Lockwood & Co. The Creeping Shadow

It’s only three miles as the crow flies from Clerkenwell to Marylebone, but it took me several hours to cover the distance. Weariness dragged at me, and I often lost my way. Also, I was wary of pursuit, and so kept off the main roads, making lengthy diversions to avoid encounters with the living. I saw a few vehicles in the distance—mostly agency cars and DEPRAC vans—and in my state of mind I trusted none of them. My paranoia kept me safe, and no ghosts detected me, which was another plus, but I was a slow and sorry figure by the time I reached the familiar street at last.

I trudged up the center of the road, past Arif’s corner store, past the rusty ghost-lamp, meandering listlessly between the silent chains of parked cars. Everything was quiet, dark, locked down. Midnight had come and gone. No one in their right mind was making house calls now—except for agents out on cases. It was only then, as I reached number 35 and saw its unlit windows, that I remembered it was quite possible—quite likely—that Lockwood and the others would not be home. The realization made me sway; but it was too late now. I crossed over to the gate.

It was still crooked, and they hadn’t changed the sign:

A. J. LOCKWOOD & CO., INVESTIGATORS.

AFTER DARK, RING BELL AND WAIT BEYOND THE IRON LINE.

I pushed it open, walked carefully up toward the house, over the uneven tiles. In the glow of the streetlight outside number 37, the iron barrier embedded halfway up the path glinted with a soft sheen. I could see the bell hanging from its post beside it. So many cases had begun with that bell clanging at odd hours of the night. Such different clients: the Slaine family’s doctor, calling us out after finding all six of them vanished from their beds; the one surviving member of the Bromley Wick shooting party…In the Bayswater Stalker affair, wicked old Crawford’s niece had pretty much swung from it in her desperation, with him floating behind her up the road.

One thing held true every time: it made a heck of a racket.

I reached for the clapper, looking back at the sleeping street—and for a moment a vestige of pride resurfaced. Perhaps I should wait until morning, for a more civilized hour. I could always find shelter somewhere, curl up on the step behind Arif’s store, maybe, and—

Nope, that stupid idea didn’t detain me long. I needed help, and I needed it now.

I grasped the clapper and swung it hard.

George once told me there was a theory that ghosts disliked loud noises, particularly ones made with iron instruments. He said the ancient Greeks used to send evil spirits packing with metal rattles and tambourines. Well, if anything undead had been lurking in Portland Row that night, their ectoplasm would have dissolved the instant I began ringing. I nearly lost a few teeth myself. The appalling noise ripped a hole in the fabric of the night.

I gave it a good twenty seconds, and when I stopped, my heart’s clapper kept pounding against my chest.

A short time passed. To my great relief, movements sounded in the house. A faint glow showed in the semicircle of petaled panes above the door. That would be the crystal skull lantern on the hall table being switched on. I heard the chain being removed, the bolt pulled back. I stepped away from the door, back across the iron line. Best not to come too close. Some people could be mighty jittery if they saw a dark figure when they opened a door at night, particularly if those people were George.

But it wasn’t George. It was Lockwood. The door swung back, and there he was in his long bathrobe and his dark blue pajamas, with the spare rapier, the one we kept with the umbrellas in the hall, ready in his hand. His feet were bare, his hair rumpled. His lean face was wary but relaxed. He stared out into the dark.

I just stood there. I didn’t know what to say to him.

“Lucy?”

I’d not slept at all that night, and for only a short while the night before. In the last few hours I’d fled from three killers, and come face-to-face with a newly murdered ghost. I’d been cut by a throwing knife; I’d sustained countless bumps and bruises during my escape, after which I’d walked halfway across London. I hadn’t eaten since…When had I eaten? I couldn’t remember. My leggings were torn. I was cold, stiff, and sore, and could barely stand. Oh, yeah, and my coat stank.

It was after midnight. I stood on his doorstep, looking just swell.

“Lockwood—”

But he was already at my side, putting his arm around me, pulling me upright, ushering me up to the door and into the warmth and light. And talking, talking as he did so.

“Lucy, what’s happened? You’re shaking. Come on. Come on inside.”

