Lockwood & Co. The Creeping Shadow

It had to be said that, despite his unshakeable self-confidence, and a large wicker basket under his desk that contained the elements of many costumes, Lockwood’s disguises weren’t always super-successful. He had a weakness for big hats, and a tendency to try curious accents that attracted attention and, occasionally, outright hostility. His famous attempt at a winking East End chimney sweep, used to gain entry to Barleywick Hall in the Case of the Hovering Torso, had so outraged three Cockney footmen it ended with a breakneck chase into the nearest boating lake. As for the blond wig and wimple he’d resorted to while investigating a haunting near the Cobb Street Nunnery bathhouse, the resulting police search had made several papers, and it was probable two sisters and a mother superior would never be quite the same again.

Generally his disguises worked best when kept to a minimum, and that’s the way our relic-men outfits ended up the next evening, after a long day of experimenting in the office, with a floor mirror propped against my old table, and George and Holly on hand to comment and make the tea. Relic-men being notoriously ill-favored, we’d tried all manner of humps, warts, and missing limbs, and clothes ranging from the holey to the ragged to the frankly indecent. In the end we scaled back to dirty black jeans, atrocious jerseys, and two stained leather jackets that George had scooped up in a charity store, while Holly used her extensive makeup kit to subtly worsen our complexions.

“I can blacken some of your teeth, Lockwood,” she said. “Otherwise they’re much too shiny. Some darkening around the eyes should make them look puffier, and a smear of pale paste on the cheekbones will give you a good unhealthy sheen. With a bit of work I can make you look sick, needy, and unattractive. Give me half an hour.”

I was trying on a foul horsehair wig. “How about me?”

“In your case, I don’t need to do too much. Five minutes should be fine.”

The wigs capped things off. Mine was a jumble of dirty yellow strands, like a mop soaked in custard, while Lockwood’s was a spiky black abomination.

He studied himself uncertainly. “I don’t know….It’s like an evil hedgehog is squatting on my head.”

“Think of Flo Bones,” I said. “She looks like that on a good day. You’ll fit in well.”

Next we found two old satchels mildewing in the back of the basement storeroom, and George splashed tea over one and mud on the other. When they were dry, we took the spirit-capes that we’d found in Jessica’s room and put them inside. We were almost ready to go.

“One last thing,” Holly said. “Weapons. I don’t like you going in defenseless.”

Lockwood shrugged. “Can’t take rapiers, for obvious reasons.”

“Well, stuff a magnesium flare down your trousers. You’ll need one if things get nasty.”

“They might search us at the door.”

“Holly’s right,” George put in. “You need something. All the other relic-men will be armed to the teeth. The water boys will have slime-flanges and cockle-hooks, while the housebreakers and tomb-sharks have their loops and grapplers and all manner of weird stuff.”

I looked at him. “You seem very well-versed in relic-man business.”

George did something with his glasses. “Maybe I chat with Flo from time to time. No law against that, is there?”

“No….No, it’s fine.”

In the end Lockwood and I both took daggers, wearing them openly at our belts. They weren’t great for combat, but would provide a final option. Plus, they suited the menacing aura we wanted to project as we entered the den of thieves.

All this took us till nightfall. Shortly after seven, two sinister, swaggering relic-men departed Portland Row and set off for their rendezvous with Flo Bones.

The district of Vauxhall, just south of the river, where the outflowing Thames curves north toward Westminster and the center of the city, was once the site of lovely pleasure gardens, where gentlemen and ladies used to promenade. Their bewigged ghosts still occasionally showed up incongruously among the automobile factories that now filled the area; the fortunes of these, too, had recently declined, and it was an area of deprivation, mostly abandoned after dark. As we crossed the bridge from Westminster, mists hung about the wharves and mudflats, and the lights of Vauxhall Station gleamed dully on the viaduct above like a row of taunting Wisps.

Flo was waiting for us in a deserted lock-up beneath one of the viaduct arches. She had her burlap bag wedged between her boots and sat slumped and pensive on a concrete barrier beside a lantern—like a squatting gargoyle, but with a stronger smell. As we entered, her hand darted to her belt; then she relaxed and spat welcomingly into the mud at her side.

Lockwood gave her a gap-toothed grin. “Aha! These disguises must be good. We had you fooled for a second there.”

“The hair got me,” Flo admitted. “But I recognize your walks. Your profile and her hips as well, but your walks mainly.”

“That’s great. The Winkmans should be fooled, then.”

