoria Park, who dissolve as witnesses approach.”

“Stone Knockers,” I said. “Cold Maidens. And the lights are probably Wisps.”

There was a glum silence. “That’s the weekend taken care of,” George said.

Lockwood nursed his tea dispiritedly. “The legionary’s okay, but the others are pretty yawnsome. More annoying than dangerous. They’re all Type Ones, scarcely even that, but
they’ll take a lot of time and effort to quell.”

“Quite,” Ms. Munro said brightly. “Which is why I declined them all. Except for the Bethnal Green legionary, which I’ve penciled in for Tuesday week.”

We stared at her. “Declined them?” Lockwood said.

“Of course. You’re taking on far too much; you have to save your energy for proper cases. The Stone Knocker can be subdued by hanging rosemary in the cellar, while the Wisps and Cold
Maidens are outdoors, and so can be safely ignored. Don’t worry about the clients. I’ll send them typed instructions for dealing with their issues. Now, why don’t you tell me
about last night’s cases while you drink your tea?”

We told her, and she sat there making notes to be recorded in our casebook. Then she typed up our invoices and went out to mail them, more or less while we were still sitting around in a daze.
Afterward she took more calls, interrogated prospective clients over the phone, made arrangements for interviews, and scheduled a couple of evening visits. She did it all efficiently and well.

So well, in fact, that within days we found our diary becoming more manageable. As she’d promised, all the really small-time things—stuff that could be dealt with by ordinary people
using salt, charms, and wards—were weeded out. Lockwood, George and I were suddenly able to have nights off, and work together on most cases again.

It was impressive, and I did my best to appreciate Holly Munro, really I did. There was much to appreciate. In so many ways it was hard to find fault with her at all.

Her manners and appearance were exemplary. She always sat up straight, with her neat little shoulders back, and a bright-as-a-button expression on her wide-eyed face. Her black hair was
immaculate; there was never any grave-grit under the manicured nails of her small and pretty hands. She wore clothes well. Her skin looked as smooth and delectable as coffee-colored marble; it had
the kind of flawlessness that made you acutely aware of all the fascinating blemishes you called your own. Come to think of it,
everything
about her had this effect. She was all smooth and
clear and shiny, like a mirror; and like a mirror she reflected back your imperfections.

I was very polite to her, just as she was very polite to me. She was good at being polite, in much the same way as she was excellent at keeping the office floor swept and dusting the masks in
the hallway. No doubt she also brushed her teeth well every night and cleaned behind her ears. We all have talents, and those were hers.

Our relationship consisted of lots of polite little encounters in which Holly’s efficiency rubbed up against my way of doing things. Here’s a fairly typical exchange:

All the while, Lockwood and George would be somewhere near at hand, smiling genially like two pipe-smoking dads watching their offspring playing happily in the garden. I could almost see them
congratulating each other that their new employee was turning out so well.

And of course she would, in the end. I just needed to give her time.

One individual who didn’t share this common view was the skull in the jar. Holly knew of its existence—she frequently had to dust around it—but not that it was a Type Three
that could communicate with me. The skull didn’t like her. Her arrival in the office each day was the cue for much elaborate rolling of eyes and puffing out of cheeks behind the silver-glass.
On several occasions I caught the ghost making appalling faces directly behind her back, and then winking at me broadly as she turned around.

“What’s with you?” I growled. It was late morning, and I was having a restorative bowl of cereal at my desk. “You’re supposed to be a secret, remember? You know the
rules: minimal manifestations, no rude faces, and absolutely
no
talking.”

The ghost looked wounded. “
I wasn’t talking, was I? Do you call
this
talking? Or
this
?”
It pulled a rapid series of grotesque expressions, each one
worse than the last.

I shielded my eyes with my spoon hand. “Will you stop that? The milk’s curdling in my cereal. You need to quit the tomfoolery when she’s around, or I’ll lock you up in
the storeroom.” I stabbed at the granola decisively. “Understand, skull: Holly Munro is one of the team, and you need to treat her with respect.”

“Like
you
do, you mean?”
The goggling face grinned at me. Today its two sets of fangs alternated from the top and bottom gums like the teeth of a zipper.

I took a mouthful. “I’ve got no problem with Holly.”

“Hark at you, Queen Fibber. I’ve told porkies in my time, but that shocks me something awful. You can’t stand her.”

I could feel my cheeks flushing; I collected myself. “Er, that’s a slight exaggeration. She’s too bossy, maybe, but—”

“Bossy, nothing. I’ve seen the way you stare at her when she’s not looking. Like you’re trying to pin her bleeding to the wall with the power of your
eyes.”

“I
so
don’t do that! You’re talking complete nonsense, as usual.” I returned primly to my breakfast, but the flavor had gone out of my granola. “What about
you?” I said. “What’s
your
problem with her?”

The ghost looked disgusted.
“She’s got no time for me. Wants me gone.”

“Well, don’t we all?”

“Ghosts aren’t tidy enough for her. You see how she’s neatened up that collection of relics downstairs? All those haunted trophies you’ve collected? Half of them
tossed out, the others made safe, with new iron locks on the cases….She likes everything under her thumb. Who knows, perhaps that includes A. Lockwood, Esquire. Which is maybe another reason you
aren’t so happy, eh?”
It gave me an evil sidelong grin.

“Absolute twaddle.” And of course it was. Anything the skull said was false, by definition. It had often tried to stir up trouble in the house. I was fine with Holly. Really I was.
So she was well-proportioned. So her hair was all glossy. So she looked as if her lips had never been the wrong side of a second doughnut in her life. What was any of that to me? I didn’t
care one bit. She wasn’t perfect, by any means. Probably, for example, if I’d thought hard enough about it, I could have found something flawed about the width of her thighs. But I
didn’t need to. None of that was important. I was an agent. I had other things to do.

I left the room soon after. I wasn’t that hungry anyway.

I went to the rapier room to practice a few moves on Esmeralda and let off a little steam. It wasn’t long before our new assistant herself put her head around the
arch.

“Hi, Lucy.”

“Hey, Holly.” I continued shuffling around the dummy, feinting with the rapier, sneakers sending up little clouds of chalk dust. My sweatshirt was pretty damp. I was timing myself,
trying to keep going for ten minutes without stopping. It was good exercise as much as anything.

“Gosh, you
do
look warm,” Holly Munro said. She wore her usual white shirt and pinafore dress and was just as unrumpled and sweat-free as when she’d shown up for work,
hours before. “I’ve been calling around, talking to old Rotwell contacts. They’ve put me in touch with an exciting new client.
Not
from Whitechapel.”

I stood back, wiping wet bangs out of my face. “Well?”

“Don’t let me interrupt you. She’s coming in tomorrow morning. Very urgent.”

“Did she say what it’s about?”

“‘A matter of life and death,’ apparently. Something nasty in her house. But she’s arriving at ten o’clock sharp.”