I’d been wrong about the light. It wasn’t a lantern at all. A flickering gas-lamp did sit on a table, but its fragile beams scarcely reached the cobwebbed ceiling high above, let alone filled the rest of the room. But other things were there. Other things that glimmered with a very different kind of radiance.
Bad things.
A narrow circle of iron chains had been laid in the centre of the chamber, and inside this space rose a tall, thin three-legged stand – a tripod of black wood. At its top, slotted neatly into a narrow groove, was something small and roughly circular, covered by a gentleman’s silk handkerchief. From it came the familiar dark buzzing, and a wave of vicious cold that made me shiver even where I crouched across the room. Occasionally the handkerchief shifted slightly, as if blown by invisible currents in the air.
The bone mirror – in position on its original stand. Ready to be used.
The mirror wasn’t alone inside the circle. A group of faint shapes hung there, surrounded by a pulsing cloud of other-light. It was very hard to see them; they were clearest when you looked away. They were human forms, clothed in drapes and shapeless garments, and pressed so close together they actually overlapped. Their faces were blurry and indistinct – smeared grey blotches replaced the eyes and mouths. Without counting, I knew there were seven of them, for they were the spirits trapped in the making of the mirror. Their anger and their sorrow beat upon me; and from far off I heard their ceaseless calling:
‘Our bones . . .’ they pleaded. ‘Give us back our bones . . .’
On another occasion, the spirits and the bone glass would have been enough to transfix me with horror. I would have been unable to tear my gaze away.
But not today. For in front of the circle was George.
He sat on a wooden chair, directly facing the shrouded mirror. His hands had been tightly lashed to the chair back. His head was lowered, slumped against his breast, his glasses at an angle. His eyes were shut. To my extreme relief, he was still alive; his chest heaved up and down.
Across the room stood another chair, turned towards George. Here, to my brief surprise – I’d almost forgotten my encounter with the Fittes team – sat Quill Kipps. Like George, his hands were tied behind him. But he was awake, his hair streaked with cobwebs, his thin face grey with grave-dust. His jacket was askew, and his shirt torn at the collar. He looked as if he’d had a rough time, suffered a few indignities. Mostly, though, he just looked deeply annoyed. His eyes glittered as he gazed around.
There was no sign of Albert Joplin anywhere.
But there was something else in the little chamber, and of all the bad things there, this was surely the worst. I didn’t notice it at first, for it was beyond Kipps, and fainter than the ghosts beside the mirror. But then my eyes were drawn to the dark mass lying on the floor, and to the shadow rising high above it. My hands shook, my mouth went dry.
‘The master!’ the skull whispered at my back, and I could feel the thrill and terror quivering in its voice. ‘The master is here!’
The ghost of Edmund Bickerstaff stood at the far end of the room.
On the dirt of the floor the doctor’s body lay: the foul, part-mummified corpse from the iron coffin, with its ragged black suit and spray of glassy hair. It was stiff as a twisted branch, as shiny and dark as bog-wood. Its shrivelled, teeth-baring monkey’s face stared sightlessly up at nothing.
But from the centre of its chest rose the same terrible, wispy apparition I’d seen at the gravesite five days earlier. Eight feet tall, it was: eight feet tall and taller; a thin robed shape with a drooping hood that kept the face in shadow. It towered so high it seemed it might break through the brickwork vaults and disappear into the ground above. It hung there, almost motionless, minutely waving from side to side, in the manner of a rearing snake. The eyes were hidden; but I could see the bone-white chin, the heavy, brutish mouth.
For a moment I could not understand why the Visitor did not plunge down upon Kipps, who was seated just in front of it. Then I saw that another iron chain had been slung across the floor, cordoning off Bickerstaff’s body. The ghost was trapped inside.
Even so, its wickedness filled the room. I could sense the dark intensity of its desire. Right now, its attention was concentrated on the mirror – and on George. It wasn’t aware of me. But that would change the instant I stepped into the chamber. The thought made me feel ill.
Yet I had to act, and do it fast. Joplin was nowhere to be seen. Now was the time to rescue George, and for that I needed to be light of foot. Crouching in the darkness, as soundlessly as possible, I began to pull the rucksack off my back.
‘You can see he’s trying to recreate the original experiments,’ the skull was saying. ‘Got the mirror set up nicely on its stand. There are the seven spirits, still as feeble as ever. Always moaning, never actually doing anything. And he’s even got the master standing by. It’s almost like the old days back again. Hold on – why are you putting me down?’
