When Lockwood, George and I arrived at the West Gate of Kensal Green Cemetery at dusk that evening, we had our new silver-tipped Italian rapiers hanging at our belts, and our largest duffel bags in our hands. Behind us the sun was setting against a few puffy, pink-flecked clouds – it was the end of a perfect summer’s day. Despite the beauty of the scene, our mood was sombre, our tension high. This was not a job we were undertaking lightly.
The great cemeteries of London, of which Kensal Green was the oldest and the finest, were relics of an age when people had a gentler relationship with the deceased. Back in Victorian times, their pleasant trees and landscaped paths made them places of respite from the metropolitan whirl. Stonemasons vied with one another to produce attractive headstones; roses grew in bowers, wildlife flourished. On Sundays families came to wander there, and muse upon mortality.
Well, not any more, they didn’t. The Problem had changed all that. Today the cemeteries were overgrown, the bowers wild and laced with thorns. Few adults ventured there by daylight; at night they were places of terror, to be avoided at all costs. While it was true that the vast majority of the dead still slept quietly in their graves, even agents were reluctant to spend much time among them. It was like entering enemy territory. We were not welcome there.
The West Gate had once been wide enough for two carriages at a time to pass out onto the Harrow Road. Now it was rudely blocked by a rough-hewn fence, laced with strips of iron, and thickly pasted with faded posters and handbills. The most common poster showed a wide-eyed smiling woman in a chaste knee-length skirt and T-shirt, standing with hands outstretched in greeting. Beneath her, radiant letters read, THE OPEN ARMS FELLOWSHIP: WE WELCOME OUR FRIENDS FROM THE OTHER SIDE.
‘Personally,’ I said, ‘I like to welcome them with a magnesium flare.’ I had that knot in my stomach I always get before a case. The woman’s smile offended me.
‘These ghost cults contain some idiots,’ agreed George.
In the centre of the fence a narrow entrance door hung open, and beside this stood a shabby hut made of corrugated iron. It contained a deckchair, a collection of empty soft-drink cans, and a small boy reading a newspaper.
The boy wore an enormous flat cap, coloured with rather sporty yellow checks and almost entirely shading his face. Otherwise he was decked out in the usual drab-brown uniform of the night watch. His iron-tipped watch-stick was propped in a corner of the hut. He regarded us from the depths of the deckchair as we approached.
‘Lockwood and Company, here to meet Mr Saunders,’ Lockwood said. ‘Don’t get up.’
‘I won’t,’ the boy said. ‘Who are you? Sensitives, I suppose?’
George tapped the pommel of his rapier. ‘See these swords? We’re agents.’
The boy seemed doubtful. ‘Could’ve fooled me. Why ain’t you got uniforms, then?’
‘We don’t need them,’ Lockwood replied. ‘A rapier’s the true mark of an agent.’
‘Codswallop,’ the boy said. ‘Proper agents have fancy jackets, like that hoity-toity Fittes crowd. I reckon you’re another drippy bunch of Sensitives who’ll pass out cold at the first sign of a Lurker.’ He turned back to his paper and snapped it open. ‘Anyways, in you go.’
Lockwood blinked. George took a half-step forward. ‘Agents’ swords aren’t just good for ghosts,’ he said. ‘They can also be used for whipping cheeky night-watch kids. Want us to show you?’
‘Oh, how terrifying. See me tremble.’ The boy pushed his cap further over his eyes and made himself comfy in his chair. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Straight up the main avenue, make for the chapel in the centre of the site. You’ll find everyone camped there. Now move along, please. You’re standing in my light.’
For a moment it was touch and go whether another small ghost might soon be haunting the margins of the Harrow Road, but I resisted the temptation. Lockwood motioned us on. We passed through the gate and entered the burial grounds.
Instinctively, as soon as we were in, we stopped and used our hidden senses. The others looked, I listened. All was peaceful; there wasn’t any sudden upsurge in psychic pressure. I heard nothing except for blackbirds calling sweetly, a few crickets in the grass. Gravel paths, shining dimly in the half-light, radiated away between dark ranks of memorials and tombs. Trees overhung the walkways, casting them into deeper shadow. Overhead, the sky was a fathomless dark blue, punctured by the risen moon’s bright disc.
We took the main avenue between rows of spreading limes. Dim triangles of moonlight cut between the trees, frosting the black grass. Our boots crunched on gravel; the chains in our bags chinked faintly as we marched along.
‘Should be fairly straightforward,’ Lockwood said, breaking our silence. ‘We stand by while they dig down to the coffin. When that’s done, we open it up, seal Dr Bickerstaff’s bones with a bit of silver, and head on our way. Easy.’