The familiar Portland Row smell enveloped me: that mix of iron and salt, and leather coats, and that curious dusty, musty tang that came from the masks and pots and Eastern curios on the shelves. For some reason, I suddenly felt close to tears. That wouldn’t do. I blinked them away as the door clicked behind us, shutting out the night. Lockwood shot the bolt, pulled the chains across; he flipped the rapier into the old chipped plant pot we used as an umbrella stand. His arm was still around me; he led me up the hall.

“Sorry to disturb you so late,” I said.

“Don’t give it a thought! But you’re exhausted, I can barely hear you. Let’s get you to the kitchen.”

Through to the kitchen we went; on came the light—bright and clean and hard enough to make me wince. I saw the cereals and salt bins, the cups and kettles. I saw George’s moth-eaten cushion on his seat. And I saw the Thinking Cloth on the table: a fresh one, with unfamiliar doodles and designs. That made my eyes prickle, too. Lockwood didn’t notice; he was saying something, pulling back a chair. As I sank into it, he caught sight of my sleeve, saw the congealed blood running from elbow to wrist. His face changed.

“What is this?”

“It’s nothing. Just a cut.”

He knelt at my side, pulled my sleeve back with his long, quick fingers, exposing the laceration on my arm. He gazed up at me with searching eyes. “A knife made this, Lucy. Who—?” He stood up. “No—explanations can wait. I’ll get George; we can clean this, fix you up. You don’t have to worry anymore; you’re safe here.”

“Thank you. I know. That’s why I came.”

“You want tea?”

“Yes, please. In a bit. But I can make it—”

“Not a chance. Just sit tight.” He rose. “George wears earplugs these days, otherwise his own snores wake him up. Means I’ve got to venture into his room.”

“If you don’t come back,” I said, “I’ll come looking for you.” I hesitated. “Actually…on second thought, maybe not.”

He grinned, squeezed my shoulder. With a swish of his bathrobe he was gone. I sat there in the warm kitchen, and whether it was because I’d dropped off, or because Lockwood moved so fast, it seemed only a second later that the door burst open and in came George, pale-faced, pajamas flapping, bustling over with a first aid kit under his arm.

An unknown while later, I had a mug of tea in front of me and a mound of biscuits close at hand. The first aid kit lay open on the table, along with scattered scraps of cotton and antiseptic pads. George and Lockwood had cleaned and dressed my wound together, and though I thought they’d gone slightly overboard with the bandages—my arm looked like something you might see rising from a mummy’s sarcophagus—I certainly felt a lot better. As they worked, as Lockwood boiled water and George poured cookies onto plates, I told them what had happened. They listened without interrupting. When I finished, we dunked biscuits in silence for a while.

“That little Harold Mailer,” George said at last. “Incredible. Who’d have guessed?”

“Bad form to speak ill of the dead, of course,” Lockwood said, “but I always thought he was a ratty little specimen. Laughed too much, too loudly. I never liked him.”

“Doesn’t mean he deserved to die,” I said.

“No, of course not….But why did he die? Why did they kill him? Two possibilities: either he was dumb enough to tell them about you, or they sussed out he was going to give you information. Whichever it was, they decided to eliminate the problem.” He looked sharply over at me; I was staring at the table. “I hope you’re not feeling guilty about this, Lucy. It’s in no way your fault. You realize that, don’t you? Mailer chose to get involved with those men. The fact that you challenged him doesn’t make you responsible for his murder.”

All of which was no doubt true. Still, I couldn’t feel happy about it. “He could have ghost-touched me,” I said quietly. “He was right there beside me, in the churchyard. But he didn’t. He chose to hold back.”

“Yes, that was good of him,” Lockwood said, after a silence. “Fair enough.”

“What was that thing he said to you?” George asked. “About the ‘place of blood’? Any idea what that was about?”

I sighed. “Not a clue. Maybe I misheard. He was babbling a lot of stuff, and it was all pretty messed up. As it would be…under the circumstances.” As it would be when you’ve just been killed, was what I meant. In my mind’s eye I could see that lolling form, sitting abandoned on the bench. No doubt Harold’s body was still there, alone in the dark and cold….

I tried to concentrate on something else. “Lockwood,” I said, “do you think some of the other attendants at the furnaces are in on this?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they’re all at it. It’s a big deal, this scam, which is why those guys were so keen to shut you up, too, Luce. Obviously you can’t go home now. They know where you live.”

