Lockwood & Co: The Whispering Skull

13

The Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium, also known as Winkman’s Stores, stands on Owl Place, a narrow side road running between Coptic and Museum Streets in central London. It is a dowdy, uneven little lane, with only three commercial establishments: a pizza place on the corner with Coptic; a Chinese psychic healer, whose narrow glass door is shadowed beneath bamboo-and-paper awnings; and a broad-fronted building with two bay windows, which is the Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium.

The windows of this shop are low-slung and hatched with diamond leading. The interior is always dark. Nevertheless a variety of objects can be glimpsed within: an equestrian statue in the Greek style, with one fore-hoof broken off; a Roman vase; a cabinet in red mahogany; a Japanese ghost-mask, grinning from ear to ear. Stickers on the door announce the types of credit cards accepted; and the hours of business, which extend to after curfew. There are no ghost-bars on the door, and no obvious defences. Mr and Mrs Winkman, who live above the shop, seem to have no need of them.

At a quarter past three on the afternoon following our encounter with Flo Bones, two young teenaged tourists, slurping iced Cokes from giant paper flagons, turned out of Museum Street’s hot sunlight and entered the shady side-road. The girl wore a True Hauntings T-shirt, a floaty knee-length skirt and sandals. The boy wore a blue cotton shirt, an enormously baggy pair of shorts, and sneakers. Both had large sunglasses; they laughed and joked loudly as they strolled along.

Three doors down, they stopped as if on impulse outside the windows of the Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium and spent a little while staring at its array of dusty exhibits. The boy nudged the girl playfully in the ribs; he gestured at the store. The girl nodded. They walked to the doorway and went inside.

In setting out on our undercover investigation, Lockwood and I knew very well that we were taking risks. Flo had made that perfectly clear. The previous night, as her final favour, she had shown us the shop, pointing it out from the corner of the lane. Then she’d stolen away into the dark, leaving only a faintly unwashed smell behind. This had been as close as she wanted to get to Winkman’s.

We, however, had slipped a little nearer, until we could make out a gas lantern flickering in the left-hand bay window, with the ghost-mask hanging above it like the gory head of a Floating Bride. Lockwood guessed that the light was some kind of signal; he’d been sorely tempted to keep watch, but we were far too weary. The night was halfway over, and we’d had very little sleep the night before. We left Bloomsbury and walked back home, where we slept in late, and came downstairs with the sunlight angled steeply through the windows.

George had already gone out. In the kitchen we’d found a note scrawled on the white paper tablecloth draped over the kitchen table. This is our thinking cloth. We always have some pens lying there, and we use it for memos, shopping lists, messages and doodles, as well as sketches of Visitors we’ve seen. Wedged in a space between an empty doughnut tray, a burger box and two dirty teacups was the following message:

Out on hunt! Developments! Be here later. C_T

Nearby was a series of obscure scribblings:

80ºC

15 mins

No response

100ºC

15 mins

No

120ºC

15 mins

No

150ºC

6 mins

Plasm stirs. Face forms

12 mins

Mouth moves. Expressions (rude)

BUY MORE CRISPS

We’d considered the cryptic notes in silence for a few moments. Then Lockwood crossed to the oven. He opened it slowly to discover the ghost-jar jammed inside. In places, the surface of the glass was slightly blackened. The plasm was almost translucent, the skull at its heart clearly exposed. You could see the little fissures in the bone, the brown staining on the teeth.

This was the first time we’d seen the skull since our squabble over its comments two nights before. I glanced nervously at Lockwood, who was making a fleeting effort to prise the jar out of the oven, but he didn’t look at me. Instead he stood back and passed his hand across his face. ‘I don’t have the strength to think about this now,’ he said. ‘George’s experiments are getting slightly out of control. Remind me to have a word with him this evening.’

First, however, we had other things to attend to, and Lockwood had already come to his decision. As far as tracking down Jack Carver went, there was little more that we could presently do. The previous night he had left a note at the café, carefully addressed to ‘The Graveyard Fellowship’. It requested that anyone with information concerning ‘a recent incident’ at Kensal Green Cemetery should get in touch with us, and offered a small reward. Carver himself would clearly not respond, but since half the relic-men seemed to be at each other’s throats, it was possible someone else might bring us information. Meanwhile Flo had promised to let us know if word got out about a special black market auction in the next few days; and we would hear the results of George’s research later. Everything, in other words, was well in hand.

That just left Winkman’s Stores.

Since it was likely Carver had already passed the mirror to Winkman, Lockwood reasoned it was worth at least investigating the antique shop. At best, we might get a clue to the mirror’s whereabouts; at worst – well, given the black marketeer’s reputation, it was sensible not to think about that. But we would go disguised, and not try anything too dangerous. It would be OK. We dressed ourselves as summer tourists, and took the tube to Bloomsbury.

