Lockwood & Co. The Creeping Shadow

Lockwood was satisfied with the result of our subterranean expedition, or at least as satisfied as it was possible to be given that we’d failed to retrieve the skull and had both nearly died. The fact that it had taken us nearly two hours to locate a safe way out of the Underground system and had almost been squashed by a moving train outside of Stockwell didn’t bother him much either.

“Look at it this way,” he said the following morning, when we were sitting with George and Holly in the basement office of Lockwood & Co. “The positives of last night massively outweigh the negatives. First, we went in search of an important psychic artifact and discovered that we actually owned two others.” He glanced up at the suit of armor that stood beside his desk. The spirit-capes hung from it, glittering, resplendent, and slowly drying. They’d got a bit sooty in the Tube tunnels, and we’d had to dab them clean. “That’s a major result,” he went on. “Okay, maybe we won’t want to wear them too much in public. People might think we were in some kind of novelty show. But those capes could really help us out in dangerous situations. Right, George?”

There was nothing George loved more than mysterious psychic artifacts; he’d hardly been able to keep his hands off the capes all morning. “Yep, they’re amazing objects,” he said. “Obviously the silver links in the lining help keep the ghosts at bay, but it’s possible the feathers do something, too. Could be their natural oil, or some special coating the witch doctors used…I’ll have to experiment. And, Lockwood”—his eyes gleamed—“we should really check to see what else is hidden away upstairs in that room.”

“Maybe someday,” Lockwood said. “When we’ve got time.”

George grunted. “I know what that means. But you can’t keep ignoring those boxes—can he, Luce?”

“I guess not.” My reaction had been more muted than the others’. I was happy about the capes, of course, but that didn’t resolve my disappointment about the whispering skull. I’d been so close to retrieving it. I’d actually had it in my hand. Once the adrenaline of our escape had faded, I’d been left feeling pretty empty inside.

Lockwood knew what I was thinking, of course. “You mustn’t be too upset, Lucy,” he said. “We don’t know that the skull’s lost for good. There’s still hope—and that brings me to the really big result of the night…namely the sinister Mr. Johnson of the Rotwell Institute. You recognizing him there was huge. If you were still a member of Lockwood and Company, I’d give you a raise. As it is—”

“You’ll give me one?” George suggested.

“No. But I will go so far as to say it’s the most significant bit of work anyone’s done since the Chelsea Outbreak. You’re an amazing agent, Lucy.”

Well, you can guess that made me feel a bit better. While I was digesting it, Lockwood got up and walked around the front of his desk; he leaned back against it, tall and slim and full of life and purpose. I had a sudden sense that everything was possible, that fortune and our assembled Talents would favor us. I could feel my despondency lifting. It was the Lockwood effect.

“The implications are incredible,” he went on. “With one stroke, Luce, you made a connection between the black market and one of the most famous institutions in London. Holly—what can you tell us about the institute?”

Before coming to work at Lockwood’s, Holly Munro had been an agent at Rotwell’s—and then a personal assistant to Steve Rotwell, its chairman. She had not greatly enjoyed that particular job, Mr. Rotwell being a bullish, aggressive individual, but she had always spoken highly of the company in general. She certainly knew more than most about the way it was run.

“The institute is the agency’s research wing,” she said. “It keeps itself separate from the rest of the company. No ordinary operatives work for it. It’s all adult scientists investigating the mechanics of the Problem.”

“And making lots of lousy products in the process,” I said. “Like George’s silver bell thing we used at the Guppy house.”

George gave a shrill cry. “Hey, that worked! Just a little too late, was all.”

Holly nodded. “The institute’s got a long history of inventing new defenses.”

“And marketing them very successfully,” Lockwood said. “Holly, when you were at Rotwell, did you know this Johnson?”

“Saul Johnson. Yes, I knew of him. He was one of the directors of the institute.”

“And did he ever get involved with ordinary ghost hunts? Lucy first saw him when she was out on a case with Rotwell’s.”

“No. I never remember that happening before. The institute scientists kept to themselves. They were usually off at their labs somewhere.”

“Right, so it looks to me,” Lockwood said, “as if something new and special is going on. Johnson—and presumably the institute generally—is out collecting powerful Sources, despite DEPRAC’s directives against doing precisely that. The mummified head you found last week, Lucy—Johnson will have seen that, clocked it, and given immediate orders to Harold Mailer to save it at the furnaces, ready for the marketeers to spirit away.”

“Looks as if everything important is being kept back now,” I said. “The Source from the Ealing Cannibal case was sitting on Johnson’s table last night, too.”