I stared at the table, cleared my throat. “I know. I was hoping, maybe, tonight I could crash here…? Just till morning. Then tomorrow—”

“Oh, not just tonight.” Lockwood got up, went to the fridge. “You can’t go home, period. Not till we’ve found those men and put an end to this. She can stay here for a while, can’t she, George?”

It was a testament to George that until that instant I’d completely forgotten about the recent difficulties between us. Tending to my injury, listening to my story, he’d displayed nothing but compassion and concern. Now, just for a second, as he looked at me and hesitated, I remembered his anger and the hurt I’d caused him. Then his face cleared. “Absolutely,” he said. “’Course she can.”

A warm feeling filled me: it was made of tea and biscuits and sudden gratitude. “Thank you.”

“It’ll make a nice change from Holly staying over,” George said. “I always feel like I have to clean the bathtub after me when she’s around, in case I’ve left hairs in it, or a ring of dirt or something. But it’s different with old Luce. Old Luce doesn’t mind.”

Lockwood had produced a plastic jug and was taking out glasses. “You fret too much about Holly, George. She didn’t complain last night, did she? You want some orange juice, Lucy? It’s your favorite: the kind with pulp.”

“Lucy doesn’t like orange juice with pulp,” George said. “Remember?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right. It gets caught between your teeth, doesn’t it?”

I was staring at him. My warm feeling had partially retreated. “I’ll take the juice. So Holly stayed over last night?”

“Personally, I’ve always thought straining it through your teeth is part of the fun,” Lockwood said. “You can pretend you’re a blue whale.” He caught my look. “What?”

“Holly. She’s staying over now?”

“Oh, not always. Depends how the night turns out. Waffles, George?”

“Please. I am hungry.”

“Luce?”

“Yes…okay, I’d like some waffles. How often is she staying over?”

Lockwood flicked the toaster on. “I don’t know that it’s really something for a freelancer like you to worry about. She’s not using your old room, if that’s what’s bothering you.” He whistled tunelessly as he poured himself some juice.

“She’s not? So where—?”

“I keep most of my clothes up there now,” George said. “My room’s so full of books and experiments, it can’t even hold my tightest shorts. Your attic does nicely. Otherwise we’ve left it just how it was when you went. You can sleep in it tonight, if you like.”

“Thanks…that’s kind of you.”

“Sure. I’ll try not to wake you when I nip up there to get dressed in the morning.”

For a few minutes after that, food occupied center stage. Waffles were made, and orange juice drunk (strained or unstrained). I stared around at the kitchen. It was very spic-and-span. That was Holly’s continuing influence; in my day, she’d run the house like a military operation. The only new thing I noticed was a bulletin board that had been hung on the cupboard next to the office stairs. On it was a map of southeast England, with London at the center, showing all the nearby counties. Colored pins radiated out in concentric ovals from a central point southeast of the city. I stared at it blankly. The precision and detail of the effort had the hallmarks of George.

At last Lockwood pushed his plate away. “So let’s think about this,” he said. “The implications of what you’ve told us, Luce, are huge. DEPRAC is assuming that all the Sources taken to the furnaces are being destroyed. Some of them—maybe the whole lot, for all we know—are instead being saved and funneled into the black market. Incredibly dangerous items are being dispersed that way. Take the jar of teeth from Guppy’s house, for instance. We thought that it got safely burned that the other night—but did it? We just don’t know.”

I shuddered. The thought of the cannibal’s spirit being unleashed again was frightful. “Who took it, at the furnaces?” I asked. “Was it Mailer?”

“No,” Lockwood said. “Fellow named Christie. Seemed honest enough, but who can tell?”

“It would be a blow if that case started up again,” George said. “You won’t have heard, Luce, but Penelope Fittes was quite pleased about our efforts in Ealing. She wants to meet us again. I reckon she’s got another job planned, but Lockwood thinks it might be a medal.”

“Why not both?” Lockwood grinned at me. “Well, if she’s pleased with that, just think how delighted she’ll be when we crack this black market ring. It’s our old friends the Winkmans, of course. They’re at the heart of it, for sure.”

“Hold it. When you say we ‘crack’ it,” George said, “what exactly are you getting at? It’s not our concern. The obvious thing is to tell Inspector Barnes.”

