Part 5 – A Big Night Out
‘Destroy it!’ I cried. ‘That’s the only option. We take it to the furnaces and we burn the thing now!’
‘Yes,’ Lockwood murmured, ‘but is that really practical?’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ George said. ‘We simply can’t do it. It’s too important for us – and for psychic science generally. And Luce, flicking marmalade at my head is really not a valid argument. You’ve got to calm down.’
‘I’ll calm down,’ I snarled, ‘when this cursed skull is off the premises.’ I threw the marmalade spoon at the jar. It struck the side of the glass, bounced off with a ping, and landed in the butter.
‘Oh, dear . . .’ A mocking whisper sounded in my head. ‘Temper, temper . . . This is such an exhibition.’
‘And you can shut up!’ I said. ‘I don’t need you to butt in too!’
Morning had come, which meant yet more crystal-clear skies, another late breakfast, and – in my case at least – the releasing of a lot of pent-up rage. It hadn’t come out on our long journey home from Hampstead, nor in my fitful sleep; it hadn’t even stirred when I came into the kitchen and saw the ghost-jar on the worktop. But when, as we discussed the night’s events, I heard the ghost’s hoarse chuckle cutting through my mind, my control finally snapped. I’d leaped at the jar, and it was all Lockwood could do to prevent me from smashing it there and then.
‘I keep telling you, it lured us to the house!’ I said. ‘It knew about the horror in that room! It knew Wilberforce’s ghost would be there! That’s why it let slip about the papers in the first place; that’s why it led us upstairs. It’s vindictive and evil, and we were fools to listen to it. You should have heard it laughing at us last night, and now it’s doing it again!’
‘All the same,’ Lockwood said mildly, ‘we do have the papers. It didn’t lie about that.’
‘That was just a way of trapping us, don’t you see? It’s preying on our weaknesses. And it does that by getting into my head! It’s all right for you – you can’t hear its horrid whispering.’
‘Oh, how mean,’ the skull’s voice said. ‘Anyway, be consistent. Last thing I heard, you were begging me to speak. And I don’t know why you’re being so ungrateful, either. I got you the papers – and gave you a nice little work-out too. A pathetic little spirit like Wilberforce was never going to cause you any real trouble.’ It gave a fruity chuckle. ‘Well? I’m waiting for a thank-you.’
I stared across at the ghost-jar. Sunlight danced mutely on its glass sides, and there was no sign of the spectral face. But a door had suddenly opened in my mind, a memory come sharply into focus. It was from last night, up at the house – one of the voices I’d heard echoing from the past:
‘Try Wilberforce,’ the voice had said. ‘He’s eager. He’ll do it . . .’
The tones had been familiar. I knew them all too well.
‘It was him!’ I pointed at the skull. ‘It was him talking to Bickerstaff in the workroom! So much for him not knowing about the mirror – he was there when it was made! Not just that, he actually suggested they make Wilberforce look into it!’
The skull grinned back at me from the centre of the plasm. ‘Impressive,’ it whispered. ‘You have got Talent. Yes, and it was such a shame that poor Wilberforce didn’t have the strength to cope with what he saw. But now my master’s mirror is back in the world again. Perhaps someone else will use it and be enlightened.’
I passed these words on to the others. Lockwood leaned forwards. ‘Great – it’s being talkative. Ask it what the mirror actually does, Luce.’
‘I don’t want to ask this foul creature anything. Besides, there’s no way it would ever tell us.’
‘Hold on,’ the ghost said. ‘Try asking nicely. A little bit of courtesy might help.’
I looked at it. ‘Please tell us what the mirror does.’
‘Get lost! You haven’t been very polite today, so you can all go boil your heads.’
I felt its presence disappear. The plasm clouded, concealing the skull from view.
With gritted teeth, I repeated everything. Lockwood laughed. ‘It’s certainly picked up a few choice phrases from its constant eavesdropping.’
‘There’re a few more I’d like it to hear,’ I growled.
‘Now, now. We’ve got to detach ourselves from it,’ Lockwood said. ‘You, Lucy, most of all. We mustn’t let it wind us up.’ He crossed to the jar and closed the lever in the plastic seal, cutting off any connection with the ghost. Then he covered it with a cloth. ‘It’s slowly giving us what we want,’ he said, ‘but I think we could all do with a little privacy. Let’s keep it quiet for now.’
