Lockwood & Co. The Creeping Shadow

TERRORIST LINK TO ROTWELL AGENCY!

FORBIDDEN WEAPONS FOUND AT RUINED INSTITUTE

STEVE ROTWELL STILL MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD

FIRST INTERVIEW WITH DEPRAC INVESTIGATOR MONTAGU BARNES INSIDE

The sensational discoveries made in the rubble of the ruined Rotwell Institute facility in Hampshire continued yesterday, with confirmation that police had uncovered the remains of a large “weapons factory” in one of the outbuildings. Among the items recovered are said to be several unexploded “ghost-bombs” of the kind used in a terrorist attack on the London carnival last November, in which an attempt on Ms. Penelope Fittes’s life was made. Several members of the institute staff, including facility chief Mr. Saul Johnson, have been arrested, amid claims that they and agency head Mr. Steve Rotwell were intimately involved in that attack. Mr. Rotwell’s whereabouts remain unknown, but it is believed that he may have perished in the explosions that destroyed the facility.

In today’s exclusive interview in the Times, DEPRAC chief investigator Mr. Montagu Barnes gives a detailed account of his team’s dangerous exploration of the ruins. “It was an inferno when we arrived,” he says. “But we managed to discover a store of illicit weapons, including deadly ectoplasm-guns. Ghost-bombs are just the tip of the iceberg, believe me.” He refused to comment on the contents of the central building at the site, which was severely damaged in the incident. “Sadly, the purpose of that building is not yet clear. Rest assured that inquiries are continuing.”

Police investigations widened yesterday, following reports of forbidden Sources found stored at the institute. Several arrests have been made among staff at the Greater London Metropolitan Furnaces in Clerkenwell, and more are expected in the coming days. However, such developments pale into insignificance next to the crisis surrounding the Rotwell Agency. With its leader missing, and other key executives also implicated in serious crimes, public confidence in the organization has plummeted, and its future hangs in the balance. Latest reports suggest that DEPRAC has invited Fittes Agency head Ms. Penelope Fittes to take temporary charge of the rudderless organization in an effort to stabilize its fortunes. She will run both companies from her offices in the Strand.

Full Barnes Interview: see page 3

“Ghost-bombs and Plasm-guns”—True Secrets of the Weapons Factory: see pages 6–7

“Maimed Lion”: A Pull-out History of the Rotwell Agency: see pages 25–33

“Well,” Lockwood said, “that’s another investigation successfully swept under the rug.” He tossed the paper onto the breakfast table and reached for the toast. “Old Barnes is a master at this sort of stuff. All that flimflam with the illegal weapons allows him to quietly gloss over the only important thing, which is the iron circle. Still, I suppose we should be happy that he’s glossed over our part in the affair, too.”

“I’m very happy about that,” Holly said.

We all were. We were happy about many things that morning. And because of this, we’d decided to enjoy an official celebratory breakfast at 35 Portland Row.

It was the day after our return from Aldbury Castle, and the sun was shining bright. Holly had thrown open the kitchen door. Birds sang, new leaves sparkled; cool spring air flooded the room, almost driving out the smell of George’s smoked kippers. Best of all, the team was there to share the occasion.

The whole team, that is. Including me.

Part of my happiness stemmed from the fact that I’d spent the previous night back in my old attic room. Back for real, I mean. In a symbolic gesture, George had even taken away most of his clothes. I still had to be careful what I stepped on—the floor was likely to remain a minefield of eerie socks and hankies for a while yet—but it was my place again now.

Well, mine…and the skull’s. While I slept it had occupied its old position on the windowsill, from where it could (it claimed) enjoy looking out at the quiet night, and (more probably) try to scare the toddlers in the house opposite by glowing an unholy green. This morning it was down in the kitchen, too, since its retrieval was another thing we were celebrating that day. Within thirty seconds of arriving, however, it had disgraced itself by leering at Holly in such a knowing way that she’d dropped her plate of whole wheat waffles into her lap. It had then been removed from the table and placed in a dark corner by the sink, its jar half shrouded by a dishcloth.