A small bell, dangling from a D-shaped spindle above the door, danced and tinkled madly as we stepped inside the shop. The interior was dim, cool and smelled of dust and herbal polish. The ceiling was low. Behind us, sunlight glistened against the diamond panes, passed through stained net curtains and stretched in broken shards across the old scuffed floor. The room was a forest of stacked tables, display cabinets, chairs and random objects. Straight ahead was a counter, behind which a woman stood, as massive, tall and ominous as a statue of some long-forgotten god. She was polishing a small glass figurine with a tiny cloth. The top of her bouffant hairdo brushed the ceiling as she straightened to regard us.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Just looking, thanks,’ I said.

I took her in with a quick look: she was a strong, big-boned person in her early fifties. What with her size and pink skin, she reminded me of my mother. She had long hair, dyed very blonde; plucked eyebrows; a thin-lipped mouth; and grey-blue eyes. She wore a bosomy, flowery dress with matching belt. At first glance she seemed soft and fleshy; at second glance the aura of hard competence that radiated from her was clear.

We knew who she was. Flo had given us the description. She was Mrs Adelaide Winkman; she and her husband had owned the place for twenty years, since their predecessor had been accidentally crushed beneath a piece of Indian erotic statuary.

‘Say, this is a cool shop you’ve got here,’ Lockwood said. He blew out a small pink bubble of gum. It popped loudly; he drew it back into his mouth and grinned.

The woman said: ‘You’ll want to take your sunglasses off. We keep the lights low, on account of the artefacts, their delicate nature.’

‘Sure,’ Lockwood said. ‘Thanks.’ He didn’t remove his glasses and nor did I. ‘So all this is for sale?’

‘For those with money,’ the woman said. She looked back down; her big pink fingers rubbed slowly with the cloth at the contours of the figurine.

Lockwood and I drifted around the shop, trying to look aimless, drinking in the details. We found a weird variety of paraphernalia: things of value, stuff that was evidently just junk. An Appaloosa rocking horse, dappled white flanks stained yellow with age; a tailor’s dummy, head and shoulders of moth-eaten cloth, sitting atop a wormy wooden pole; an early metal twin-tub, with a hose coiled on its top; a Bakelite radio; three weird Victorian dolls with glassy, staring eyes. Those dolls made me shudder. You’d think even Victorian kids would have got the creeps from them.

Away to the left, a black curtain hung half concertinaed across a doorway. Beyond it was some kind of annexe, or smaller room. I caught a glimpse of a wing-chair there, and in it – dark and shiny – the crown of someone’s head.

‘Hey, are these haunted?’ Lockwood pointed to the dolls.

The big woman didn’t look up. ‘No . . .’

‘Man, they ought to be.’

‘There are shops on Coptic Street that have a wide selection of cheap gifts,’ the woman said. ‘You may find them more suitable for your means than . . .’ She let the sentence trail away.

‘Thanks. We’re not looking to buy, are we, Suse?’

‘No.’ I giggled, sucked noisily on my straw.

We wandered here and there a little longer, staring at objects, casing the joint. My snap survey told me there were two exits from the shop floor: an open door behind the counter that led to the domestic apartments (I could see a narrow hallway with a faded Persian rug and sepia photos on the wall), and the room behind the black curtain. It was still occupied – I heard a rustle of papers and a man’s sudden sniff.

Also, as I always do, I listened to the inner things. And there was something there: not strong, not a noise exactly. Perhaps the faintest hum, coiled up, waiting to be let out. Was it the mirror? I remembered the sound I’d heard in the cemetery – like the buzzing of countless flies. It didn’t sound quite like that. Whatever it was, it was very close.

Lockwood and I rendezvoused at the corner of the room furthest from the curtain. Our eyes met. We didn’t say anything, but Lockwood raised his fingers to me, making sure his body blocked the view of the woman at the counter. We’d arranged the code beforehand. One finger: we were going to leave. Two fingers: he’d found something. Three fingers: he needed a distraction.

Wouldn’t you know it? It was three. I had to put on a show. He winked, drifted away to the opposite end of the shop.

I glanced at the woman. The cloth moved in little circles, round and round and round.

I put my hand casually in the pocket of my skirt.

It’s amazing how much noise a dozen coins can make, dropped on a hard wood floor. That sudden crash, that scattering reverberation . . . It even took me by surprise.

Coins spilled under tables, between chair-legs and away behind the base of statues. Over at the counter, the woman’s head jerked up. ‘What’s going on?’