The phone rang, and Lockwood went to answer it. I left the kitchen too. My head felt numb, the echoes of the ghostly whispers still lingered in my ears. Thankful as I was to have some peace from the skull, it didn’t make me feel much better. It was only a temporary respite. Soon they’d want me to talk to it again.
In the living room, I took a breather. I went over to the window and looked out into the street.
A spy was standing there.
It was our old friend, Ned Shaw. Grey, dishevelled and whey-faced with weariness, he stood like an ugly post box on the opposite side of the road, stolidly watching our front door. He’d clearly not been home; he wore the same jacket as the night before, half shredded by Lockwood’s rapier. He had a takeaway coffee in one hand and looked thoroughly miserable.
I went back to the kitchen, where Lockwood had just returned. George was busy doing the dishes. ‘They’re still watching the house,’ I said.
Lockwood nodded. ‘Good. Shows how desperate they are. This is Kipps’s response to our seizure of the papers. He knows we’ve got something important, and he’s terrified of missing out on what we do next.’
‘Ned Shaw’s been there all morning now. I almost feel sorry for him.’
‘I don’t. I can still feel where he spiked me. How’s your cut doing, Lucy?’
I had a small bandage where Kat Godwin’s blade had struck. ‘Fine.’
‘Speaking of sharp objects,’ Lockwood said, ‘that was Barnes on the phone. DEPRAC’s done some research into the knife that killed Jack Carver. Remember I said it was an Indian Mughal dagger? I was right, though I got the century wrong. From the early 1700s, apparently. Surprised me.’
‘Where was it stolen from, though?’ George said. ‘Which museum?’
‘Oddly enough, no museum has reported it missing. We don’t know where it’s from. An almost identical one is kept in the Museum of London. It was found in the tomb of a British soldier in Maida Vale Cemetery a couple of years ago. The chap had served in India, and had all sorts of curios buried with him. They were dug up, checked by DEPRAC, and put on show. But that dagger’s still safely in its case, so where this one comes from is a mystery.’
‘I still think it comes from the Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium,’ I said. ‘And our friend Winkman.’
‘He is the most obvious suspect,’ Lockwood agreed. ‘But why didn’t he take back his money? Hurry up with the dishes, George. I want to look at the papers we found.’
‘You could always give me a hand,’ George suggested. ‘Speed things up a little.’
‘Oh, well, you’re almost done.’ Lockwood leaned casually against the counter, looking out at the old apple tree in the garden. ‘What do we know?’ he said. ‘What do we actually know after last night? Have we made any progress with this case or not?’
‘Precious little that might get us paid by Barnes,’ I said. ‘Winkman has the bone glass, and we still don’t know what it’s for.’
‘We know more than you think,’ Lockwood said. ‘Here’s the way I see it. Edmund Bickerstaff – and, it seems, this chap in the jar here – made a mirror that has a very nasty effect on anyone who looks into it. It was supposed to do something else – the skull spoke of it giving you enlightenment – but they were happy to let others take the risk. Wilberforce looked in and paid the price. For unknown reasons – maybe because Bickerstaff panicked and fled – Wilberforce’s body was left at the house; by the time it was discovered, the rats had been at work. But what happened to Bickerstaff? He was never seen again; but somebody buried him and the mirror in Kensal Green, with urgent instructions to leave them be.’
‘I think that somebody was Mary Dulac,’ George put in. ‘Which is why I want to find those “Confessions” of hers so badly.’
Lockwood nodded. ‘Whoever did it, Bickerstaff was buried. We dug him up. His ghost was released, and it nearly got George.’
‘The mirror nearly got George too,’ I said. ‘Would have, if we hadn’t blocked it so quickly.’
‘You say that,’ George said. He was staring out into the garden. ‘But who knows? Maybe I’d have been OK. Perhaps I’d have been strong enough to withstand the dangers and see what the mirror contained . . .’ He sighed. ‘Anyway, I’m finished. Pass me that towel.’