I made a sceptical noise. ‘Coffin opening’s never that simple,’ I said. ‘Something always goes wrong.’
‘Oh, not always.’
‘Name a single one that went well.’
‘I agree with Lucy,’ George said. ‘You’re assuming Edmund Bickerstaff won’t cause trouble. I bet he does.’
‘You’re both such worriers,’ Lockwood exclaimed. ‘Look on the bright side. We know the exact position of the Source tonight, plus we don’t have Kipps to fret about, do we? I think it’s going to be an excellent evening. As for Bickerstaff, just because he had an unfortunate end doesn’t mean he’ll necessarily be an aggressive spirit now.’
‘Maybe . . .’ George muttered. ‘But if I was eaten by rats I know I’d be fairly upset.’
After five minutes’ walk we saw the heavy white roof of a building rise among the trees like a whale breaching a dark sea. This was the Anglican chapel in the centre of the cemetery. At the front, four great pillars supported a Grecian portico. A broad flight of steps led to its double doors. They were open; electric light shone warmly from within. Below, half lit by giant hydraulic floodlights, sat two prefabricated work cabins. There were mechanical excavators, small dump-trucks, skips of earth. Twists of lavender smoke rose from buckets of coal burning at the edges of the camp.
Evidently we had reached the operations centre for Sweet Dreams Excavations and Clearance. A number of figures stood at the top of the chapel stairs, silhouetted against the open doors. We heard raised voices; fear crackled like static in the air.
Lockwood, George and I dropped our bags on the ground beside one of the smoking buckets. We climbed the steps, hands resting on our sword hilts. The crowd’s noise quietened; people moved aside, silently regarding us as we drew near.
At the top of the steps the angular, trilbied figure of Mr Saunders broke free of the throng and bustled over to make us welcome. ‘Just in time!’ he cried. ‘There’s been a small incident and these fools are refusing to stay! I keep telling them we’ve top agents arriving – but no, they want paying off. You’re not getting a penny!’ he roared over his shoulder. ‘Risk’s what I employ you for!’
‘Not after what they’ve seen,’ a big man said. He was aggressively stubbled, with skeleton tattoos on his neck and arm, and a chunky iron necklace hung over his shirt. Several other burly workmen stood in the crowd, along with a few frightened night-watch kids, clutching their watch-sticks to them like comforters. I also noted a posse of teenage girls, whose shapelessly floaty dresses, black eyeliner, outsize bangles and lank armpit-length hair marked them out as Sensitives. Sensitives do psychic work, but refuse to ever actually fight ghosts for reasons of pacifist principle. They’re generally as drippy as a summer cold and as irritating as nettle rash. We don’t normally get on.
Saunders glared at the man who’d spoken. ‘You should be ashamed, Norris. What next, jumping at Shades and Glimmers?’
‘This thing’s no Shade,’ Norris said.
‘Bring us some proper agents!’ someone shouted. ‘Not these fly-by-nights! Look at them – they don’t even have nice uniforms!’
With a clatter of bangles, the floatiest and wettest-looking of the Sensitives stepped forward. ‘Mr Saunders! Miranda, Tricia and I refuse to work in any sector near that grave until it’s been made safe! I wish to make that clear.’
There was a general chorus of agreement; several of the men shouted insults, while Saunders struggled to be heard. The crowd pressed inwards threateningly.
Lockwood raised a friendly hand. ‘Hello, everyone,’ he said. He flashed them all his widest smile; the hubbub was stilled. ‘I’m Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Company. You may have heard of us. Combe Carey Hall? Mrs Barrett’s tomb? That’s us. We’re here to help you tonight, and I’d very much like to hear what problems you’ve experienced. You, miss’ – he turned his smile upon the Sensitive – ‘you’ve clearly had a terrible experience. Are you able to tell me about it?’
This was classic Lockwood. Friendly, considerate, empathetic. My personal impulse would have been to slap the girl soundly round the face and boot her moaning backside out into the night. Which is why he’s the leader, and I’m not. Also why I have no female friends.
True to type, she batted big, moist eyes in his direction. ‘I felt like . . . like something was rushing up beneath me,’ she breathed. ‘It was about to . . . to clasp me and swallow me. Such baleful energy! Such malice! I’m never going near that place again!’
‘That’s nothing!’ one of the other girls cried. ‘Claire only felt it. I saw it, just as dusk was falling! I swear it turned its hood and looked at me! A moment’s glimpse was all it took. Ah, it made me swoon!’
‘A hood?’ Lockwood began. ‘So can you tell me what it looked like—?’