“Which raises the question,” George said, “of why.”

He said this in the kind of slow, deliberate way that made you feel a sudden thrill of excitement; you knew he had the answer and was about to reveal it in long words you only barely understood.

“Care to fill us in?” Lockwood said.

George paused. “Do I have to get up and come around to lean against the table in a cool, leaderish way like you?”

“That’s entirely optional.”

“Good, because my legs are too short to do it comfortably. My buttocks would keep sliding off. Think I’ll stay sitting here, if it’s all the same to you. Do you remember,” George went on, “what we found in the tunnels beneath Aickmere’s? Aside from a massive pile of human bones.”

“I found Lucy,” Lockwood said. His smile made me feel a little flushed. He’d had to climb down into the tunnels after the Poltergeist pulled me in.

“Aside from the bones and Lucy,” George said, “we found evidence that someone had been conducting some kind of weird experiments down there. There was a cleared circle in the middle of the bones, and candles set up around the edge, and marks where something metal had been pulled across the floor. And there was a massive ectoplasm burn mark in the very center of the circle. The bones were all psychically active, and we reckoned someone was using them as a single massive Source. Now we know that ordinary Sources represent weak points, where Visitors can slip through from”—he hesitated—“from wherever it is they ought to be. Imagine them as holes worn in old fabric. Like when the seat of your jeans wears through, Lockwood, that sort of thing.”

“I don’t get worn patches on the seats of my trousers,” Lockwood said. “And I don’t have any jeans.”

“Well, think of mine, then. I have plenty of old pairs. The fabric gets thin, then stringy, then widens to an actual hole. All of a sudden it’s embarrassing when you bend over. It’s the same here, except that it’s not your underwear showing—something else comes through.”

“This metaphor is disturbing in a number of ways,” Lockwood said. “Right now I’m actually less worried about the ghosts than about the other images you’re conjuring up. But go on. If you create a giant Source, therefore—”

“The weak point would be correspondingly bigger,” George continued. “It would create a bigger hole, for want of a better word. We saw that with the bone glass, too.” He was referring to an unpleasant artifact we’d once discovered—a mirror made of numerous haunted bones, designed by its maker to be a window to the Other Side. Whether it actually worked or not was unclear, since anyone who gazed into it invariably died, but the psychic frisson it gave off had certainly been strange and sinister. “I think whoever was behind the Aickmere’s thing was trying to make a window like the bone glass,” George said. “To do that, they needed a giant Source. Now Johnson seems to be out and about collecting powerful Sources—I reckon he’s up to the same game.”

“You think the Rotwell Institute was behind the Aickmere’s incident, too?” I asked.

“Maybe. Remember how quickly their teams turned up to clear the site after we’d discovered it? But it’s impossible to say. There was no clue as to who it was.”

“We found a cigarette butt, didn’t we?” Holly pointed out.

“Yep,” George said. “A Persian Light. Quite a rare brand.”

I sat up. “Hey, Johnson was smoking cigarettes.”

George looked at me. “What? Were they Persian Lights?”

“I don’t know.”

He slapped the side of his forehead. “Oh, Luce. That was a missed opportunity. Didn’t you sniff it? They’ve got a very distinctive aroma, like burned toast and caramel.”

“No, as it happens I didn’t take time out to taste his cigarette smoke, George. I was too busy trying to avoid being killed.”

George slouched back in his seat. “You could have taken a quick whiff while running for your life, Luce. Where’s your dedication?”

Lockwood had been thinking. He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Did Steve Rotwell have much to do with the institute, Holly?”

She frowned. “I assumed that he was in charge of it. He was always heading off to see them.”

“So he probably knows. Question is: What can we do about it?”

“Not a lot,” George said. “Still can’t really tell Barnes, can we? There’s not a shred of proof.”

“And Johnson will have spirited everything away somewhere,” Lockwood said. “The Rotwell Institute is based in Westminster, isn’t it, Hol?”

“That’s its head office, but not much goes on there. All its research facilities are outside London. There are several. I can’t remember them all offhand—sorry.”

Lockwood nodded ruefully. “Several facilities…That’s difficult. Do you think you could draw up a list for me? Might be useful, though to be honest I have no idea how we should proceed….” He sighed. “In the meantime, we’ve got a more pleasant appointment to keep. Penelope Fittes’s secretary rang first thing, Luce. You know she wants to thank us for the Ealing Cannibal case? Seems she’s out and about this morning, visiting the Orpheus Society, of which she’s patron, and wonders if we’d like to meet her there.”

