Constable & Toop (12 page)

Sam tried the door. It was open. He walked to a desk in the corner where he found a pencil and scribbled a short note explaining that, having fulfilled his side of the bargain, he would return with the body for burial in a couple of days' time, giving Bray opportunity enough to organise a gravedigger and to prepare for Mr Gliddon's internment. Sam bent down and swapped the whiskey bottle for the note so that Rector Bray would see it when he awoke. He stood up, pulled up the collars on his coat and set off on the long walk home.

Returning to the fake solidity of the Bureau, Lapsewood was struck how unreal it felt in comparison to the physical world. The wooden chair opposite Mrs Pringle, outside General Colt's office, was unyielding beneath his buttocks, but when he looked at it up close it was disappointingly lacking in the detail of real wooden items.

Mrs Pringle was reading a posthumously penned novella by Jane Austen entitled
Spirits and Spirituality
. Lapsewood had never been one for fiction. For him, a well-maintained accounts ledger had always provided as compelling reading as any story of invention. But Mrs Pringle was immersed in the book as though nothing outside it existed. Or maybe she was just ignoring him.

When General Colt did finally walk into the office, he was whistling a chirpy melody while tossing and catching a golf ball in one hand.

‘If there's nothing else urgent today, Mrs Pringle, I thought I'd take the rest of the afternoon off,' he said.

‘Very good,' replied Mrs Pringle.

Lapsewood stood. The general and his secretary turned to look at him, apparently both suddenly being made aware of his presence.

‘Who's this?' General Colt asked Mrs Pringle.

‘Mr Lapsewood,' she replied flatly.

Lapsewood offered up the kind of salute he imagined might be employed by those in military service. This attempted act of professionalism and respect was received by the general with equal measures of confusion and uncertainty.

‘You assigned him the London case,' said Mrs Pringle, to clarify.

‘Did I?' He looked at Lapsewood critically. ‘Well, you'd better get on with it. No point hanging around here. Mrs Pringle will furnish you with all the necessary documentation.'

‘Er . . . she already did, sir,' said Lapsewood. ‘I mean, I've been there. I need to talk to you about some quite shocking results of my investigation . . .'

‘Excellent, write up your report and hand it in to Mrs Pringle and be on your way now.' General Colt continued towards his office only to find Lapsewood standing in his way.

‘I'm sorry, sir,' said Lapsewood.

‘Sorry is exactly what you will be if you do not step out of my way immediately,' snarled the general.

Lapsewood stepped aside. ‘But you see, I think this might be more urgent than that. I found her, you see. I found Doris.'

‘Who on earth is Doris?' bellowed General Colt.

‘Doris McNally,' chipped in Mrs Pringle. ‘She was the Outreach Worker you sent him to find.' She rolled her eyes at Lapsewood in despair of her superior's ineptitude.

‘Doris McNally,' said General Colt. ‘Ah yes, good old Doris. What happened to her, then? Went Rogue, did she? Got fed up of all the moaners?'

‘No, sir,' replied Lapsewood. ‘She's being held prisoner in one of the structures on the list. St Winifred's School, to be precise.'

In case the look of disdain wasn't clear enough, the general leaned forward and snorted directly in his face. ‘Why would the school take her prisoner?'

‘It had lost its Resident, sir.'

‘Lost its Resident?' cried the general. ‘Where? Underneath an armchair? In a cupboard? Buildings can't lose Residents.'

‘With respect, they can, sir. And once they have, they get infected with the Black Rot, which means they become prisons for the next ghost to step inside. That's what happened to Doris.'

‘Infected? Black Rot? What on earth are you on about, man? Mrs Pringle, does any of this mean anything to you?'

‘There may be something about it in the Compendium,' she replied. ‘Or else in the Central Records Library.'

‘Yes,' said Lapsewood excitedly. ‘There must be something about it there. I'd never heard about it either, but Tanner and Nell both knew about it.'

‘Tanner?' exclaimed General Colt. ‘Nell?'

‘Rogue ghosts, sir. Tanner was helping me.'

‘Rogue ghosts? I gave you no permission to recruit. Don't you know there are procedures to follow?'