I shoved the rucksack into a vacant shelf. ‘You’re too heavy,’ I whispered. ‘You stay here.’
‘No!’ The skull spoke urgently. ‘I must be part of this. I wish to see the master! Take me to him!’
‘Sorry, you’re staying put.’ I loosened the top of the rucksack, and pulled the fabric down a little, revealing the top few inches of the jar. The plasm had flared bright green; I glimpsed the distorted face, whirling round and round. ‘If I need you,’ I said, ‘I’ll come and get you – and you’d better help when asked, or you’ll stay here permanently.’
‘Curse you, Lucy!’ the skull hissed. ‘Why don’t you obey me?’ It gave a sudden shout. ‘Master! It’s me! Welcome back!’
Over in the corner, the cowled figure stood silent. It did not respond.
‘Master . . .’ The plaintive whisper was filled with fear and yearning. ‘Over here! It’s me!’
The figure didn’t stir. All its intentness was on the bone glass, and on George.
‘Yes,’ the skull said irritably. ‘Well, he’s not what he was.’
Of course he wasn’t. Like most Type One and Type Two Visitors, the ghost of Edmund Bickerstaff was locked into a fixed pattern of behaviour, obsessively repeating what had gone before. Its consciousness was paper-thin, a fragment of what it had been. But I didn’t have time to point this out to the skull. Stealing forward on noiseless feet, I emerged into the chamber, scanning all around. Shadowy aisles of brick and concrete stretched away on every side. Everything was silent; I could not see Joplin.
As soon as I broke cover, Quill Kipps noticed me. He gave a start of surprise, then began frantically beckoning me with little jerks of his head. The grimaces he made were quite ridiculous; on another occasion I could have watched for hours. Instead I ignored him altogether, and tiptoed over to George.
Close up, his face looked puffy; one cheek was bruised. He didn’t move when I touched him.
‘George!’ I whispered. ‘George!’
‘Don’t bother! He’s out cold!’ Kipps’s whisper was desperate. His head was waggling overtime. ‘Come here and set me free!’
I crossed over in a couple of strides, trying not to look at the phantom looming just beyond the strip of chains. Stubby tentacles of plasm flexed and probed against the margins of the circle. The cowled head twisted, and I felt a sudden heaviness, a cold weight on my spirits. It saw me. It knew I was there.
I shrugged the feeling off. ‘Kipps, are you all right?’
He rolled his eyes. ‘What, me? Tied up by a madman and left in a haunted catacomb in the company of Cubbins? Oh, I’m just peachy. Can’t you tell?’
‘Oh, that’s good,’ I said beaming.
‘I was being sarcastic.’
My beam turned to a scowl. ‘Yeah, so was I.’ I ducked behind him, readying my sword. To my dismay, his hands were tied with chains, and secured with a padlock. I couldn’t cut him free.
‘You’re chained up,’ I whispered. ‘I need the key.’
Kipps groaned. ‘That glazed-eyed fool will have it.’
‘Joplin? Where is he?’
‘Gone off somewhere. He heard a noise, went to investigate. He’ll be back any moment. What are you going to do to get me out of here?’
‘I don’t know. Shut up.’ I was finding it hard to think. Psychic noises buffeted my head – the mirror’s buzzing, the plaintive calling of the seven spirits, even some distant insults from the irate skull. And – above all – the presence of the hooded figure bore down on me. What would Lockwood do if he was here? My mind was blank. I didn’t know.
‘Can I just say,’ Kipps growled, ‘that when I get out of this, I’m going to kick your idiot friend’s backside from here to Marylebone.’
‘Let’s face it,’ I said, ‘you shouldn’t have been spying on us. But yes, so will I. Wait – would Joplin have put the key on that table?’ I crossed quickly, rounding the edge of the mirror circle, where the pale spirits turned to follow me. The table was piled high with a confusion of objects – dusty pots, ornaments, jewellery, and many, many books and papers. If the key was there, I couldn’t see it. I threw my hands up in despair. What could I do? Think.
‘Watch out, Lucy . . .’
That was the skull’s whisper, echoing faintly from the passage. I froze – then began reaching for my belt. Even as I did so, someone stepped from the darkness behind me. A sharp point pricked the back of my neck. The skull gave a chuckle. ‘Oops. Maybe I left it a little late to warn you there.’