But the girl’s squeaks had reignited the passions of the throng; everyone began talking now, clutching at us. They pressed forward, pushing us against the door. We were the centre of a ring of frightened spot-lit faces. Beyond the chapel steps, the last red light drained away across the endless ranks of headstones.
Saunders gave a bellow of renewed rage. ‘All right, you cowards! Joplin can put you on another sector tonight! Far away from that grave! Satisfied? Now get out of our way – go on, shift!’ Grasping Lockwood by the arm, he shouldered his way inside the building. George and I followed, bumped and buffeted, squeezing through the closing doors. ‘And no severance pay!’ Saunders yelled through the crack. ‘You all still work for me!’ The doors slammed shut, silencing the clamour of the crowd.
‘What a palaver,’ Saunders growled. ‘It’s my mistake for trying to speed things up. I got the excavators to begin work digging around the Bickerstaff grave an hour ago. Thought it would help you out. Then all hell broke loose, and it wasn’t even dark.’ He took his hat off and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. ‘Perhaps we’ll get a moment’s peace in here.’
The chapel was a small, plainly decorated space with walls of whitewashed plaster. There was a smell of damp; and also a persistent underlying chill, which three glowing gas heaters ranged across the flagstone floor did little to remove. Two cheap-looking desks, each piled high with a mess of papers, sat near the heaters. Along one wall a dusty altar stood behind a wooden rail, with a small closed door beside it, and a wooden pulpit close at hand. Above our heads rose a scalloped plaster dome.
The most curious object in the room was a great block of black stone, the size and shape of a closed sarcophagus; it rested on a rectangular metal plate set into the floor below the altar rail. I studied it with interest.
‘Yes, that’s a catafalque, girlie,’ Saunders said. ‘An old Victorian lift for transporting coffins to the catacombs below. Uses a hydraulic mechanism. Still works, according to Joplin; they were using it until the Problem got too bad. Where is Joplin, anyhow? Damned fool’s never at his desk. He’s always wandering off when you want him.’
‘This “small incident” at the Bickerstaff grave . . .’ Lockwood prompted. ‘Please tell us what’s happened.’
Saunders rolled his eyes. ‘Heaven only knows. I can’t get any sense out of them. Some of the Sensitives saw something, as you heard. Some say it was very tall, others that it wore a cloak or robe. But there’s no consistency. One night-watch kid said it had seven heads. Ridiculous! I sent her home.’
‘Night-watchers don’t normally make up stories,’ George said.
This was true. Most children with strong psychic abilities become agents, but if you’re not quite good enough for that, you swallow your pride and join the night watch. It’s dangerous, low-paid work, mostly taking guard duties after dark, but those kids are talented enough. We never underestimate them.
Lockwood had his hands in the pockets of his long dark coat. His eyes glinted with excitement. ‘It’s all getting curiouser and curiouser,’ he said. ‘Mr Saunders, what’s the current state of the grave? Is it exposed?’
‘The men dug some way down. I believe they struck the coffin.’
‘Excellent. We can deal with it now. George here is good with a spade – aren’t you, George?’
‘Well, I certainly get plenty of practice,’ George said.
The path to the unexpected grave of Edmund Bickerstaff lay along a narrow side-aisle just beyond the excavators’ camp. Saunders led us there in silence. No one else from the camp followed; they hung back in the circle of light beneath the arc lamps, watching us go.
The burials in this part of the cemetery were modest ones – mostly marked by headstones, crosses, or simple statues. It was dark overhead now. The stones, half hidden by thorns and long wet grass, showed white and stark under the moon; but their shadows were black slots into which a man might fall.
After a few minutes of walking, Saunders slowed. Up ahead, piles of brambles marked where a patch of ground had been roughly cleared. Nearby rose a mound of dark, wet earth. A small mechanized backhoe, scuffed and yellow in the light of Saunders’s torch, blocked the path at an angle. Its bucket was still full. Spades, picks and other digging tools lay scattered all around.
‘They left in a hurry,’ Saunders said. His voice was tight and high. ‘Right, this is where I stop. If you want anything, just call.’ With undisguised haste, he drifted back into the dark and we were left alone.
We loosened our rapiers. The night was silent; I was aware of the heavy beating of my heart. Lockwood took a pen-torch from his belt, and shone it into the black space to the left of the path. It was a square plot of open ground, bordered by normal graves and box-tombs. In its centre, a small discoloured slab of stone rose crookedly from the soil. The grass in front of this stone had been scooped away, leaving a broad, gently sloping pit torn in the earth. It was maybe eight feet across and three feet deep. The tooth-marks of the backhoe’s bucket showed as long grooves in the mud. But we had eyes only for the stone.