“The Orpheus Society? In St. James’s?”

“The very same. Want to come along?”

He didn’t need to ask me twice.

For some time we’d been intrigued by the secretive and exclusive Orpheus Society, an outfit in central London whose members included many of the country’s most prominent industrialists. Officially, it was an upmarket London club devoted to discussion and research of the Problem, but we happened to know that it was engaged in more practical activities, too. George possessed a curious pair of crystal goggles marked with the society logo, an ancient Greek harp or lyre. Exactly what these goggles did had never been established; it was clear, though, that the Rotwell Institute was not the only organization developing equipment to use in the endless battle against the Problem. Unlike the institute, however, the society did not publicize its work, and the chance to learn more about it had never come up—until now. It was an opportunity not to be missed. Later that morning, leaving Holly to research the Rotwell Institute, Lockwood, George, and I set out later that morning for St. James’s in a mood of eager anticipation.

We found the society at the end of an elegant cul-de-sac, a quiet street of stuccoed townhouses, where the brass plates on the pillars gleamed spotlessly and the flowers in the hanging baskets beneath the hotel windows bloomed with plush, complacent health. The plaque gave the name without pomp or fanfare; and at our knock the door was opened at once by a smiling old man, who bowed and gestured for us to enter.

“Come in, come in, and welcome. I am the secretary of the society.”

The secretary was an amiable white-haired gentleman, stooped of shoulder but twinkling of eye. He wore a long frock coat and starched collar in an old-fashioned style, and his hair was swept back generously from an impressive forehead. We stood with him in a small, cool foyer. The floor was marble, the walls a deep maroon. Beyond him, an elderly man and woman were walking down a staircase. Somewhere nearby, a clock was ticking.

“We’re here to see Ms. Penelope Fittes, sir,” Lockwood said. “My name is Anthony Lockwood. These are my colleagues, George Cubbins and Lucy Carlyle.”

The old man nodded. “I was told to expect you. Dear Penelope is in the reading room.” He continued to gaze at Lockwood. “So you are Celia and Donald’s boy? I believe I’ve read about you in the Times. Yes, yes, I think I see them both in you.”

“Did you know them, sir?” Lockwood asked.

“Oh, indeed. They were candidates for membership in the society once. In fact, they gave a most interesting lecture in the very room I’ll be taking you to now. ‘Ghost Lore among the Tribes of New Guinea and West Sumatra,’ or something of that nature. They were folklorists, of course, perhaps not scientists in the strictest sense of the word….Still, their scholarship was impeccable. Their loss was a great one.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lockwood said. His face was impassive.

“Well, well, you didn’t come to talk to me. It’s just along here.” The old man led the way down a softly carpeted corridor, past paintings of august gentlemen similar to himself. At the end of the passage, a stained glass window let in shafts of yellow and ruby light. Beneath it was a plinth with a stone carving of a simple three-stringed harp. The secretary indicated it. “Perhaps you’ve seen our little symbol?”

“Seen it around,” I said casually. I thought of the pair of goggles back at Portland Row, which we’d stolen from a murderer some time before.

“Orpheus’s lyre,” George added. “That’s what it represents, right?”

“Exactly so. You know about Orpheus, of course,” the secretary said. “Greek fellow from the myths. He was the patron of musicians and of explorers into the unknown.”

“He went down into the underworld, didn’t he?” George said. “In search of his dead wife.”

“Indeed, Mr. Cubbins.” The Secretary turned left down a second corridor, where another aged club member, bald and smiling, stood aside to let us pass. “He sang and played his lyre so beautifully that he could charm the dead—and soothe the fearsome entities that guarded them. He even persuaded Hades, grim god of the underworld, to let his wife go. That is power indeed!”

“So the society takes Orpheus as its inspiration?” said Lockwood, who had been unusually quiet since arrival.

“We, too, seek to find ways of subduing ghosts. We are a motley band of inventors, industrialists, and philosophers—anyone, in fact, with an interesting perspective on the Problem. We discuss, we debate, we work on devices that might stem the ghostly invasion.”

“A bit like the Rotwell Institute, in fact?” George said.

The old man clicked his tongue. His smile became rueful. “Not exactly. The institute is much too…commercial for our tastes. They seek profit above truth. Many of their products are frankly worse than useless. The society is for idealists, Mr. Cubbins. We hunt for real answers. There is a battle to be won—not simply against ghosts, but against death itself.”

“What kinds of devices do you create, sir?” George asked. He had a spark in his eye. I knew he was thinking of the goggles.