‘Yes, but there was no time . . . I think if we don't act quickly then—'

‘Then what?' interrupted the general. ‘Then hell will rise up and heaven will fall from the sky? Because it had better be something that dramatic to justify your actions. What were you doing with this Rogue ghost?'

‘We were using spirit hounds, sir.'

‘Anomalies? Well, thank God you're back. Because now I know what a liability you are. Mrs Pringle, call for a guard.'

‘Certainly,' she replied.

‘But sir, you don't understand . . .' begged Lapsewood.

‘I'm afraid I understand all too clearly. When Penhaligan sent me an office clerk to do the job of a Prowler I thought it a fob off. Now I see it for what it really is . . . sabotage,' he hissed.

‘Sabotage?'

‘Yes, I can see how all this will play out. Rogue ghosts and dead dogs being drafted in without permissions or licences. They'll have my head for this. Penhaligan has been gunning for me for some time but these are low, deplorable tactics, employing spies to bring my department into disrepute. Well, I won't have it. Do you hear me, Flackwood?'

‘Lapsewood, sir.'

‘Don't interrupt. This espionage won't work. It hasn't worked. I've seen through you. Now, hand me back my list and be gone.'

‘The list, sir?'

‘The London Tenancy List,' he replied impatiently.

‘Why do you need that back?'

‘Listen, you little squeak of a melon pip, there are three copies of that list.' General Colt counted them off on his fingers. ‘There's Doris's, the one you had and a safety copy in the Central Records Library. And you know how long it can take getting anything from the CRL.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. I don't have it.'

‘Well, where is it?'

‘With the boy I told you about. He's to continue assess­ing the extent of the damage. I think unless we have proper data—'

‘I think I can assess the extent of the damage,' interrupted General Colt. ‘The extent of the damage is considerable. You have placed Bureau property in the hands of an unlicensed Rogue ghost. This is even more serious than I thought. I find you in breach of so many regulations I haven't time to go through them all, but rest assured you will now find yourself very much under arrest.' General Colt pulled out his gun and pointed its nozzle at the space between Lapsewood's eyes. ‘It's the Vault for you, Latchwood.'

Sam's walk back from Shadwell took forever. The city was quiet in the early-morning hours, offering no diversion from the sound of his trudging feet. It was a time when most were in their beds so all Sam had for company was the constant drizzle, dampening his clothes, creating vast puddles in the uneven roads towards Peckham. As he walked, he tried to remember what had happened while he was passed out, but it was like a nightmare that retreated further into the recesses of his memory every time he tried to recall it. He only remembered the voice.
TALKER
, it had said.
TO KILL. TO FEED
. Had he been asleep when he heard it or awake? By the time he reached the top of the hill that led down into Honor Oak, he was soaked through and shivering. His trousers were splattered with mud and his nose was streaming.

A dim light shone from the shop window. Sam pushed the door open and the shop bell sounded. His father and Mr Constable were inside. They both stood upon seeing him.

‘Sam?' whispered Mr Toop hoarsely. ‘Where on earth have you been? We've been out of our minds with worry.'

‘Are you all right, Sam?' asked Mr Constable.

‘Wet is what I mostly am,' replied Sam.

‘Of course you are,' said Mr Constable. He handed him a piece of velvet coffin-lining with which to dry his hair.

‘Have you been drinking?' demanded Mr Toop. ‘Is that it? Let me smell your breath.'

‘I haven't been drinking anything other than rain water,' stated Sam, wrapping the material around him like a blanket.

‘He's safe, Charles,' said Mr Constable in a quiet voice that had an immediate calming effect on Mr Toop. ‘Sam, did you visit the church?'

‘Yes. I got locked in.'

‘Locked in?' said his father.

‘Yes. Thankfully, the rector was so apologetic about it that he has agreed to take Mr Gliddon's internment.'

‘So both good and bad luck,' said Mr Constable, attempting to bring a moment of levity to the conversation.

‘I suppose,' said Sam.

Mr Constable had the power to see straight through Sam's lies as though they were constructed of the clearest glass and yet he turned to Mr Toop and said, ‘You see, Charles. I said there would be an explanation.'

‘You were locked in a church?' said Mr Toop doubtfully.

