Lockwood (46 page)

‘Good.’ Lockwood’s eyes glittered. ‘And so we come to the matter of our bet. The deal, as I recall, was that whoever lost this case should put an advert in
The Times
, praising the winners to the skies and doing some general grovelling. I think you’ll agree that since
we
located the mirror,
we
homed in on Joplin, and Barnes has declared
us
the official winners, those losers must surely be you and your team. What do you say?’

Kipps bit his lip; his tired eyes searched left and right, hunting for an answer. At last, as forced, tiny and reluctant as an earwig being extracted from a crack, the answer came: ‘All right.’

‘Fine!’ Lockwood said heartily. ‘That’s all I wanted to hear. Of course, I can’t make you do it, and frankly I wouldn’t even
want
to, after fighting hard alongside your team today. Also, I know how you tried to help George and Lucy – and I won’t forget that. So don’t worry. The forfeit isn’t necessary.’

‘The advert?’

‘Forget it; it was a silly idea.’

Conflicting emotions crossed Kipps’s face; he seemed about to speak. All at once he gave a single curt nod. He drew himself up. Trailing small clouds of grave-dust, he stalked off down the steps towards his team.

‘That was a nice gesture,’ I said, watching him go. ‘And I think it was the right thing to do. But . . .’

Lockwood scratched his nose. ‘Yes, I’m not
sure
he’s too grateful. Ah, well – what can you do? And here comes George.’

George’s injuries had been treated. Aside from a few bruises, and some puffiness around the eyes, he looked in surprisingly good shape. Still, he seemed sheepish; he approached on hesitant steps. It was the first time we’d been alone with him that morning.

‘If you’re going to kill me,’ he said, ‘do you mind doing it quickly? I’m out on my feet here.’

‘We all are,’ Lockwood said. ‘We can do it another time.’

‘I’m sorry for causing this trouble. Shouldn’t have gone off like that.’

‘True.’ Lockwood cleared his throat. ‘Still, I should probably apologize too.’

‘Personally,’ I said, ‘I’m not apologizing to anyone. At least, not until after a nap.’

‘I’ve been snappy with you, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘I haven’t properly taken into account your excellent contributions to the team. And I’m aware that your actions today were almost certainly affected by your exposure to the mirror, and to Bickerstaff’s ghost. You weren’t quite yourself, I understand that.’

He waited. George said nothing.

‘Just a little opportunity there for you to apologize some more,’ Lockwood said.

‘I think he’s dozing off,’ I said. George’s eyelids were drooping. I nudged him; his head jerked up. ‘Hey,’ I said, ‘one thing. One thing I’ve got to ask you now. When you looked into the mirror . . .’

George nodded sleepily. ‘I know what you’re going to say. The answer’s nothing. I didn’t see anything there.’

I frowned. ‘Yeah, but listen – I almost got caught too. I felt the tug, just with a single glance. It was all I could do to pull away. And you looked right into it. Not only that, you said to Joplin that you saw—’

‘“Beautiful things”? Oh, I was making that up. I was telling Joplin what he wanted to hear.’ He grinned at us. ‘The whole thing was an act.’

Lockwood stared at him. ‘But I don’t understand. If you looked into the glass—’

‘He
did
,’ I insisted. ‘I watched him do it.’

‘Then how did you survive when Wilberforce and Neddles – and everyone else who looked in it – ended up dying of fright?’

For answer, George slowly took off his glasses. He lowered them, as if to clean them on his jumper, and put his finger up against the lens. He pushed – and instead of hitting glass, his finger went right through. He wiggled it from side to side.

‘When I had my scrap with Joplin earlier,’ he said, ‘we each knocked our specs clean off. Mine hit a stone or something, and both lenses fell out. I lost them on the floor. Joplin didn’t notice, and you can be sure I wasn’t going to tell him. So whatever was in that mirror might have been dancing a hornpipe for all I knew or cared. Didn’t bother me at all.’