We used our senses, quickly, quietly, before we did anything else.
‘No death-glows,’ Lockwood said softly. ‘That’s to be expected, because no one’s died here. Got anything?’
‘Nope,’ George said.
‘I have,’ I said. ‘A faint vibration.’
‘A noise? Voices?’
It bothered me – I couldn’t make it out at all. ‘Just a . . . disturbance. There’s definitely something here.’
‘Keep your eyes and ears open,’ Lockwood said. ‘Right, first thing we do, we put a barrier right around. Then I’m checking out the stone. Don’t want to miss anything, like we did last night.’
George set a lantern on one of the box-tombs, and by its light we took out our lengths of chain. We laid them out around the circumference of the pit. When this was finished, Lockwood stepped over the chains and walked towards the stone, hand ready on his sword. George and I waited, watching the shadows.
Lockwood reached the stone; kneeling abruptly, he brushed the grass aside. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘It’s poor-quality material, badly weathered. Scarcely a quarter of the height of a standard headstone. Hasn’t been laid properly – it’s badly tilted. Someone did this very hurriedly . . .’
He switched on the torch and ran the beam over the surface. Decades of lichen had crusted it, and built up deeply in the letters carved there. ‘Edmund Bickerstaff . . .’ Lockwood read. ‘And this isn’t proper mason’s work. It’s hardly even an inscription. It’s just been scratched by the first tool that came to hand. So we’ve got a rushed, illegal and very amateur burial, which has been here a long time.’
He stood up. And as he did so, there was the gentlest of rustlings. From behind the grave a figure broke free of the darkness and lurched forwards into the lantern-light. George and I cried out; Lockwood leaped to the side, ripping his rapier clear. He twisted as he jumped, landing in the centre of the pit, facing towards the stone.
‘Sorry,’ Mr Albert Joplin said. ‘Did I startle anyone?’
I cursed under my breath; George whistled. Lockwood only exhaled sharply. Mr Joplin stumbled round the edge of the pit. He moved with an awkward, stoop-shouldered gait that reminded me vaguely of a chimp’s; small showers of grey dandruff drifted about him as he rolled along. His spindly arms were clasped across his sheaf of papers, which he pressed protectively against his narrow chest as a mother shields a child.
He pushed his glasses apologetically up his nose. ‘I’m sorry; I got lost coming from the East Gate. Have I missed anything?’
George spoke – and at that moment I was enveloped by a wave of clawing cold. You know when you jump into a swimming pool, and find they haven’t heated it, and the freezing water hits your body? You feel a smack of pain – awful and all over. This was exactly like that. I let out a gasp of shock. And that wasn’t the worst of it – as the cold hit me, my inner ears kicked into life. That vibration I’d sensed before? It was suddenly loud. Behind the hum of George’s voice and Joplin’s chatter, it had become a muffled buzzing, like an approaching cloud of flies.
‘Lockwood . . .’ I began.
Then it was done. My head cleared. The cold vanished. My skin felt red and raw. The noise shrank into the background once again.
‘. . . really quite extraordinary church, Mr Cubbins,’ Joplin was saying. ‘The best brass-rubbings in London. I must show you some time.’
‘Hey!’ This was Lockwood, standing in the centre of the pit. ‘Hey!’ he called. ‘Look what I’ve found! No, not you, please, Mr Joplin – you’d better stay beyond the iron.’
He had his torch trained on the mud beside his feet. Moving slowly, my head still ringing, I crossed the chains with George and went down into the hole. Our boots trod soft, dark mud.
‘Here,’ Lockwood said. ‘What do you make of this?’
At first I made out nothing in the brightness of the beam. Then, as he moved his torch, I saw it: the long hard reddish edge of something, poking out of the mud.
‘Oh,’ George said. ‘That’s weird.’
‘Is it the coffin?’ Little Mr Joplin was hovering beyond the chains, craning his thin neck eagerly. ‘The coffin, Mr Lockwood?’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Most coffins I’ve seen are made of wood,’ George murmured. ‘Most Victorian coffins would have long since rotted in the ground. Most are buried at a respectable six feet, with all the proper rites and regulations . . .’
There was a silence. ‘And this?’ Joplin said.
‘Is only four feet down, and has been tipped in at an angle, like they wanted to get shot of it as fast as possible. And it hasn’t rotted because it isn’t made of wood at all. This box is made of iron.’
‘Iron . . .’ Lockwood said. ‘An iron coffin—’
‘Can you hear it?’ I said suddenly. ‘The buzzing of the flies?’
‘But they didn’t have the Problem then,’ George said. ‘What did they need to trap in there?’