“Many kinds! I will give you one example. Young people like you are fortunate—you hear and see supernatural things. But decrepit fellows such as me are powerless after dark. So we hunt for ways to help older folk defend themselves against the spectral foe. We have made progress, built prototypes…but they are not yet ready for public use.”

George nodded slowly. “I see. You’ve built prototypes, have you? Fascinating….”

“Indeed.” The secretary stopped at a dark oak door. “Well, here we are—the reading room.”

“What about Orpheus?” I said. “Did he bring his wife back in the end?”

The secretary chuckled. “No, my dear. No, he did not. He erred, and she remained on the Other Side. How I wish we could ensure the same for our dead friends today.” He pushed the door open and stood back. “The assembled company of Lockwood and Co.!” With that he ushered us in and departed, closing the door behind him.

It wasn’t a very big chamber, the Orpheus Society reading room; if Lockwood’s parents had once given a lecture there, the audience must have been quite small. A band of dark bookshelves encircled a cozy, carpeted space of armchairs and reading tables, randomly arranged. Penelope Fittes sat in a chair by the hearth, staring into the flames. Her long black hair gleamed, her profile might have been carved from alabaster; she was so much younger than any of the other members of the society, her luster almost came as a physical shock. She turned and smiled at us.

“Hello, Anthony,” she said. “Lucy, George. Come and sit down.”

Above the mantel hung a painting in a golden frame: a woman in a low-cut black dress, holding a lantern. Her hair was worn high on top of her head; a fierce light burned in her eyes. It was a face familiar from books and stamps and the postcards they sold in the Strand. It did not have the worn, burned-out look of the photographs at Fittes House.

Penelope Fittes had noticed my appraisal. “Yes, my sweet grandmother,” she said. “She set up this society, when she was still quite young. I continue to encourage them in their efforts. I have great regard for anyone who displays exceptional resourcefulness in combating the Problem. Which is why I have a proposition for you now.”

“Another case, Penelope?” Lockwood asked.

“Greater than that. A far greater honor. I would like you to join your agency with mine.”

Just like that; no mincing of words, no wasting time. She was smiling as she said it, but the impact of what she said was like a missile striking right between the eyes. I think I physically reeled; George made an incoherent sound. Lockwood’s face was frozen. I don’t think I’d ever seen him quite so taken aback. If the opening of Mrs. Barrett’s coffin ranked as nine out of ten on the shock-o-meter, this was ten out of ten. Ten plus. He blinked at her; it was as if he didn’t fully comprehend the words.

Ms. Fittes was too polite to acknowledge our stupefaction. “I was impressed with the way you tackled the very serious case in Ealing,” she said. “Impressed, but unsurprised. I have watched you since that matter of the Screaming Staircase two years ago. Time and again I have seen your team achieve small miracles of detection, overcoming great odds, defeating Visitors of considerable power. Your psychic Sight, Anthony, is superb, but it is not your only Talent; you are a leader I would love to have on my side. And Lucy”—her dark gaze switched to me—“I’m so pleased to see that you took my words to heart and have chosen to remain with Lockwood and Company. Your gifts are formidable, and I could help you develop them even further. Dear George”—the gaze switched again; I felt like a fish out of water that had suddenly been thrown back in—“you have already worked for my company once. Perhaps we didn’t fully appreciate your singular gifts. Come back to us and I will allow you full access to the Black Library at Fittes House—there are so many unread papers there, so much that is yet to be researched.” She leaned back in her chair. “There it is: my offer. I don’t make such proposals readily. But you have charmed me. Lockwood and Company is unique; with my help it could become immortal.” She smiled at us. “If you wish to consult with one another, please do so.”

A log crackled in the grate. A wall clock ticked. I couldn’t look at the others.

“Thank you, Penelope, thank you, Ms. Fittes….” When Lockwood spoke, his voice was thick; it lacked its usual fluency. “Thank you for the invitation. It is, as you say, an enormous honor.” He cleared his throat. “But I do not think we need to consult on this. I’m sure I speak for the others—and I certainly speak for myself—when I say that our independence is something we value above all else. We like being our own little agency. I’m sorry, but I don’t think we could happily become part of even such a tremendous organization as yours.”

Ms. Fittes’s smile remained, but she was as motionless as a stone. When she spoke, her voice was velvety. “No? Don’t misunderstand me, Anthony. I would create a new division especially for you. You wouldn’t need adult supervisors—you would operate exactly as you do now, except that the resources of the Fittes Agency would be at your disposal. I would trust you implicitly. You could even continue to work from your charming little home.”