The skull wasn’t the only morally dubious guest that morning. Quill Kipps was there, too. While not himself a member of Lockwood & Co. (which would, in his words, be a fate worse “than being whipped naked across Wimbledon Common”), there was talk of him being a consultant who might be called in from time to time. He was with us that morning to discuss this, and also to celebrate our return to London. Eggs were being poached, bacon was fried, and even Holly’s super-healthy waffles glistened temptingly under oodles of honey and fresh butter. We all ate contentedly and well.

Lockwood sat at the head of the table, passing laden plates, making sure everyone had their fill. I was relieved to see that he looked like his normal self. His color had returned, and he moved with his customary ease. Physically it was taking both of us a long time to recover from our walk through the iron circle. I still felt weary, and had been troubled by obscure nightmares—but these seemed to be lessening. On a morning such as this it was easy to imagine that the effects of our ordeal would soon fade.

At last Lockwood banged a fork against a milk jug. “Time for some toasts,” he said. “I’d like to thank you all for your efforts in Aldbury Castle. George, Holly, and Quill—you did great things at the institute. Without you, Lucy and I wouldn’t have survived.”

Glasses were raised and orange juice drunk. Then Lockwood turned to me.

“Lucy,” he said, “you deserve a special toast. First, for coming back to us. Lockwood and Company was incomplete without you. And second, for intervening when Rotwell had me beaten. You saved my life that night. Thank you.”

His eyes fixed on mine. I did my best to look super-casual, but I could feel a bit of blushing going on. Then I realized that everyone was watching us.

“Ooh, awkward,” George said.

Lockwood grinned and tossed a crust of bread at him. “The truth is, we all rely on each other. Take any one of us away, and we’re all weakened. Together, there’s nothing we can’t do.”

“Hear, hear,” Holly said.

“And that brings me to my last toast,” Lockwood finished. “To new horizons. Because after the Creeping Shadow and the iron circle and what Lucy and I found on the Other Side, I believe everything has changed. Between us, we’ve discovered things we never imagined. Barnes wants us to keep quiet about it, but we all know that’s impossible. From now on, the scope of our inquiries will be wider. There are many new questions to answer, and our investigations have only just begun.”

We drank and put our glasses down. For a short space everyone was silent; we listened to the birdsong through the open door.

“What I want to know,” Holly said, “is what the Creeping Shadow guy was doing on the Other Side. Steve Rotwell alluded to some kind of purpose. He wasn’t wandering around out there just for the fun of it. What was he after? Why would anyone take such risks? I can’t imagine anything important enough to justify it.”

“Doesn’t have to be anything specific.” That was George. Not content with his kippers, he was preparing a final bacon sandwich on an impressive scale. “Sometimes it’s just about exploring the unknown. Give me a suit of iron armor and I’d happily travel to the Other Side.”

“Might need to be an extra-large-size suit, particularly if you eat that massive sandwich,” Lockwood said. “You can always borrow the spirit-cape, though.”

“It’s such a pity I lost the other one,” I said. The memory made me feel bad.

Lockwood shrugged. “Can’t be helped. Besides, who knows what’s still packed away upstairs? But we were talking about the Shadow. He was definitely doing something. Rotwell said as much. We’ve got to find out what.”

“First we have to get our heads around all of this,” Kipps said. “I’m not sure I can.”

“Nor me,” Holly agreed. “I’m just amazed you’ve both come back in one piece.”

I didn’t say anything. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could still see the black sky stretching over the alternate, frosted world.

“Here’s what I think,” George said, chewing on a piece of bacon. “Lucy and Lockwood went to the place where ghosts come from. At least, it’s where some of them are hanging around, ready to step through weak points to our world. Normally we don’t have access to it, though those of us with psychic Sight get glimpses of it, I guess. But then the Shadow crossed over and started strolling around over there, and that got the spirits very excited. He had the effect of weakening the barrier between worlds. When you saw him in the churchyard, he was like a ghost, wasn’t he? You were seeing him on the Other Side—the barrier had completely frayed.”

“I wonder if any living person saw us,” Lockwood said. “Never thought to ask.”

“So what I’m interested in,” George went on, “is whether anyone’s stirred them up like that before. And if so”—he gestured with a mustard spoon at the map on the wall, the one showing the concentric spread of historic hauntings across the country—“what effect it’s had on the Problem.”