“We could, I suppose.” Lockwood spoke in an exaggeratedly bored voice. “If we want DEPRAC to mess it up. Or take credit. Or both.”

That was my cue. I’d been hoping to say something for a while, but hadn’t been sure how to begin. Lockwood’s evident interest gave me my chance. “I met with Flo the other day,” I said. “She said there’s a new collector in town, someone who pays really well for the best Sources. The Winkmans are pulling out all the stops to fulfill this guy’s needs. Flo said there are big night-markets, where transactions take place with the relic-men. And I know Mailer’s stuff ended up at those markets, because that mummified head I told you about was there.”

I paused, took in their reactions. Lockwood nodded, smiling just a little. I knew he was surfing the same thought. George, expressionless, watched me closely.

“So I was sort of wondering,” I went on, casually, “whether I might drop in on the next meeting. See if I can find out how the operation works, who the collector is, you know.”

Lockwood rubbed his chin; there was a faraway light in his eyes. “Flo’s the contact,” he said. “She might be able to wangle something for you, get you inside. Risky game, though, Luce.”

“I’ll say it’s risky,” George agreed. “Those gangsters have already tried to kill you. You’d be handing yourself to them on a platter.”

I shrugged. “I guess that’s true, yeah.”

“Plus, relic-men hate outsiders. They’re notoriously violent to anyone who pokes his nose into their business.”

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“And don’t forget the Winkmans,” George went on. “Leopold and Adelaide have personally vowed to tear us limb from limb. It would be a complete hornet’s nest of danger.”

“Yep, it’s a dumb plan, Luce,” Lockwood said. He stretched back in his chair. “Suicidal, even. If you did it on your own.”

He smiled at me.

The warm feeling was back; when I surfaced from it, I noticed George had taken off his glasses and was rubbing them with a corner of his pajama top. It may have been a fairly agitated kind of rub, but I didn’t look too closely, as in doing so he’d accidentally revealed a too-pink portion of his stomach. “There’s no way, Lockwood,” he was saying. “It can’t be done.”

Lockwood was staring at the ceiling, his hands behind his head. “Oh, there’s bound to be a way….We just haven’t dreamed it up yet.”

I spoke in a small voice. “We—I—don’t mean for us to do anything stupid,” I said. “It’s just—” I hesitated. “The thing is, what I really want is—”

“I know exactly what you want,” George said. “You want the skull.”

I gazed at him.

“Go on, admit it. That’s what’s driving you. You want it back. You miss it. The Winkman thing is strictly secondary.”

“Well, I don’t exactly miss it.” I gave a light laugh. “I mean, it’s not like I need it to talk to, or anything. But yeah, I want it back. It’s important to me.”

“That foul old skull?”

“Yes.”

“With all its horrid habits?” George scratched his belly button wonderingly with the frames of his glasses, then set them back on his nose. “Extraordinary.”

“You know how unique that ghost is,” I said. “Other spirits communicate, but only in fragments, snatches of words. The skull is different, and I—I don’t want to lose that connection. If possible, I’d like to find a way….I could try it on my own, of course, but if Lockwood and Company would be prepared to help me, I’d be very grateful….As to that, it’s up to you.”

We sat there. For a minute or two, no one said anything.

“George,” Lockwood said, “how many cases have we currently got?”

“A few. Hol will know how many. And there’s a possible new client coming to see us this morning. You remember, the one from out of town. Which reminds me, we should really get some sleep.”

Lockwood nodded slowly. “Well, Luce, we could look into this for you. Not just for the skull’s sake, though I see that it’s important. As far as I’m concerned, it would be because of what those men tried to do to you.” He took a bite of waffle. “But, technically speaking, that would make you our client rather than our colleague. Would you be okay with that?”

He had that look that I knew so well: a kind of shining, as if the spark of adventure had been ignited within him. George was shaking his head and huffing mightily, but I saw the electricity in his eyes, too. It was strange: as a client, as someone firmly in their debt, things felt easier between us than they had since the day I’d left.

“I’m okay with that,” I said, and I meant it. “Thank you, Lockwood. Thank you, George. And…and if we’re talking about payment…”

Lockwood raised a hand. “We’re not. Good. That’s settled, then. Now, if you can remember your way upstairs, we all need to get to bed.”