Another silence in the reading room—this one stretched out even longer.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Lockwood said. “But again I must regretfully decline.”

The smiled flickered. “Well, you know your own mind, of course. I will respect your decision.”

“Please don’t take my remarks the wrong way, ma’am,” Lockwood said. “I mean no disrespect to you or your great organization. I hope there will be many more opportunities for collaboration between our agencies. We enjoyed working with Quill Kipps on the Guppy case,” he added. “Perhaps we can do so again.”

Now the smile was gone. “That will not be possible. Mr. Kipps is no longer employed by this agency.”

“No longer employed?” This time Lockwood didn’t bother hiding his astonishment; beside him, George and I were competing for whose jaw could drop the lowest. Kipps had made a seamless transition from agent to supervisor, and we’d assumed that he would go on to bore us for years with his rise through the ranks. “Did he—did he leave?” Lockwood asked. “Or was he—?”

“Oh no, he left of his own free will,” Ms. Fittes said. “Soon after returning from the Guppy case. His reasons were…confused. I did not interrogate him. I have many agents. I cannot spend my time mollycoddling those misguided individuals who don’t appreciate their own good luck. That being so, I had better get back to work. Thank you for coming in today. If you ring that bell, the secretary will be pleased to escort you out.”

Our visit to the Orpheus Society had not been as straightforward as we had assumed, and an air of unease hung over us on the journey home, a feeling that an important moment had just passed. It was disconcerting; nothing had actually changed, yet somehow the ground had insensibly shifted underfoot. We didn’t speak the entire way to Portland Row.

Holly was in the office. “How did it go? Did you get your medal?”

“Not exactly.” Lockwood flung himself down in his chair. “All okay here?”

“Fine. I made that list of Rotwell Institute sites you wanted. There weren’t that many of them in the end. Just five or six. It’s on your desk.”

“Thanks, Hol.” Lockwood picked up Holly’s list, glanced at it, put it down. He stared moodily out of the window.

George and I filled Holly in on the events of our visit. Her expression darkened. “Obviously you were quite right to say no, Lockwood,” she said. “No question about it. It’s flattering, I suppose, but you can’t just give up your independence. This is Lockwood and Co.”

“It was a strange offer,” I said. “Ms. Fittes was very complimentary about us, but it was like she just assumed we’d cave in and do her bidding. I don’t think she was very happy that we refused her, either.”

“That’s typical Fittes behavior.” Holly normally maintained a facade of breezy good humor about everything, but now she was looking as cross as I’d ever seen her. “At Rotwell’s we always used to talk about it. Penelope Fittes acts like she has a divine right to get whatever she wants, just because she’s head of the oldest agency. Her grandmother was just the same.”

“What about her mother?” I remembered the rather forlorn photograph I’d seen in Penelope Fittes’s study. “Didn’t she run the agency at one time?”

“Not for long,” Holly said. “She was different, they say—a gentler character. But of course she died, and Penelope took over. When was that, Lockwood? You’ll know.”

But Lockwood was still staring out of the window. He didn’t react even when the phone on his desk began ringing.

George looked at me. “I can’t pick it up,” I said. “I don’t work here anymore.”

“You never answered it even when you did work here.”

George got up and answered the phone. Whoever was on the other end was talkative. For a long while George’s side of the conversation was limited to grunts and sighs. Holly took up a feather duster and began doing unnecessary things to the suit of armor behind Lockwood’s desk. Lockwood still didn’t move.

At last George lowered the receiver and covered the mouthpiece with a hand. “Lockwood.”

“Mmm?”

“It’s that bloody Skinner kid again. He’s still talking about ghosts in that stupid village. It’s worse than ever, apparently. To hear him, you’d think they had Screaming Spirits jumping out of their breakfast cereal. Anyway, he’s begging me to ask you again.” George paused. “When I say ‘begging,’ it’s the usual mix of verbal abuse and desperate fawning. But somehow that works on me, I don’t know why. So I said I would.” He looked at Lockwood, who hadn’t moved. “You’re obviously doing some very important staring into space. I’ll just tell him to get lost….”

“No!” With a jolt that made me spill my tea and Holly knock the codpiece clean off the suit of armor, Lockwood sprang upright in his chair. “Give me that phone! It’s Danny Skinner, from Aldbury Castle?”

“Er, yes. Yes, it is. Why?”

Lockwood grabbed the receiver and put his feet up on his desk. “Look up the train schedule! Pack the bags! Cancel any appointments for tomorrow! Is that you, Danny? Lockwood here. We’re going to accept your fascinating invitation after all.”