Lockwood passed it. ‘The modern mystery,’ he said, ‘goes like this: somebody tipped off Carver and Neddles about the glass. Carver carried out the raid, though Neddles died. Carver sold it to someone – we assume Julius Winkman – for a lot of cash, but afterwards was murdered, we don’t know by whom. What we think we know is that Winkman has the bone glass, and that’s the essential fact that is going to win us this case over Kipps and his idiot gang.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘There, am I right? How’s that for a summary?’
‘Very good.’ George and I were sitting at the table with an air of expectation. ‘I think we should look at the Bickerstaff papers now.’
‘Right.’ Lockwood settled himself beside us, and from his jacket drew forth the crumpled documents he had taken from the haunted room the night before. There were three pages, great sheets of parchment, mottled with the marks of decades of concealment – damp, dirt and the nibbling of worms. Each sheet was covered on both sides with lines of spidery, inky handwriting – mostly tight-spaced, but here and there broken up by small drawings.
Lockwood tilted the papers towards the window, frowning. ‘Drat,’ he said. ‘It’s in Latin. Or is it ancient Greek?’
George squinted at the writing over the top of his spectacles. ‘Obviously not Greek. Might possibly be some medieval form of Latin . . . Looks a bit weird, though.’
‘What is it with mysterious documents and inscriptions that they always have to be in some old dead language?’ I growled. ‘We had the same problem with the Fairfax locket, remember? And the St Pancras headstone.’
‘You can’t read any of this, I suppose, George?’ Lockwood asked.
George shook his head. ‘No. I know someone who can, though. Albert Joplin’s good with all sorts of historical stuff. He was telling me about a sixteenth-century Bible he found in one of their cemetery excavations; that was in Latin too, I think. I could show these papers to him and see if he’ll translate. Swear him to secrecy, of course.’
Lockwood pursed his lips; he tapped the table in indecision. ‘DEPRAC’s got language experts, but they’d share everything with Barnes and, through him, Kipps as well. OK, I don’t much like it, but it may be we haven’t got a choice. You can go and visit Joplin. No – better still, see if he’ll come here. We don’t want Ned Shaw jumping you and nicking the papers the moment you step outside.’
‘What about those drawings?’ I said. ‘We don’t need an expert for them, do we?’
We spread the parchments out across the table and bent close to consider the little pictures. There were several, each done in pen-and-wash, each showing a distinct episode in a narrative. The art was rather crude, but very detailed. It was immediately obvious, from the style of the figures, from the clothes they wore, and from the general scenes, that the images were very old.
‘They’re not Victorian,’ George said. ‘I bet these originally come from a medieval manuscript. Maybe the text does too. Bickerstaff found this somewhere, and copied it all out. I reckon this is where he got the inspiration for his ideas.’
The first illustration showed a man in long robes stooping beside a hole. It was night; there was a moon in the sky, suggestions of trees in the background. Inside the hole was a skeleton. The man appeared to be reaching into the hole and removing a long white bone. With his other hand he held up a thin crucifix to ward off a faint pale figure that was rising beside him, half in and half out of the ground.
‘Grave-robbing,’ Lockwood said. ‘And using iron or silver to keep the ghost at bay.’
‘He’s just as dumb as us,’ I said. ‘It’d be so much simpler to do it during daylight.’
‘Maybe he has to do it at night,’ George said slowly. ‘Yeah . . . maybe he has to. What’s the next picture show?’
The next one was another robed man, presumably the same person, standing beside a gallows on a hill. Again the moon was up, massed clouds banked across the sky. A decomposing corpse hung from the gallows tree, a thing of bones and rags. The man appeared to be in the process of cutting off one of the corpse’s arms using a long curved knife. Once again he held the crucifix aloft, this time to keep at bay two spirits: one that hung vaporously behind the body on the gallows, the other standing ominously behind the gallows post. The man had an open sack beside him, in which the bone from the first picture could be seen.
‘He’s not making many friends, this fellow,’ Lockwood said. ‘That’s two ghosts he’s annoyed.’
‘That’s just the point,’ George breathed. ‘He’s purposefully seeking out bones that have a Visitor attached – he’s seeking out Sources. What’s he do next?’
He was doing more of the same, this time in some kind of brick-lined room. Alcoves or shelves in the walls were filled with piles of bones and skulls. With his sack lying open at his feet, the man was selecting a skull from the nearest shelf, while rather nonchalantly flourishing the crucifix behind him at three pale figures – the first two resentful ghosts, and a new one.
