Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow (46 page)

“Indeed. It
is
an outcome for the books. Much work lies ahead for me if I’m to knock Rotwell’s into shape, but I am confident this can be done. At any rate, I am in charge of both agencies now. And I believe that I owe much of my good fortune to you.”

It was one of those moments when everyone works so hard to look innocent and uncomprehending that the atmosphere at once becomes poisonous with knowingness and guilt. Over at the sink, Sir Rupert Gale smiled; he picked up one of George’s favorite striped mugs and considered it idly.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” Lockwood said. “I don’t quite understand. We happened to be working in a village quite nearby, yes, but as to the events at the institute, and the cause of the disaster—if, if that’s what you’re referring to—we’re in the dark, just like everyone else.”

Ms. Fittes had an odd little laugh; I’d forgotten just how low and husky it was. “That’s all right. I’m not that silly Inspector Barnes. You don’t have to be careful with
me
. But there, I won’t press you. Let us just imagine, for a moment, that you saw things you were not supposed to see. Perhaps they confused you. Perhaps they still prey on your minds.”

It was obvious what she was talking about, but having denied it at the outset, we couldn’t very well admit to anything now. Lockwood pretended to consider. “We did come upon some very frightening apparitions in the village. George in particular ran a mile from an eyeless girl—isn’t that right, George?”

“I left her in the dust,” George said.

The lady smiled at us. “You’re very droll. Suffice it to say that some of the Rotwell scientists—I wonder, should I call them
Fittes
scientists now?—some of the workers at the institute have been talking to the police. There was mention of intruders.”

“Five intruders,” Sir Rupert Gale said. “Count them. Fingers of one hand.”

“Now, I don’t know precisely what it is you saw or heard,” Ms. Fittes said, “but I would advise you to cast it from your minds. Poor Steve Rotwell was an eccentric, driven man who desired strange knowledge that is forbidden to us all. What dark experiments he may have chosen to attempt in his private facility are not for us to fathom. Certainly they should be of no consequence to any law-abiding agency.”

We sat in silence, trying to gauge her words. Up by the sink the dishcloth hung dark and quiet, too. I could see a glimpse of the jar, but no stirrings within. At least the skull was keeping out of it. That was one blessing.

Lockwood spoke quietly. “I think I understand you. You’re requesting that we ‘forget’ anything we may or may not have seen.”

“‘Requesting’ isn’t the word I would have chosen—but, yes, that’s right.”

“May I ask why?”

The lady sipped her tea. “For fifty years,” she said, “we have been at war with supernatural forces. Tampering with them, or seeking to turn them to personal gain, as the foolish Rotwell did, is a recipe for spiritual disaster. The mysteries of death are sacrosanct, and must not be explored.” Penelope Fittes regarded us. “I think you know that as well as I do. Some things are better left unknown.”

George stirred. “Forgive me, ma’am. I don’t think that’s true. Surely knowledge of every kind is vital to us in our battle with the Problem.”

“Dear George, you are so
very
young.” That husky laugh again. “I can see that such concepts might be difficult for you to grasp.”

“No, George is right,” Lockwood said. “George is always right. We shouldn’t fear uncovering things that are shrouded in darkness. We should shine light on them. Like the lantern in your agency’s logo. That’s what an agent
does
, after all.”

Ms. Fittes looked at him levelly. “Don’t tell me you’re rejecting my suggestion again?”

“I’m afraid so….Yes, we reject your ‘request,’ or order, or whatever it is.” Lockwood’s voice was suddenly crisp. “Forgive me, but we’re not part of your organization. You can’t waltz into our kitchen and tell us what to do.”

“Oh, but actually, we can,” the lady said. “Isn’t that right, Rupert?”

“Certainly is, ma’am.” Sir Rupert Gale stepped forward from the window, strolled in leisurely fashion behind our backs. “For some of us,” he said, “actions will have consequences from now on.” He reached down, plucked George’s sandwich from his plate, and took an enormous bite out of it. “And for others, there will be no consequences at all. Like this. Mm, excellent bacon! And with mustard, too. Very nice.”

“How dare you—” In an instant Lockwood was out of his chair and halfway around the table. He stopped abruptly. There’d been a flash of silver, equally fast. Sir Rupert’s sword was in his hand, the point hovering a short distance from Lockwood’s midriff. He scarcely looked at Lockwood, but chewed placidly, inspecting the crusts of the sandwich.