‘Please don’t do anything annoying, Miss Carlyle.’ It was Albert Joplin’s bleating voice. ‘You feel the knife? Very well. Take off your belt and rapier.’
I stood frozen, rigid with panic. The knife-tip prodded me gently.
‘Quickly, now. I get jumpy when I’m cross. My hand slips. Do as I say.’
No choice . . . I unclipped the belt, and let it and my rapier drop to the floor.
‘Now walk back across to Kipps. Don’t try anything. I will be right behind you.’
Slowly, stiffly, I obeyed. In its circle, the hooded phantom moved closer to the iron. I saw the grinning mouth, its snaggle-teeth; its hungry eagerness crackled through the room.
Kipps was gazing bleakly at me from the chair. ‘Yes, this is just about the efficiency I’d expect from Lockwood and Co.,’ he said. ‘What next? Lockwood comes in, trips over and impales himself on his sword?’
Albert Joplin said, ‘Stand beside Kipps, put your hands against the back of the chair. Wrists together. Now, I have one more piece of cord, which— No – you do what you’re told!’ I’d tried to turn; the knife jabbed me, making me cry out in pain. ‘That’s better,’ Joplin said. With a series of quick movements, he bound my hands to the chair. I stood beside Kipps, neck stinging, as Joplin walked away.
He looked as crumpled as ever, his jacket laced with grave-dust, his hair a storm-tossed crow’s-nest. He still moved in the same stooped manner, shoulders hunched inwards, spindly-legged and pigeon-toed. He was circling back to George. There was a short, stubby knife in one hand; in the other, a notebook. A biro was tucked behind one ear. He hummed softly to himself as he went. When he glanced back, I saw that his nose was red and swollen-looking, and he had a bruise on his chin.
But it was his eyes that really shocked me. They were dark and sunken, the pupils very wide. He seemed to be staring intently at something far away. His head was cocked, as if listening.
In its circle, the Bickerstaff ghost swayed from side to side.
‘Yes, yes . . . in a moment.’ Joplin talked absently, as if to himself. When he got to George, he bent down and squinted towards the shrouded mirror, perhaps comparing heights. What he saw seemed to satisfy him. He straightened, and slapped George sharply twice around the face. George gave a croak, and stared wildly all around.
‘That’s it, my boy. Time to wake up.’ Joplin patted his shoulder. Taking his biro from his ear, he made a mark in his notebook. ‘We must make haste with our experiment, as agreed.’
Quill Kipps uttered an oath. ‘Agreement, my foot,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know what Cubbins thought he was up to coming here in the first place, but they had some kind of argument in the church upstairs. One minute they were talking; then, all at once, they were coming to blows.’ He shook his head. ‘It was pathetic. The worst fight ever. They knocked each other’s glasses off, and spent half the time crawling around trying to find them. I’m surprised they didn’t pull each other’s hair.’
‘And you didn’t go to help George?’ I said icily. I pulled at my cords. No, they were tight; I could scarcely move my hands.
‘To my lasting regret,’ Kipps said, ‘I did. I’m sorry to say Joplin put that knife to Cubbins’s throat and forced me to throw down my rapier. When we got down to the catacombs, Cubbins tried to escape, and was knocked out for his trouble. Joplin’s been setting up this ridiculous contraption for the last half-hour. He’s out of his mind.’
‘Yes, he is. More than you know.’
One glance at the mirror, and George had been affected; one brief moment of exposure to Bickerstaff’s ghost, and its influence had remained. But how long had Joplin been exposed to it since then – how many nights had he been near the body in the chapel, with the ghost’s silent, baleful energies directed upon him? He probably couldn’t even see the phantom clearly. He probably didn’t know what it was doing to him.
‘Mr Joplin,’ I called. Knife in hand, the little archivist was waiting beside George, who was slowly rousing groggily. ‘You’re not thinking straight. This experiment will never work—’
Joplin adjusted his spectacles. ‘No, no. Don’t worry. We won’t be disturbed. The entrance stairs are locked, and I’ve shut off the catafalque mechanism from below. No one can get down, unless they want to jump twenty feet into a pitch-black hole. And who would be prepared to do that?’
There was one person I knew who might. But he was busy up above, and I couldn’t rely on him. ‘That’s not what I mean,’ I said. ‘The mirror is deadly, and Bickerstaff’s phantom is influencing you. We need to stop this now!’