‘My change! My pocket’s ripped!’

Without waiting, I ducked down and wriggled my way under the nearest table. I did it clumsily, knocking the table so that the jewellery stands on it swayed and tinkled. Flicking a couple of coins further in, I squeezed between two African bird sculptures. They were flamingos or something: tall, beaky, a bit top-heavy. Above me, the heads swung precariously from side to side.

‘Stop that! Get out of there now!’ The woman had left the counter. From behind the tables I saw her fat pink calves and heavy shoes approach at speed.

‘Yeah, in a tick. Just getting my money.’

There was an oriental paper lantern ahead of me. It looked old, fragile, possibly quite valuable. Since it was theoretically possible that a coin might have fallen inside it, I gave it an industrious shake, ignoring the gasps of Mrs Winkman, who was bobbing anxiously beyond the tables, trying to get close to me. Putting the lantern down, I reversed sharply, so that my bottom collided with a plaster column displaying some kind of Roman vase. The vase toppled, began to fall. Mrs Winkman, demonstrating greater dexterity than I’d have expected for someone so large, reached out a ham-like hand and seized it as it went.

‘Julius!’ she screeched. ‘Leopold!’

Away across the room, the curtains were flung aside. Someone emerged, moved with stately tread along the aisles. I saw a pair of short and stocky legs, tightly clad in cotton trousers. I saw old leather sandals on the feet. I saw no socks: the feet were hairy, the yellowed toenails long and cracked.

A moment later a second pair of legs – markedly smaller than the first, but identical in shape and attire – emerged from the back room and came trotting after.

I made a pretence of scrabbling deeper under the table, gathering a few coins in my shaking hands, but I knew the game was up. I was already inching back towards the aisle when I heard a deep, soft voice say, ‘What’s all this, then, Adelaide? Silly children playing games?’

‘She won’t come out,’ Mrs Winkman said.

‘Oh, I’m sure she can be persuaded,’ the voice said.

‘I’m coming,’ I called. ‘Just had to get my coins.’

I emerged, dusty, red-faced and puffing, stood, and turned to face them. The woman had her massive arms folded; she was gazing at me with an expression that would ordinarily have been enough to turn my bowels to water. But not this time. It was the man beside her I had to worry about now. Julius Winkman.

My first impression was of a big man made short by some quirk of genetics, or by a lift falling on him, or both. He had a squat, endomorphic body, with an enormous head, a thick neck and powerful shoulders resting on a barrel-shaped chest. His arms were vast and hairy, his legs stubby and bowed. His black hair was cut very short and oiled back against the surface of his scalp. He wore a grey suit with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, a white shirt and no tie. Thick hairs protruded at the collar of his shirt. He had a broad nose and a wide, expressive mouth. A pair of golden pince-nez was balanced incongruously on his nose. Though clearly a person of considerable strength, he was little taller than me. I could look him directly in the eyes, which were big and dark, with long, sensuous lashes. The rest of his face was heavy, swarthy; the notched chin dark with stubble.

Beside him was a boy who seemed in many ways a smaller replica of the man. He too had the physique of an upturned pear, the slicked back hair and toad-like mouth. He wore similar grey trousers and a tight white shirt. There were some differences: no pince-nez, and mercifully less body hair; also his eyes were like his mother’s, blue and piercing. He stood at his father’s shoulder, staring at me coolly.

‘What do you think you’re doing,’ Julius Winkman said, ‘crawling around my shop?’

Far away across the room, behind them all, the curtain leading to the back room twitched once, briefly, and hung still.

‘I didn’t mean any harm,’ I said. ‘I dropped my money.’ I flourished the evidence in my palm. ‘It’s OK, though. I got most of it. You can keep the rest . . .’ Under their collective gaze my feeble grin grew sickly and crawled away to die. ‘Um, it’s a nice shop,’ I went on. ‘So much cool stuff. Bet it’s pricey, though, isn’t it? That rocking horse, now – what is that, couple of hundred at a guess? Lovely . . .’ The important thing was to keep them talking, keep their attention on me. ‘What about that vase there? How much would that set me back, if I wanted it? Um . . . is it Greek? Roman? Fake?’

‘No. Let me tell you something.’ Julius Winkman moved close suddenly, raised a hairy finger, as if he were about to prod me on the chest. His fingers, like his toes, had long, ragged nails. I smelled peppermint on his breath. ‘Let me tell you this. This is a respectable establishment. We have respectable customers. Delinquent kids who mess about, cause damage, they’re not welcome here.’

‘I quite understand that,’ I said hastily. Bloody Lockwood: next time he could do the distraction. I made a move for the exit. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Wait,’ Mrs Winkman said. ‘There were two of them. Where’s the other one?’