“Maybe. ’Specially at a distance. It’s still the daftest thing you’ve ever done, Locky, and that’s saying plenty. I can’t take no responsibility for what happens. Licorice or no licorice, you understand the consequences are not on me.”

“That’s all right. We’re fine with that, aren’t we, Luce?”

“Yeah. We’re fine.”

“Hear the way Luce is talking, Flo? We’ve been practicing on the way down. She’s got an estuary accent now.”

Flo grunted. “Is that what she’s got? I thought it was phlegm. Okay, so listen. The boys on the door will want to see your artifacts. Don’t give them any trouble. Once you’re inside, it’s a free-for-all, everyone trying to sell their Sources for the best price. If it’s like last time, the Winkmans will be at one end, looking and buying, with their best stuff safely stored and guarded. How you’re going to get away with this precious object you’re after beats me.” She took off her hat and scratched at her matted scalp. “Particularly the place we’re going tonight.”

“Which is?” This was a detail I was anxious to learn.

“No great distance. Vauxhall Station.”

I glanced at the arch above us. “Doesn’t seem very private.”

“Not Vauxhall Overground, you silly mare. I’m talking about Vauxhall Underground—the station down below.”

That rang a faintish bell with me, but I couldn’t think why.

Lockwood knew. “But that’s been shut off for years, hasn’t it?” he said. “Wasn’t there a rail accident there, some terrible disaster? And since then—too many ghosts. I thought DEPRAC gave the whole thing up, just concreted it all in.”

Something was moving in Flo’s bag. She gave it a nudge with her boot and the furtive motion stopped. “Yeah. There was a gas explosion down there. Forty-five years ago or more. It blew up a train that was just coming in to the station. Killed everyone on board. Wasn’t long before the Visitors started appearing in the tunnels and Vauxhall Underground had to close. They diverted the line; whole area’s bypassed now. And yeah, the entrances were sealed. But we found a way in.”

“But why would you do that,” I said, “if it’s still so dangerous?” I wasn’t hugely excited to hear that, in addition to relic-men and gangsters, we had ghosts to deal with, too.

“It’s good to go somewhere that’s forbidden. Gives us a bit of peace and quiet. We keep to the main platform, put up barriers by the tunnels to keep the Specters at bay. I’ve seen them, hanging back, just beyond the light.” Flo stooped, picked up her lantern; her teeth and eyes shone in its gleam. “They say the train’s still down there, lost in the endless dark. And it’s not just the original dead who sit on it now, but newer passengers, too—modern victims of the marauding ghosts.”

Lockwood frowned. “You don’t believe that.”

“Not for me to say if it’s true or not.” Flo took up her bag, swung it over her shoulder. “I just make sure I don’t go past the iron lines. Come on, enough chin-rattling. The market’s started, and we need to get to it.”

With that, she led us out into the night.

The original entrance to Vauxhall Underground Station was very close, its gates chained and boarded up, its steps choked with litter. On nearby walls, old DEPRAC warning signs were still barely visible beneath years of ghost-cult posters. Flo ignored it all; we walked half a block south down a narrow, unpromising lane between empty office buildings, until we reached a junction, where we stopped.

“This is where I leave you,” Flo said. “I’m going on ahead. Give me five minutes, then you can follow. You take a left here, walk thirty yards, then left again down the lane. You’ll see the sentries up ahead. Show them the stuff and they should let you in, you’re that ugly. But here’s the deal: once you’re below, I won’t recognize you, I won’t help you. If you get caught and they beat you to death with sticks, I’ll stand by and won’t lift a finger.” She gazed at me with her bright blue eyes. “Just so you know.”

“Agreed and understood,” Lockwood said. “Hope you get a good price for…what is in your sack, Flo?”

“That’d be telling. Five minutes. Try not to get yourselves killed.”

After she’d gone, we took up positions against the wall—something midway between a loiter and a lurk—and waited. Five minutes ticked by; during this another relic-man—tall, ragged, and stooped like a grieving heron—slipped down the side road after Flo. We gave him an extra minute to get clear, then shuffled after him.

Down to the left. Thirty yards, then left again. It was more of an alley than a lane, dark as a cleft in the earth. Except at the end, where a naked bulb hung from a spindle above a metal door. In its cone of light, two very large gentlemen in long black coats stood like pillars, with a small ragged child between them.