“Threatening an unarmed man, are you, Sir Rupert?” George said. “Classy.”

“You could pass me that butter knife, George,” Lockwood murmured. “That would probably be enough for me to deal with him.”

“You
are
a card,” Sir Rupert Gale said.

Penelope Fittes raised her hand. “There will be no fighting at all. This is a civilized visit. Rupert, put your sword away. Anthony, please sit down.”

Lockwood hesitated a long time, then slowly returned to his seat. Sir Rupert Gale sheathed his sword, still chewing.

“That’s better,” Ms. Fittes said. She gave her little laugh. “You boys! What
shall
I do with you? Well, the point I’m making is very simple, and I can’t see why you should have any objection to it. You have a charming little agency, and you are more than welcome to keep on doing your charming little things. But from now on, you will stick to the investigations that suit you better—the small hauntings that so plague our society. There will be no more silliness like this”—she pointed to George’s poster on the wall—“no more idle speculation, no more getting above your intellectual station. You, dear George, have always been full of foolish fancies. It would serve you better to forget them and spend a bit of time on useful matters. Your appearance, for instance. Tidy yourself up! Go out and meet a girl, make friends.”

“Starting up an acquaintance with a stick of deodorant wouldn’t go amiss, either,” Sir Rupert Gale said. He patted George’s shoulder.

George sat there, impassive.

“Don’t look so serious, all of you!” Penelope Fittes smiled around at us. “You have all the makings of a perfect company, albeit in miniature. A stout and sturdy researcher—that’s George. And Lockwood, of course—the resolute man of action. And you even have a perfect secretary and typist in sweet Ms. Munro here. Not perhaps the bravest agent, from what my new colleagues at Rotwell’s tell me, but charming to look at—”

“That’s enough!” It was my voice. My chair fell back; I was on my feet. “You know nothing about Holly—or any of us. Leave her alone!”

“Oh, Miss Carlyle.” The lady turned to me, then, and for the first time I felt the full ferocity of her smile. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am that you didn’t take me up on my offer the other week. We could have done great things together. But there we are, there’s no use crying over missed opportunities…which brings me to
you
, Mr. Kipps.”

Thus for the first time Penelope Fittes acknowledged the existence of Quill Kipps, who stood behind the door, shrinking back against the trash can as if trying to compress himself out of existence. As she turned her smile on him, he flinched.

“I hear you’ve been busy, too, Quill,” she said, “frolicking around with spectacles that don’t belong to you. What fun. I hope you’ve enjoyed spending time with your new friends. But in all your excitement, don’t forget the important thing, which is that by your own choice you are an outcast from my agency, and henceforth barred from all significant work and status. Backsliders like you will not be tolerated, and I shall make an example of you. Your pension will be confiscated; your reputation destroyed. I will see to it that you never work for any reputable psychic investigation company again.”

“It’s all right, Kipps,” Lockwood said. “You can work for us, if you want.
We’re
not reputable.”

Kipps said nothing; he was very pale, his nose and lips a purplish blue. He looked almost dead from fear and mortification.

“Well, I’d better be going,” Penelope Fittes said. “There’s so much to be done….You know, life is strange, isn’t it, Anthony? You refused my earlier offer—yet now, inadvertently, you’ve done me more of a favor than I could ever have imagined. Thank you for the tea.” She rose, looking around the kitchen a final time. “This is
such
a nice little house. So charming, so vulnerable. Have a lovely morning.”

With that she went out. By the window, Sir Rupert Gale finished George’s sandwich. Then he took a dish towel from the draining board, wiped the grease from his hands, and dropped the cloth into the sink. Smiling at us, he left the room. We heard the front door close, his footsteps fade on the path outside; shortly afterward, Ms. Fittes’s car purred away into the bright spring day.

We all remained exactly where we were, sitting, standing, shrouded in silence—Lockwood in his chair, George and Holly on either side of the table, me at the far end, Kipps by the door. No one looked at anyone else, but we were all aware of how still the others were, how rigid. We stayed there, joined together by a little web of shock.