Joplin cocked his head on one side; he was gazing towards the circle where the ghost stood. It was as if he hadn’t heard. ‘This is a remarkable opportunity,’ he said thickly. ‘My heart’s desire. This mirror is a window on another world. There are marvels there! And George will have the honour of seeing them! It just remains for me to get the pole . . .’
With his shuffling, round-shouldered gait, he pootled over to the table. My head reeled: he was using almost the same words as Bickerstaff had, when he forced Wilberforce to look into the mirror all those years before.
Behind its chains, the hooded phantom watched Joplin go.
‘Lucy . . .’ George called. ‘Is that you?’
‘George! Are you all right?’
Well, he didn’t look so hot, all puffy faced, and red about the eyes. His glasses were still wonky, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘Surprisingly comfortable, Luce. Chair’s a bit hard. I could do with a cushion.’
‘I’m so angry with you, I could burst.’
‘I know. I’m really sorry.’
‘What did you think you were doing?’
He sighed, rocking forwards in the chair. ‘It just seemed . . . I can’t explain it, Luce. When I left Flo, when I got the mirror in my hands, I just felt this desire . . . I had to look at it again. Part of me knew it was wrong, I knew I had to wait for you – but somehow all that seemed unimportant. I might even have taken the thing out of the bag right away, only I wanted to show Joplin. And when he came, he said we should do it properly . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I went along with it, but when we got to the chapel, and I saw the empty coffin . . . all at once, it was like my eyes had cleared. I realized I was doing something mad. Then I tried to get away, but Joplin wouldn’t let me.’
‘Quite right too.’ Joplin was back. He carried a long pole, with a hook fixed to the end. ‘I showed you the error of your ways. I must say, you’ve disappointed me, Cubbins. You had such promise. Still, at least we sorted out our little disagreement, man to man.’ He fingered his swollen nose.
‘Man to man, my eye,’ Kipps snorted. ‘It was like seeing two schoolgirls squabbling over a scented pencil. You should have heard the squeals.’
‘Now, hush,’ Joplin said. ‘We have things to do.’ He flinched; a worried look crossed his face, as if someone had spoken sharply to him. ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’m doing my best.’
‘But Mr Joplin,’ I cried. ‘It’s a death sentence to look in the mirror! It doesn’t show you marvels. If you’d read Mary Dulac’s “Confessions” you’d understand exactly what I’m talking about. The guy Wilberforce dropped dead as soon as—’
‘Oh, you’ve read them too?’ For a moment his blank look vanished, and he looked keenly interested. ‘You did find another copy? Well done! You must tell me how. But of course I’ve read “The Confessions”! Who do you think stole it from Chertsey Library in the first place? I have it on my table there. It was very interesting, though it was Bickerstaff’s notes that Cubbins kindly showed me that were the icing on the cake.’ He gestured at the mirror in its circle. ‘I couldn’t have reconstructed the layout otherwise.’
I tugged at the ropes around my wrists. The knots chafed me. To my right, I could sense Kipps doing the same. ‘I thought those notes were in medieval Italian,’ I said.
Joplin gave a complacent smile. ‘Indeed. And I’m fluent in it. It was quite amusing watching George here puzzle over it while I quietly copied the whole thing.’
George kicked out at Joplin and missed. ‘You betrayed me! I trusted you!’
Joplin chuckled; he gave George an indulgent pat on the shoulder. ‘Take a tip: it’s always wise to keep your cards close to your chest. Secrecy is crucial! No, Miss Carlyle, I’m well aware of the risks of looking in the mirror, which is why my good friend George is going to do it for me – now.’
So saying, Joplin turned to the iron circle in the centre of the room. Reaching in with the pole – and oblivious to the seven faint figures that hovered there – he flipped the cloth away from the top of the stand.
‘George!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t look!’
From where I stood I couldn’t see the surface of the mirror. I only saw the roughened back of the glass, and the tightly woven rim of bone. But the buzzing noise was louder, and even the seven spirits in the circle shrank away, as if afraid. Behind its chains, the Bickerstaff ghost rose still taller. I sensed its eagerness; I heard its cold hypnotic voice in my mind. ‘Look . . .’ it said. ‘Look . . .’ This is what it had desired in life; in death, through Joplin, it desired the same.
George had screwed his eyes tight closed.