The men were there to break your bones, but the child was the key—she was the Sensitive who vetted the objects being brought to the meeting. The ragged relic-man was in the process of showing her the contents of his bag. At either side, her henchmen waited for her decision. The bigger of the two held a stout black stick, which he patted occasionally into his cupped palm. He never spoke; he was the threat, the dealer of pain. The other was the talker who did all necessary interrogation. One spoke, one tapped his club. It was a fair bet that neither could manage both at the same time.

The relic-man passed muster. He closed his bag, pushed open the door, and disappeared inside. The men looked up at us. We approached casually down the alley.

Lockwood spoke through the side of his mouth. “Be calm. I’ll handle this, Luce.”

Something in the jaunty way he spoke alarmed me. Again I remembered what George had told me, how Lockwood’s recklessness was escalating all the time. I felt a twinge of guilt. Tonight, for selfish reasons, I was depending on his willingness to take risks. Without me, he wouldn’t have been here. I could feel the thrill of danger radiating from him now—intoxicating, but also scary. And we didn’t have our swords. “Be careful,” I said. “And also polite.”

“Of course.”

Lockwood’s tall, but the top of his head didn’t quite reach the shoulders of either sentry. He came to a halt before the child Sensitive, hands ready on his satchel.

The smaller henchman, the talker, pointed a meaty finger. “Show them.”

We both opened our bags. The kid looked in. She was no older than eight, a fragile little thing, with blue veins on her forehead under translucent skin.

I held up my spirit-cape by a corner, so its iridescent beauty was clear.

Talker’s frown deepened. Stick-Tapper stretched out his club and poked it against the feathers.

“Where’d you get these?” Talker said.

Lockwood pushed the club away. “Stole ’em, smelly. What’s it to you?”

To be fair, Lockwood’s accent did make him sound like an authentic relic-man. Trouble was, he was trying to be authentically insulting, too. At once Stick-Tapper swung the club around. It pressed hard against the underside of Lockwood’s chin.

“You want Joe to flick that up?” Talker said. “He does, and it takes your head clean off. He does it well, your head lands back on your neck stump upside-down.”

“Sounds like quite a show,” Lockwood said. “But these here in our bags are foreign marvels. Adelaide Winkman will want to see them.”

“We kill you, we take them to her ourselves,” Talker said, and I couldn’t help feeling there was a queasy logic to what he said. But the little child had put her hand on Stick-Tapper’s wrist and was shaking her head.

“No, this is real good,” she said. “She’d want it, like he says. Let them through.”

Her word was law. At once the stick was withdrawn and the men moved back. With a cocksure flick of the arm, Lockwood pushed at the door.

“Hold it.” Talker gestured at the daggers in our belts. “No weapons.”

“Call these toothpicks weapons?” Lockwood gave a snort. “You must be joking.”

Talker chuckled. “I’ll show you whether I’m joking.”

Thirty seconds later we’d been roughly frisked, relieved of our daggers, and kicked efficiently onward through the door.

“Do you have to be so rude?” I hissed, when we were alone. “You’re drawing attention to us.”

“Oh, relic-men are famously obnoxious. It’ll make us fit right in.”

“Yeah. Our broken corpses will fit in nicely, too.”

Beyond the door was an empty room with rough, bare concrete walls. At the far end, a circular hole with a metal rim led straight down into the earth. The hole was dark, but the top of a ladder projected from it, and there was a grainy suggestion of a light far below.

“Old access shaft to the Underground,” Lockwood said. “Guessed it would be something like that. It won’t make getting out too easy, but what can we do? You first, Luce, or me?”

I went first; I didn’t want him to get into an argument with a sewer rat or anything.

The ladder descended into the earth for a long distance, so much so that my hands went numb and I lost count of the number of rungs. It was very dark, and another unpleasant aspect of the experience was the sound that came rushing up the shaft: a roaring and a gusting of air, and what I thought were voices screaming. The noise seemed to come from far away, and (I guessed) from long ago; when I dropped down at last into a candlelit tunnel, all trace of it had died away. It was a different hubbub that surrounded me now, here on the forgotten platforms of Vauxhall Underground Station.

In layout, it was no different from countless other Tube stations still in daily use. Opposite the nook in which the ladder emerged, three rusting escalators rose into the shadows—silent, solid, their steps clogged with black dust. Lines of faded posters flanked them. That was the old way out, to the now sealed up ticket halls.