‘It’s a catacomb, or ossuary,’ Lockwood said. ‘Where they used to store bones when the old churchyards got too full. These three pictures show all the best places for finding a Source. And the fourth—’ He turned the parchment over, and broke off.
‘Oh,’ I said.
The fourth picture was different from the others. This one showed the man alone in a stone chamber, with the sun shining over fields beyond an open door. He stood at a wooden table, where he worked to construct something from several pieces of bone. He seemed to be somehow sewing the bones together, and attaching them to a small round object.
A piece of glass.
‘It’s a guide,’ I said. ‘It tells you how to make the bone glass. And that idiot Bickerstaff followed the instructions. Is there a fifth picture?’
Lockwood picked up the last piece of parchment and turned it over.
There was.
In the centre of the illustration was the bone glass, standing upright on top of a low pillar or pedestal. Ivy wound around the pedestal, which was also decorated with large pale flowers. To the left side stood the man, stooping slightly as he faced the pedestal. One of his hands was cupped above his eyes, which gazed towards the glass with an expression of fixed intensity. Well might he do so, because on the opposite side of the pillar was what appeared to be a whole crowd of individuals in ragged robes and vestments. All were cadaverously thin. Some still had faces, with wisps of hair stuck to the back of their skulls; others were already skeletons. There were hints of bone beneath the robes, and bony legs and feet. In short, none of them looked too healthy. They all faced the bone glass as if looking back towards the man with as much interest as he was studying them.
We stared at the parchment, at the massed ranks of little figures. There was a deep silence in the sunny room.
‘I still don’t understand,’ I said at last. ‘What’s the glass for?’
George cleared his throat, a harsh sound. ‘For looking through.’
Lockwood nodded. ‘It’s not a mirror. It’s a window. A window to the Other Side.’
Tap, tap.
It’s not often something startles all three of us at once. OK, the opening of Mrs Barrett’s tomb saw us all set personal high-jump records, but that was at night. In daytime? No. It never happens. Yet all it took this time was the sound of fingernails on glass and the shadow looming behind us at the kitchen window. We turned; a bony hand clawed at the pane. I glimpsed a scrawny neck and shoulders, pale wisps of hair fringing a weird, misshapen head. I leaped up from my stool; Lockwood’s chair went crashing against the fridge. George jumped back so far he got entangled with the mops behind the door, and started lashing out at them in fright.
For an instant none of us could speak. Then common sense intervened.
It couldn’t be something dead. It was mid-morning. I looked again.
The sun was behind the figure, rendering it almost black. Then I made out the atrocious outline of the raggedy straw hat, the grimy leering face.
‘Oh,’ Lockwood said. ‘It’s Flo.’
George blinked. ‘Flo Bones? That’s a girl?’
‘We assume so. It’s never been conclusively proved.’
The face at the window moved from side to side. It seemed to be talking; at least, the mouth was making a series of alarming contortions. The hand waved violently, clawing against the glass.
George stared, agog. ‘You said she was quiet and refined.’
‘Did we? I don’t remember.’ Lockwood was gesturing towards the back of the house; as the face disappeared from the window, he moved across to open the kitchen door. ‘This’ll be about Winkman! Perfect! It’s just what we need. I’m bringing her in. Luce – hide the papers. George, find sugar, put the kettle on.’
George considered the greasy marks remaining on the window. ‘You think she’ll want tea? She looked more of a methylated spirits sort of girl.’
‘It’s coffee,’ I said. ‘And a quick word of advice. No cheap comments at her expense. She’s easily offended and would probably disembowel you.’
‘Story of my life,’ George said.
Outside, the summer birds had fallen silent, perhaps stunned by the figure stomping up the garden steps. Lockwood stood aside; a moment later Flo Bones was bustling into the kitchen in her enormous wellington boots, bringing with her the hempen sack, a frown, and the scent of low tide. She stood at the door and glared around at us silently.