Then Lockwood laughed. The spell broke—we all stirred, as though waking from a dream. We looked at him where he sat, smiling broadly, eyes glittering.

“Well,” he said, “they’ve made their position pretty clear, haven’t they? We’re supposed to keep our noses out of this.”

Kipps shifted his feet as if they pained him. George coughed slightly.

“So let’s have a show of hands,” Lockwood went on. “Who agrees that we
should
be obedient little agents, do what she says, and keep our noses clean?”

He looked around at us. None of us said a thing.

“Okay.” Lockwood straightened the Thinking Cloth, making it nice and neat. “That’s good to know. So, hands up, whoever thinks that in fact we ought to do the
opposite
of what she said. Whoever thinks that since Penelope has chosen to take the gloves off so completely, we are quite within our rights to make
her
the target of our subsequent investigations? No matter what threats she and that preening cad might make.”

We all silently raised our hands. Even Kipps, though he made it look as if he was really intending to scratch the back of his head and only did it as an afterthought, with a tentative, half-bent arm. All of us raised them, there in that room where the spring sun shone brightly through the window.

“Excellent,” Lockwood said. “Thank you. I’m glad, because that’s what I think, too. Let’s clear up breakfast. George, why don’t you put the kettle on? It’s time for Lockwood and Company to get to work.”

Two minutes later I was standing at the sink, doing the dishes, staring out at nothing, when I noticed a green glow coming from behind the dishcloth. I flipped it away—to find the ghost in the jar watching me. For once, its face was only mildly repulsive. It looked very sober and serious.
“Nice speech from Lockwood, there,”
the skull said.
“Very prettily done. I could almost believe for a minute you weren’t doomed. Which I suppose was his intention. So…fill me in. I caught a peek from under that cloth. Who was that who just came in?”

“Penelope Fittes.”

“Who’s she?”

“Head of the Fittes Agency. And ruler of all London, it now appears—in
her
own mind, at least. Get with the beat. I thought you knew that.”

“Oh, I’m just a poor old skull, I am. A bit slow on the uptake. So that’s Penelope Fittes, is it? Head of Fittes House? Granddaughter of old Marissa who started it all?”

“Yes. And she suddenly isn’t quite as friendly as we thought….What’s with you? Why are you laughing?”

“No reason….How old would you say she was?”

“What, are you thinking of proposing marriage? How do I know?”

“I see she had a bodyguard with her,”
the skull said.
“That blond fellow with the peach fuzz mustache.”

I grunted. “Yeah. Sir Rupert Gale. A nasty piece of work.”

“Yes, a smiling, blue-eyed killer. But it’s no surprise. She always did have someone there to do her dirty work.”

“Who did?”

“Marissa Fittes.”

“We’re talking about Penelope.”

“Mmm…yes. Better rinse that plate again, Lucy. Still has ketchup on it.”

I went on with the dishes, staring out into the garden. At my side, the skull continued to chuckle witlessly to itself.

“All right,” I said finally. “Let me in on the joke.”

“I met Marissa once,”
the skull said.
“I spoke with her. I told you that, remember?”

“Yes. I know. She put you in that jar.”

“It’s pretty weird to see her standing there again.”

“Does Penelope resemble her?” I thought of the wizened old woman in the photographs at Fittes House. But that was at the end of Marissa’s life; perhaps earlier, she’d looked more like Penelope.

“You could say that. She’s no different than she was fifty years ago. Eek, it freaks me out, and I’m a skull in a jar. Anyway, don’t let me distract you. You’ve moved on to the silverware now. Ooh, jammy knives and eggy spoons. Exciting times.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re losing me. Run that past me again.”

“How has she managed to do that, I wonder? Because she really
is
no different. Eighty years old or more, and she almost looks younger, if anything.”

I gazed at the ghost. It gazed at me. Then its eyes rolled in opposite directions.

“Let me put it in words of few syllables so you can understand, Lucy. Penelope Fittes isn’t Marissa’s granddaughter. She’s
her.”

I stopped where I was, with my hands in the soapy water, and stared at the jar. Behind me, George was putting tea bags into cups. The kettle was boiling. Lockwood and Kipps were arguing about something. Holly was in the garden, shaking crumbs off the Thinking Cloth. And all the time the ghost in the jar was watching me with its black and glittering eyes.