Down below was where the action was tonight. I was in a central space with three squared arches on either side. These led to the north/south platforms of the old Victoria Line. The curved walls still had their original white ceramic tiles, but in many places these had been levered off, and a shallow hole gouged out. Candles burned in these alcoves, their smoke weaving woozily against the ceilings, where old lamps hung like black, fat-bodied spiders. Everything shimmered with a soft and avaricious golden light: the tiles, the escalators, the black-garbed relic-men and women all around.

There were dozens of them, milling in little huddles by folding tables where food, drink, and various implements of their profession were on display. Some were young, like Flo; others, bent and weathered like windblown trees, showed evidence of age and long privation: all were dirty, calloused, and hard of jaw and eye. They conversed in low voices, guarding their words carefully; the atmosphere was heavy with distrust.

“Look at them.” Lockwood had dropped down beside me. “It’s like a medical textbook come to life.”

“I know. I wonder if we gave ourselves quite enough warts.”

Most of the relic-men seemed to be gravitating toward the arches on the right. A thrum of palpable excitement echoed from within, with many voices raised. And beneath that was a deeper psychic hum, like wasps buzzing in a buried pot. Muffled by silver-glass, maybe, but significant nevertheless.

And these weren’t the only things I heard.

“Lucy…Lucy, help me….”

I dug Lockwood in the ribs. “We need to go that way. Come on.”

We passed through the arch into what had once been the northbound platform. Now it was an immensely long, low-curving room, lit along its length by candles and hanging lanterns. Nearby gaped one of the tunnel mouths, plugged in part by an enormous wall of sandbags. Some of the bags were filled with iron filings, some with salt; they’d been slashed open, and the gray-white powder lay across the surface of the wall, as dirty and crusted as month-old snow. Cold air drifted out of the tunnel and with it came strong psychic unease. Again I sensed the distant screaming.

At the base of the sandbags, the old tracks could still be seen, but along most of the room these had been concealed beneath rough wooden boards, built out from the edge of the platform. They had the effect of doubling the width of the space. A good many relic-men were congregating here, talking, arguing, making their slow, shuffling way toward a table halfway up the platform.

It was well-lit by black candlesticks, tall as a man, that had been arranged behind it; and even from a distance, I knew who sat there. I recognized their silhouettes: a woman, large-boned, with massive arms and shoulders; and a short, squat person wearing a broad-brimmed bowler hat.

Adelaide Winkman and her son, Leopold: the most powerful black marketeers in London.

One by one, the relic-men were arriving at the table, showing their psychic wares, being paid (or not), and moving on. I could hear the clink of coins. Beside the table stood three impassive, muscular men. My eyes narrowed. It was not too hard a stretch to imagine them being the murderers of Harold Mailer, the ones who had chased me across the gardens of Clerkenwell.

“Watch where the flunkies go, Luce.” Lockwood was mouthing in my ear. “They’re not storing the objects at the table, so they must be taking them somewhere….”

It was hard to advance far along the platform. Most of the people there were hoping to reach the Winkmans’ table, and they resented our efforts. Staying in character, we shrugged off their insults and shouldered our way on. Once I caught a glimpse of Flo, arguing with someone in the crowd. Her eyes met mine, but passed on without any sign of recognition.

And then, that voice again. “Lucy…I’m here.”

My stomach twisted with exhilaration. We were close! I turned my face toward the wall so that no one would see me speak. “Skull? Skull—is that you?”

“Let me see…Ooh, no, it’s another Type Three disembodied spirit who knows your name and your purpose and happens to be stored nearby.”

That settled the matter. No other spirit could be that sarcastic. “It’s you.”

“Of course it’s me! Get me out of this dungeon right now!”

“It’s not that easy. And a bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss, either. Where are you?”

“Some tiled room. Old cloakroom, maybe. Probably a former ladies’ room, knowing my luck. Neon light flickering over the door.”

I looked along the platform; a short way beyond where the Winkmans sat, I did notice a faintly flickering light. Its source was lost in the room’s curve. “I think I see it. We’re in line to get to you.”

“What, are you queuing now? Just how British are you people? Don’t just stand in line! Kill somebody!”

“Lucy…” Lockwood’s dirty face loomed near. “You’re mumbling to yourself.”

“It’s the skull. I can hear it. It’s close by.”

Lockwood glanced around at the shuffling, stinking relic-men. “I think we’re all right. Half of these bozos talk to themselves all the time anyway. Still, keep it down.”

“Lucy, you’ve got to get me out of here.” The skull’s voice broke in on my thoughts again. “They’re taking me to the place of blood.”