‘Oh, I guess he left,’ I said. ‘He gets so embarrassed when I drop things.’

‘I didn’t hear the door.’

Julius Winkman glanced back across the room. He was so thick-necked he had to turn sideways to do so, rotating his torso at the hips. He smiled faintly. There was a curiously feminine quality to his eyes and mouth that sat oddly with his hirsute frame. He said: ‘Thirty seconds, maybe forty. Then we’ll see.’

I hesitated. ‘Sorry. I don’t understand.’

‘Look at her hand, Dad.’ The boy spoke eagerly. ‘Look at her right hand.’

That puzzled me. ‘You want to see the coins?’

‘Not the coins,’ Julius Winkman said. ‘Your hand. Good boy, Leopold. Show it to me now, you lying little tramp, or I’ll snap your wrist.’

My skin crawled. Wordlessly I extended my hand. He took it, held it still. The softness of his touch appalled me. He adjusted the pince-nez slightly and bent close. With his free hand he ran his fingers lightly across the surface of my palm.

‘As I thought,’ he said. ‘Agent.’

‘Didn’t I tell you, Dad?’ the boy said. ‘Didn’t I say?’

I could feel tears pricking my eyes. Furiously I blinked them back. Yes, I was an agent. I would not be intimidated. I pulled my hand away. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve just come in to take a look at your stupid store and you’re not being very nice to me at all. Leave me alone.’

‘You’re a hopeless actor,’ Winkman said. ‘But even if you were a theatrical genius, your hand would still betray you. No one but an agent has those two calluses on the palm. Rapier marks, I call them. Come from all that practising you do: all that silly little swordplay. Yes? Should have thought of that, shouldn’t you? And so we’re just waiting for your little friend to come out.’ He looked at the watch strapped to his hairy wrist. ‘I’d guess, any time . . . now.’

A flash of light from beyond the curtain; a yelp of pain. A moment passed, then the curtain twitched aside; in came Lockwood, white-faced, grimacing, clutching the fingers of his right hand. He took a deep breath, mastered himself. He walked slowly down the aisle, came to a halt before the waiting Winkmans.

‘I must say,’ Lockwood said, ‘I don’t think much of the service here. I was just looking round that little showroom of yours, when some kind of electric shock—’

‘Silly children, playing silly games,’ Julius Winkman said in his soft, deep voice. ‘Which did you try, boy, the bureau or the safe?’

Lockwood smoothed back his hair. ‘The safe.’

‘Which is wired to administer a mild electric punishment to anyone who fails to disarm the circuitry before touching the door. The bureau has a similar mechanism. But you were wasting your time, since there’s nothing of any possible interest to you in either. Who are you, and who are you working for?’

I said nothing. Lockwood looked as dismissively contemptuous as was possible for someone wearing a colourful pair of holiday shorts and with a lightly steaming hand.

Mrs Winkman shook her head. She seemed taller than ever, standing in front of the mullioned windows. Her looming form blocked the light. ‘Julius? I could lock the door.’

‘Cut ’em into pieces, Dad,’ the boy said.

‘Not necessary, my dears.’ Winkman gazed at us. The smile was still present, but behind the fluttering lashes the gaze was hard as stone. ‘I don’t need to know who you are,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t matter. I can guess what you want, but you won’t get it. Let me tell you something. In all my establishments, I have certain defences to deal with people who are not welcome. An electric shock is just the least of them: crude, but useful during the day. By night, should anyone be foolish enough to break in, I have other methods. They are most effective: sometimes my enemies are dead even before I come downstairs. You understand?’

Lockwood nodded. ‘You’ve been very clear. Come on, Suse.’

‘No,’ Julius Winkman said. ‘Not like that. You don’t get to walk out of here.’ Bear-like hands shot out and seized us, me by the forearm, Lockwood by the collar; without effort he pulled us both inwards, close to him, then lifted us off the floor. The grip was tight; I cried out in pain. Lockwood struggled, but could do nothing. ‘Look at you,’ Winkman said. ‘Without your silly uniforms and poncy swords, you’re nothing but kids. Kids! This is the first time, so you get off lightly. Next time, I won’t be so restrained. Leopold – the door!’

The boy hopped over, swung the door aside. Light spilled in, the doorbell tinkled sweetly. Julius Winkman lifted me up and back, then flung me bodily out into the sunlight. The muscles in my arm wrenched; I landed heavily and fell forward onto my knees. A moment later Lockwood landed beside me, bounced once upon his backside, and skidded to a dusty halt. Behind us, we heard the door to the Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium being softly, but firmly, closed.