Joplin had been careful to stand with his back to the tripod. His hunched shoulders were rigid with fear, his pale face tight with tension. ‘Open your eyes, Mr Cubbins,’ he said. ‘You know you want to.’
And George did. Part of him – the part that had been snared by the mirror days before – desperately wanted to look. I could see him shaking, struggling with himself to resist. He had his head turned away; he was biting on his lip.
I wrenched at my bonds. ‘Ignore him, George!’
‘Look . . . Look . . .’
‘Mr Cubbins . . .’ Joplin had taken out his pen and pad in readiness to record what happened. He tapped the biro irritably against his teeth. He looked peeved; under the cloak of madness, he was still a fussy little academic, anxious to carry out an experiment that interested him. He might have been observing the behaviour of fruit flies or the mating rituals of worms. ‘Mr Cubbins, you will do as I ask! Otherwise . . .’ I felt a wave of malice radiate from the cowled figure in the circle. Joplin flinched again, and nodded. ‘Otherwise,’ he said harshly, ‘I will take this knife and cut the throats of your friends.’
Silence in the catacombs.
‘Ooh.’ That was the skull’s voice, faint from down the passage. ‘Good options! This is a win-win situation for me.’
George sat bolt upright in the chair. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK, I’ll do it.’
‘No, George,’ I said. ‘You’re absolutely not to.’
‘Well, he could take a little peek,’ Kipps said.
‘Don’t give in to it!’ I cried. ‘He’s bluffing!’
‘Bluffing?’ Joplin inspected the point of his knife. ‘You know, I believe poor Jack Carver thought the exact same thing . . .’
‘It’s no good, Luce,’ George said dully. It was as if the malaise was back – there was profound weariness in his voice. ‘I’m going to have to do it. I can’t help myself anyhow. I’ve got to look. The mirror’s tugging at me – I can’t resist.’
He’d opened his eyes. His head was lowered; he stared down at his chest.
‘No!’ I tugged at my wrists, so that Kipps’s chair rattled on the dirt-brick floor. Tears filled my eyes. ‘If you do this, George Cubbins, I’m going to be so mad.’
‘It’s all right, Luce,’ he said. He smiled sadly. ‘All this mess is my own fault. And after all, it’s what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it? To uncover mysteries – to do something no one else has ever done.’
‘Well spoken!’ Joplin said. ‘I’m proud of you, young man. Now, I stand ready to record your words. Don’t stop to think – speak fast and clear! Tell me what you see.’
Another echo from the past. Bickerstaff’s words to Wilberforce, 130 years before. It might almost have been the same person talking. Perhaps it was – how much was Bickerstaff, how much was Joplin?
‘Please, George . . .’
Kipps groaned. ‘She’s right, Cubbins! Don’t give the madman the satisfaction.’
Joplin stamped his foot. ‘Will everyone please be silent!’
‘Lucy . . .’ George said suddenly. ‘About all this . . . I know I was weak, and what I did was wrong. I’m sorry for it. Tell Lockwood for me, OK?’
With that, he lifted his head and looked into the mirror.
‘George . . .!’
‘Look . . .’ the hooded shape above me murmured. ‘I give you your heart’s desire.’
George looked. He stared straight through his little round spectacles into the glass. There was nothing I could do to stop him.
Joplin swallowed eagerly. His biro hung quivering above the page. ‘So, tell me, Cubbins. What is it that you see?’
‘George?’
‘Speak, boy!’
‘Your heart’s desire . . .’
George’s face had tightened, the eyes grown wide. A terrible happiness shone from him. ‘I see things . . . beautiful things . . .’
‘Yes? Yes? Go on—’
But George’s muscles had suddenly grown slack. The skin slumped, his mouth slowly opened like a drawbridge lowered on a chain. The fierce joy that had spread across his face remained, but all the intelligence in it, all the sparky life and stubbornness, began to slip away.
I jerked forward, wrenching at my bonds. ‘George!’ I shrieked. ‘Look at me now!’
‘Talk!’ Joplin shouted. ‘Quick!’
It was no good. As I watched in horror, George’s jaw sagged wide. He let out a long, harsh, rattling sigh. His eyelids drooped; his body shuddered once, twice, and fell still. His head twitched, then slid slowly sideways. It came to rest. His mouth hung open; his eyes stared out at nothing. A few threads of pale hair drooped loose across his waxy brow.
‘Well,’ Albert Joplin said, with feeling. ‘What an infernal nuisance. He might have told me something useful before he died.’