The doorbell rang. Holly was closest. She disappeared into the hall.

“Big mysteries,” Kipps mused. “Going to be tough to solve.”

“Have confidence, Quill,” Lockwood said. “With the team we’ve got, I think we’ll do just fine.” He stretched back in his chair. “Who was at the door, Hol?”

Holly had reappeared, and in the instant before she spoke, we all noticed how pale she was, and how stiff her expression. “We have two visitors, Lockwood,” she said. “I didn’t…I couldn’t…Well, I mean to say, they’re here right now. I’ve had to let them in.”

She stood aside. Behind her, smiling her glossy smile, was Penelope Fittes.

Ms. Fittes stepped into the kitchen. It was a small room, and there wasn’t much space for her. She gazed around at the debris of our meal. She wore a green dress, mid-length, with a dark brown coat on top. As always, she might have been on her way to a dinner party. “Good morning, everyone,” she said. “I hope I’m not intruding. May I come in?”

Well, she already had, of course. Lockwood jumped up. “Of course, of course. Please—”

“Just a little visit. No, don’t get up. I wouldn’t want to disturb you. I do have someone else with me, too.” She gestured behind her at a slim young gentleman, with curly blond hair and a neatly groomed mustache, standing in the shadows of the hall. He wore an elegant tweed suit and had a sword-stick hanging at his side. “You know Sir Rupert Gale, I think? An old friend of the Fittes family.”

“Yes, indeed…yes. I’m sorry about the mess here,” Lockwood said. “Shall we go into the living room?”

Ms. Fittes gave a smile. “No, no. I’d like to see where you do your work in your little agency. What a busy breakfast you’ve been having! And this tablecloth, with all these sketches…” She leaned forward to inspect them. “So quaint! So charming…well, possibly not those doodles there.”

Lockwood was hurrying over with a spare chair. “I’m sorry. I keep telling George to stick to ghosts. Please sit, ma’am. Sir Rupert, would you care to have mine?”

“No, no thank you. I’m good.” Sir Rupert Gale took up position at the window. He leaned back against the sink and crossed one ankle over the other.

It was no great pleasure for us to have Sir Rupert in our house, since we knew him to be a rogue and a wealthy collector of illicit relics. His past encounters with us had been laced with the threat of violence. But in truth, having Penelope Fittes there was more disconcerting still.

This most illustrious person sat in our private space, smiling at us. The chair that she occupied was a fold-out wicker one, rather inexpensive, with a few ectoplasm burns along the back where it had played a part in one of George’s experiments. Nevertheless, with her long limbs elegantly arranged upon it, and the sunlight shining on her emerald dress, the lady somehow made it look quite chic. She seemed at perfect ease. By contrast, we all sat (or stood) in nonplussed silence. Kipps in particular looked thoroughly mortified. He subtly insinuated himself behind the door, trying to keep out of sight.

Lockwood shook his confusion away. “Tea, ma’am? The pot’s just brewed.”

“Thank you, Anthony. I’ll take a cup.”

As the necessary formalities were completed, Ms. Fittes gazed around the kitchen, her eyes taking in every detail—the remains of breakfast, the salt and iron in the corner, the door to the garden, George’s map of England on the wall. “I’ve come here to thank you,” she said. “To thank you for your services. It’s really been most kind of you.”

“Services, ma’am?” Lockwood passed the tea over.

“I see you’ve been reading the papers.” She indicated the front page of the Times. “You’ll have gathered that there are many changes happening in London. In particular, you may have heard that the Rotwell and Fittes agencies are entering an association. Well, I can tell you unofficially that it will be more than that. It is a merger. Rotwell’s is disgraced and in crisis; without swift action, it will fail. So, from now on it will be fully assimilated into the Fittes Agency. That means it is part of Fittes, and its executives will report to me.”

She looked around at us, this woman who now controlled the two largest and most powerful organizations in London. “Congratulations, ma’am,” Lockwood said slowly. “That’s…really quite something.”

“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.

“She’s her?” I repeated.

“Exactly. Penelope Fittes is Marissa Fittes. They’re one and the same person.”