In daylight her blue puffa jacket seemed lank and almost bleached of colour, and it was difficult to tell where her hair stopped and the straw of her hat began. A great smear of grey mud ran across the front of her jeans, while seven shades of dirt decorated her round face. In other words, all the horrid implications of the night were fully realized. Yet her blue eyes looked doubtful, almost anxious, and she carried herself with less bluster than before, as if the daylight – and maybe her surroundings – intimidated her just a little.
‘Welcome,’ Lockwood said, closing the door. ‘It’s really good of you to come.’
The relic-girl didn’t answer; she was staring mutely around the kitchen, taking in the units, the stacks of food, our piled supplies. All of a sudden I wondered where it was she ate, where she slept when not working by the river . . . I cleared my throat. ‘Hey, Flo,’ I said. ‘We’ll get some coffee on.’
‘Yeah, coffee would be good . . . Not used to being up this time of day.’ Her voice was quieter, more reflective than I remembered it. ‘It’s quite a place you’ve got here, Locky. Quite a gaff. Even got a personal guard outside, I see.’
‘Oh, Ned Shaw?’ Lockwood said. ‘You met him, did you?’
‘I saw him, but he didn’t see me. He was dozing into a newspaper. Still, I went round the back way, came over the garden wall, to keep things quiet-like. Wouldn’t want word to leak out I’ve been socializing with the likes of you.’ She grinned, showing remarkably white teeth.
‘That’s quite right,’ Lockwood said. ‘Well done.’
George was fixing the coffee. He cleared his throat meaningfully.
Lockwood frowned. ‘Oh, sorry. Introductions, yes. Flo, George. George, Flo. Now, Flo – what have you got for us? Hear anything about Julius Winkman?’
‘I have,’ Flo said, ‘and the word is he’s holding his auction tomorrow night.’ She paused to let the information sink in fully. ‘Now that’s fast for Winkman; he’s only had this thing a couple of days, but he’s already lined something up. Course, maybe it’s just because it’s so valuable, but maybe he’s trying to get shot of it as quickly as possible. Why? Because it’s nasty. Oh, there’s lots of rumours going round.’
‘Do some of those rumours say Winkman killed Jack Carver?’ I said.
‘I heard about that little incident,’ Flo said. ‘Died right here in your house, I understand. What is it with you, Locky? You’re going to get a reputation. No, they don’t say Winkman did it, though I’m sure he might have, but they do say that it’s bad luck for anyone who comes into contact with that mirror. One of Winkman’s men – he looked in it. No one was there to stop him. And he died. Yeah, I’ll have a spot of sugar, thanks.’ George had handed her a coffee cup and saucer on a little tray.
‘Give her a tablespoon with it,’ I said. ‘Saves time.’
The blue eyes flicked towards me, but Flo said nothing as she dealt with her drink. ‘So, about the auction,’ she said. ‘There’s a place near Blackfriars – north side of the Thames, mostly old warehouses for the shipping companies that used to operate there. Lot of them are empty now, and no one goes there at night, ’cept for wanderers like me. Well, Winkman’s using one of these places tomorrow – the old Rostock Fisheries warehouse, right on the shoreline. He moves in, sets up his men, makes the sale and melts away. All over in an hour or two. Happens very quick.’
Lockwood was gazing at her fixedly. ‘What time’s the auction?’
‘Midnight. Selected customers only.’
‘He’ll have security?’
‘Oh yeah. There’ll be heavies on watch.’
‘And you know this place, Flo?’
‘Yeah, I know it. Do a bit of combing there.’
‘What height will the river be, midnight tomorrow?’
‘Deep. Just past high tide.’ She scowled at me – I’d given a gasp. ‘Well, what’s wrong with you?’
‘I’ve just remembered,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow night! It’s the nineteenth – Saturday the nineteenth of June! It’s the great Fittes party! I’d forgotten all about it.’
‘Me too,’ Lockwood said. ‘Well, I don’t see why we can’t do both. Yes . . . why not? We’ll make it a real night to remember.’ He strode to the table, swung a chair round. ‘George: kettle, Lucy: biscuits. Flo, why don’t you please sit down?’
No one moved; all of us stared at him. ‘Do both what?’ George asked.
‘It’s really very simple.’ Lockwood was grinning now. The radiance of his smile filled the room. ‘Tomorrow night we’ll enjoy the party. Then we’re going to steal the mirror back.’