‘You mean, when you looked at it . . .’

‘Exactly.’ He tucked his empty frames neatly in his pocket. ‘At that distance, I’m totally short-sighted. I couldn’t see a thing.’

SECRETS OF THE CATACOMBS!

BLACK MARKET RING EXPOSED

HORRORS OF THE MADMAN’S HOARD

Inside today: A. J. Lockwood reveals all

For several years,
The Times
of London has speculated on the existence of a sinister black-market trade dealing in dangerous objects related to the Problem. Accusations and rumours have been rife, but hard evidence has been scanty – until now.

Following yesterday’s news of several arrests in Kensal Green and Bloomsbury, we are now able to report that agents from Lockwood & Co. have discovered and broken up a ring of thieves operating in the respectable heart of the city. In a special interview, Anthony Lockwood Esq. reveals how his intrepid team, aided by several assistants from the Fittes Agency, fought pitched battles with dangerous criminals, and uncovered a hoard of stolen artefacts in a haunted catacomb.

Today Mr Lockwood discusses the full paranormal terrors of this epic investigation, including the horrifying Rat-ghost of Hampstead and the Terror of the Iron Coffin. He also traces the web of clues that led to the exposure and death of Mr Albert Joplin, a well-known archivist, who has since been implicated in at least one murder. ‘He was a man too fascinated by the past,’ Mr Lockwood says. ‘He spent too long rootling in the dark corners of our history. Finally, his obsessions corrupted him and took his sanity. In this troubled age we live in, perhaps this is a lesson for us all.’

Full Lockwood interview: see pages 4-5.

‘House of the Rats’ cut-out-and-keep floor-plan and photos: see pages 6-7.

Can Cemeteries Ever Be Made Safe?: see page 25.

Three days after the final events beneath the chapel, we gathered for elevenses in the basement office at 35 Portland Row. We were in cheerful spirits. We’d had a lot of sleep, and we’d had plenty of attention. The great Fittes Fiftieth Anniversary Party was still the most popular subject in the daily papers, but our adventures had been running it close. Not only that, our cheque from DEPRAC – signed by Inspector Barnes himself – had just cleared in the bank. And it was yet another sunny morning.

Lockwood sat behind his desk, with an enormous mug of coffee at his elbow, sifting through the post. Steam coiled slowly from the mug. He was relaxed, his collar unbuttoned; his jacket hung on the suit of armour we’d been given by a grateful client the month before. Over in the corner George had taken down the big black leather casebook and, with a silver pen, was beginning to write up his account of the Missing Mirror. He had a healthy stack of press cuttings, and a pot of glue.

‘Lot of good stuff to stick in for this one,’ he said. ‘Better than the Wimbledon Wraiths, anyway.’

I set aside
The Times
. ‘Great interview, Lockwood,’ I said. ‘Though I’m not sure Kipps is going to be super-chuffed at being labelled your “assistant”.’

Lockwood looked wounded. ‘I think he gets quite a decent write-up, all things considered. I’m quite complimentary. He might not have been mentioned at all.’

‘One thing I see you definitely
don’t
mention is the mirror,’ I said. ‘You talk about Bickerstaff, but only because it was his phantom in the iron coffin. There’s nothing about the bone glass, or what Joplin was really up to.’

‘Well, you can thank Barnes for that.’ Lockwood helped himself to one of the homemade chocolate flapjacks George had rustled up that morning. He was doing a lot of cooking, George, making us all our favourite things as a way of saying sorry. He didn’t have to, really, but neither Lockwood nor I had got round to telling him yet. ‘Barnes expressly forbade me to talk about the mirror,’ Lockwood continued, ‘or about anything it might have done. So, for the press, we had to focus on the whole black-market thing – you know, Winkman and all that. Joplin’s going to be portrayed as a mad eccentric.’ He chewed his flapjack. ‘Which he was, I suppose.’