“The place of blood? What does that mean?”

“Well now, I should think it’s quite a jolly spot where nice things happen and everyone’s good chums together….How do I know what it is? With a name like that, it’s got to be bad news, even for me! There’s some hideous stuff piled up here…Your friend Guppy’s Source, for one.”

“Guppy’s Source?” I stared at Lockwood, who grimaced. “Not that jar of teeth?”

“Yeah. They were very pleased with that.”

“Who’s ‘they’? The Winkmans?”

“Search me. A woman in a flowery dress that makes her look like last year’s sofa, and some kid with a face like a slapped butt.”

“That’s them.”

“It’s their men who brought me here. They’re not the bosses, though. There’s a guy here, too. At the end of all this, they’ll sell me to him.”

“Ah! The collector! What’s he look like?”

“Erm…” The voice grew vague. “Just a bloke. About yay high, neither this nor that….He’s actually quite difficult to describe. Tell you what, you might see him yourself if you swing past and rescue me. Are you alone?”

“No.”

“Don’t tell me. I know who it is. Stands to reason he’d help you.” Even at a distance, the appalling parody of Lockwood’s voice was clear. “‘What? A suicidal mission, you say, Lucy? Certain death, you say? Just what I enjoy. Sign me up!’ Well, all the better if it is Lockwood. You can sacrifice him to rescue me. I call that a very decent swap.”

Fury filled me. “You foul skull! I swear I’m going to leave you right there.”

There was a pause. The voice spoke again, more quietly. “This isn’t just about me, Lucy. This is big. Come and get me, and I’ll tell you what they’re doing. Death’s in Life and Life’s in Death, Lucy. This is the proof of it.”

I snorted. “Proof of what? What does that actually mean?” But the psychic connection had broken off, and Lockwood was shaking my arm. Taking a breath, I told him what I’d heard.

He scratched at his black wig; beneath the cheek paste and eyeliner, his face was genuinely pale. “It’s not going to be easy, Luce,” he said, “but I can get you access to that room. The catch is, you’ll need to deal with whoever’s in there on your own. Up for it?”

My anger at the skull still boiled inside me. The comments about Lockwood had made me feel queasy with guilt. But there would only be one answer. I nodded. “Yup.”

“I’ve missed you so much, Lucy.”

Okay, what with the wig and the makeup, and his blacked-out teeth, he didn’t look too great right then; but behind his gappy grin shone the old Lockwood smile, and that smile and those words together swept everything else aside. All guilt and queasiness were gone, and I was conscious of nothing other than the thrill of being there with him.

“You, too,” I began—but he didn’t hear me. He was still talking, telling me the plan.

“So I’ll cause a diversion,” Lockwood said, “that’ll distract everyone by the table. When they’re busy, you just walk straight past and into the room. Then you’ll have to be back out again with the skull in the blink of an eye.”

Now if it had been me making that suggestion, and I’d been putting it to Ted Daley or Tina Lane or one of the other lame-duck agents I’d worked with in my freelance career, there’d have followed a long series of questions as they tried to weasel their way out of doing anything remotely dangerous. But it was Lockwood making the suggestion, and me listening, and though my veins fizzed at the danger he was putting himself in, I didn’t waste time or effort. I only nodded. If Lockwood saw a way, I went with it. He trusted me. I trusted him. That’s how we stayed alive.

“Great,” he said. “Two minutes—and I’ll meet you back here. Then we stroll to the ladder and get out. Ready? Okay. Three, two, one—go.”

No sooner said than done. I set off, keeping to the curve of the wall. I slipped past the first few men in the line in front of me, ignoring their exclamations of annoyance. At every point I expected someone to pull me back. I drew nearer to the table, to where the Winkmans sat, surrounded by the men in black. And now I saw that there were two other men farther on, standing guard at a little arch, beneath the flashing neon light. At any moment I’d be spotted, and the enemy would descend on me….

There was a sudden cry behind me, a heavy blow, a roar of rage. Everyone at the table looked up. I could hear the sounds of repeated punches, rude insults, the shouting of the crowd. It was an almighty clamor. All eyes were on it. The men beside the archway left their posts and ran past me without a glance. Lockwood’s diversion was successfully under way.

Lockwood…My heart hammered against my chest. I was desperate to turn around, see what he was doing, but that wasn’t part of the plan. Without a backward glance I walked quickly past the table to the arch, and stepped through it into a small room.