‘Exactly,' said Mr Constable. ‘He was locked in a church. Now, Sam, you must be tired. I know I am. I suggest you dry off and go straight to bed.'

‘Thank you for waiting up with me,' said Mr Toop to his partner.

‘I wouldn't have slept a wink either,' replied Mr Constable, ‘knowing that Sam was out there on a night like this because of me.' He picked up his hat and coat and opened the door. ‘I will see you both tomorrow.'

Mr Toop closed the door quietly behind him and locked it. ‘Your uncle is asleep,' he said. ‘I hope his snoring doesn't disturb you.'

‘After that walk, I'm not sure any noise could be so loud as to keep me from sleep,' replied Sam.

Father and son took the stairs up to the landing where they parted, Mr Toop going into his room, Sam into his. Jack's snoring was indeed loud. He was lying on his side, his back to the door. Sam removed his wet clothes, dried himself as best he could, pulled on a nightshirt and climbed into bed. For a moment, he lay shivering, then he heard Jack mutter, ‘Night on the town, eh, lad?'

The next day, Sam awoke to the tinkling of the shop bell. He had slept late. The shop was already open. He opened his eyes to find Jack sitting up with Sam's muddy trousers across his knee. In his hand, Jack held the coins he had given him the previous day.

‘A queer one, you are, lad,' he said. ‘Someone gives you money to buy booze, and not only do you return empty-handed, but you come back with the money. Me, in your position I'd 'ave bought the liquor and drunk it myself. Or else, spent the money on some other entertainment.'

‘There was no opportunity to buy what you wanted,' replied Sam.

‘Opportunities ain't somethin' you get given,' said Jack. ‘They're somethin' you take.'

‘Like the opportunity to kill someone?' said Sam, feeling angry with his uncle that he could so easily look through his pockets, without any attempt to hide it.

‘Don't go thinkin' you can get away with saying things like that on accounts of you being family, boy.'

‘We won't be family after this week is done with.'

‘You don't want to go believin' everything your old man says,' said Jack. ‘We've been through a lot together, me and him. Charlie and Jack, that was us. A right pair of lads. The best pair of thieves in Whitechapel. He never told you about them days, though, I guess.'

‘My father was never a thief,' said Sam.

Jack's lips curled upwards. ‘There's a lot you don't know about your old man,' he said. ‘And a thief, he most definitely was. A good one too.'

‘He was a carpenter's apprentice,' said Sam.

‘Ah, the carpenter, yes. Your old man knew about takin' opportunities too. When Old Man Chester caught him red-handed, your pa saw an opportunity to leave me high and dry. He duped the carpenter into takin' 'im in, givin' him some old sob story about his life as a poor little urchin. He left me to fend for myself. Imagine that, my big brother leavin' me to the mercy of the streets when he'd tricked some old fella into an apprenticeship. Done him all right too, hasn't it? His own business with the name Toop on the front. I never thought I'd see the day. Almost makes me proud.' Jack was leering at Sam, his dark eyes fixed on Sam's. ‘'Cept pride's a sin, ain't it?'

Sam grabbed a clean set of clothes and left the room.

‘Fetch me a cup of tea, will you, lad?' Jack shouted after him.

Clara looked sadly at the chair in which she imagined Lady Aysgarth's ghost to have sat. Breakfast felt emptier without her. In fact, Lady Aysgarth's chair was the opposite end of the table from the one Clara picked out for her. It had been the chair as far as possible from the Tiltmans.

The appearance of the ghost had been as sudden and fleeting as it had been violent and traumatic. Watching through the keyhole, Clara had seen the priest destroy a human soul for the sake of dinner party entertainment. The look of horror in Lady Aysgarth's eyes was contrasted with the wonder and delight worn by Clara's parents and guests. The priest's eyes, however, revealed a different kind of pleasure, like that of the hangman relishing his work.

A polite round of applause followed the vanquishing of Lady Aysgarth's soul. Afterwards, back in her room, Clara had made copious notes about it all and spent a lot of time labouring over a comparison with Romans watching Christians being fed to lions for the sake of entertainment, an analogy which, in spite of her best endeavours, she was struggling to make work.