‘“His obsessions corrupted him,”’ I said, quoting the interview. ‘Like they corrupted Bickerstaff all those years ago.’

‘Yes, just people getting over-curious,’ Lockwood said. ‘Happens all the time . . .’ He glanced at George, who was busy sticking something in the book. ‘Of course, in this case there
was
something extra going on. The mirror exerted a powerful attraction on anyone exposed to it. Bickerstaff’s ghost did too. Between them, someone like Joplin, who was weak, greedy, and fascinated by such things anyway, was easily driven mad.’

‘But here’s the real question,’ I said. ‘What’s the truth about the mirror? Did it do what Bickerstaff claimed? Could it actually have been a window onto what happens after death? A window on another world?’

Lockwood shook his head. ‘That’s the paradox about all this. You can’t find out the truth without looking in the mirror, and looking in the mirror tends to kill you.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess one way or another it
does
show you the Other Side.’

‘I think it
was
a window.’ George looked up from his work. The bruises on his face were still obvious, but the sparkle had returned to his eyes. He had a new pair of glasses on. ‘To me, Bickerstaff’s theory makes a weird kind of sense. Ghosts come into this world via a weak spot. We call that the Source. If you put enough Sources together, just maybe you’ll create a big enough hole to see through. It’s a fascinating idea that—’ He broke off, realizing we were staring at him. ‘Um, that I’m not interested in any more. Who wants another flapjack?’

‘It’s all irrelevant, anyway,’ I said, ‘since I broke the mirror. It’s useless now.’

‘Is it, though?’ George flashed us a dark glance. ‘DEPRAC has the pieces. Maybe they’ll try to put it back together. We don’t know
what
goes on in Scotland Yard. Or at Fittes House, for that matter. Did you
see
all those books in that library? They even had Mary Dulac’s pamphlet – and how obscure was that? There could be
so
much hidden knowledge in that room.’

‘
George
,’ I said.

‘I know. I’ll shut up now. I’m only talking. I know the mirror was a horrible thing.’

‘Speaking of horrible objects,’ I said, ‘what are we going to do about
this
one?’ The ghost-jar was on the corner of my desk, covered with a woollen tea-cosy. It had been there for three days. Since the events at Kensal Green the ghost had stubbornly refused to appear; no face, no voice, not even the slightest plasmic glow. The skull sat clamped at the base of the jar, staring out with vacant sockets. There was no sign of the malignant spirit; all the same, for reasons of privacy, we kept the lever on the top tightly closed.

‘Yes,’ Lockwood said. ‘We need to make a decision about that. It actually helped you in the catacombs, you said?’

‘Yeah . . .’ I glared at the silent cosy. It was a stripy orange one that had been knitted by George’s mum and given to Lockwood as a present. It covered the jar quite well. ‘The skull spent half the time cheering because we were about to die,’ I said. ‘But on several occasions it
did
seem to be vaguely helpful. And right at the end – when the mirror had me, and I could feel myself slipping away – it spoke and snapped me out of it.’ I frowned. ‘Don’t know if it really meant to. If it did, it was probably only because of all the threats I made. We know what a twisted thing it is. In Hampstead it almost got us killed.’

‘So what do we do with it?’ Lockwood said.

‘It’s a Type Three,’ George put in; he spoke almost apologetically. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this, but it’s too important to be destroyed.’

Lockwood sat back in his chair. ‘It’s up to Lucy. She’s the one most affected by it. George is right: the skull may yet be valuable, and we had big ideas about revealing it to the world. But is it truly worth the hassle and the risk?’

I pulled the cosy up and stared into the jar for a moment. ‘If I’m honest,’ I said, ‘the last thing I’d want now is to tell anyone about my connection with this ghost. What would happen? It would be like with Bickerstaff’s mirror, only worse. Everyone would go crazy. DEPRAC would take me off and do endless experiments, trying to find out stuff from the skull. It would be hell. I’d never get any peace. So if you don’t mind, can we keep it quiet for now?’