Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy (17 page)

George had been scribbling with a felt-tip pen on our Thinking Cloth, writing out a list of names:
Mayfair Bugle
,
The Queens Magazine
,
The Cornhill Magazine
,
Contemporary Review
…“Yeah,” he said, “there were loads of magazines in late Victorian times, and some of them carried sensational stuff, about true crimes and all that.
I bet there’s an account of the Little Tom murder there somewhere, though it might be tricky to find in the time available. It could give us a clearer sense of what happened and help us find
the Source.” He threw the pen down. “I’ll get going shortly.”

“We’ve got big deliveries of iron and salt this morning,” Holly Munro said. “I’ll monitor that, and get your bags ready by early afternoon. You’ll want more
candles.”

“Great,” Lockwood said. “You can help Holly, if you like, Lucy.”

“Oh, I’m
sure
Lucy doesn’t want to do that,” Holly said. “She’ll have something more important to do.”

Lockwood chewed a piece of waffle. “I’m not sure she has.”

The kettle boiled.

“Actually,” I said brightly, “I do. I think it would be much more useful if I went down to the Archives—and helped George.”

It wasn’t often that George and I went out together during the day (in fact I’d almost forgotten what he looked like when not surrounded by shadows, ghosts, or artificial light), and
you could count the times I’d volunteered to help him at the National Newspaper Archives on the fingers of no hands. If George was surprised by my decision, however, he gave no sign of it. A
few minutes later, he was strolling placidly through London at my side.

We walked south through the streets of Marylebone in the general direction of Regent Street. Though the Chelsea containment zone was a mile or two distant, the effects of the outbreak could be
felt even here. There was the smell of burning in the air, and the city was quieter than usual. The cafés and restaurants of Marylebone High Street, which like all other commercial
establishments closed at four thirty, were only ever busy at lunch; today their interiors were mostly gray and empty, with forlorn waiters sitting idly at tables. Trash bags lay uncollected on the
sidewalks; litter blew across the street. More than once we saw orange DEPRAC tape blocking the entrances to buildings, and ghost-crosses daubed on windows: the signs of live hauntings, as yet
undealt with by any of the agencies. They were busy elsewhere.

Outside a seedy Spiritualist Church on Wimpole Street, a scuffle was going on. Black-clothed followers of the Ghost Cult that worshipped inside were grappling with one of the local Neighborhood
Protection leagues, who’d been trying to strew lavender on the church steps. Middle-aged men and women, gray-haired, outwardly respectable, shouted and screamed at one another, snatching at
collars, twisting arms. As George and I drew near, they broke apart and stood in panting silence as we walked between them. When we’d passed, they closed up and began fighting again.

They were just adults. They were all equally clueless. When nightfall came, they’d all stop squabbling and scurry home in sync to bolt their doors.

“This city,” George said, “is going to hell in a handcart. Don’t you think so?”

For the first few blocks we hadn’t talked at all; I wasn’t in the mood for it. But air and exercise had partially roused me out of my gloom. I stamped my boot heels on the pavement.
“I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means everyone’s getting frantic, and no one’s asking the right questions.”

We zigzagged down to Oxford Street, where the flea market iron and silver stores, palm readers, and fortune-telling booths stretched for miles in both directions; crossed over at Oxford Circus;
and started down Regent Street. The Archives were not far away.

“I know why you’ve come along,” George said suddenly. “Don’t think I don’t.”

I’d been having dark thoughts about waffles, and the unexpected statement made my stomach lurch. “Does there have to be a reason?”

“Well, I’m guessing it’s not the thrill of my company that brings you here.” He glanced at me. “Is it?”

“I love being with you, George. I can scarcely keep away.”

“Exactly. No, you’ve made it pretty obvious,” he said, “what’s on your mind. You need to be careful, though. Lockwood isn’t pleased.”

We stepped in unison over one of the runnels of flowing water that protected the clothes stores on Regent Street. It was one of the safest areas of the city, and the streets were busier now.
“Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said, “but I don’t think he’s got any right to object. It’s his fault. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Well, nor did Lockwood.”

“Of course he did. He hired her, didn’t he?”

George gazed at me, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. “I’m talking about your fascination with this ghost, this Little Tom. What were you talking about?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. The same. That’s why I’m here with you. I want to know the story.”

“Right…” We walked another few yards in silence. Up ahead was the Rotwell Building, a shimmering hulk of plastic and glass. Above the entrance, on a pole, the agency’s red
lion symbol stood rampant. “So how’re you finding Holly?” George asked.

“I’m…adjusting,” I said. “Slowly. You’re obviously over the moon.”

“Well, she’s making us more efficient, which has to be good. Not that I’m sure about everything she does. I caught her trying to get rid of our Thinking Cloth the other day.
Said its scribbles made the kitchen look like the inside of someone’s head. Well, it—but that’s the point.”

“Yes,”
I said. “That’s what I find hard. All her fussy rules and regulations. And then there’s the way she looks….There’s a word for it.”

“Yeah,” George said, with feeling. “
Glossy
. Or were you thinking
lustrous
?”

“Um, no…that wasn’t quite it. I meant, sort of more…
overmaintained
.”

He pushed his spectacles up his nose and glanced at me. “She knows what a comb
is
, I suppose.”

“Are you looking at my hair? What are you saying?”

“Nothing! I’m not saying anything. Absolutely not. Oh…” George’s wriggling awkwardness froze suddenly into something deeper, an expression of numb discomfort.
“Heads down, Luce….Don’t look now.”

Directly ahead of us, outside the Rotwell building, stood Quill Kipps. With him were his two close associates, Kate Godwin and Bobby Vernon.

In the daylight Kipps looked slighter than usual. As ever he was flamboyantly dressed, but his face was gray, and there was a haze of ginger stubble on his chin. He wore a black armband tight
upon his sleeve, and carried a thick sheaf of documents under one arm. He’d already spotted us. This was a blow. If we’d had the chance, we’d have crossed the street or
something.

We drew level with them. Vernon was remarkably small and scrawny; it was as if someone had shaved bits off normal-sized agents and created him from the scrapings. Godwin, a Listener like me, was
as chilly as ground-frost, and probably about as hard underfoot. They nodded at us. We nodded at them. There was a pause, as if everyone were going through the usual round of hostilities and cheap
comments, only silently, to save time.

“We’re sorry to hear about Ned Shaw,” I said finally.

Kipps stared at me. “Are you? You never liked him.”

“No. Still, that doesn’t mean we wanted him dead.”

His narrow shoulders shrugged skyward beneath his trim silver jacket. “No? Maybe. I couldn’t say.” Kipps often seemed engulfed in bitterness when he spoke with us. Today his
hostility seemed less automatic and less personal, yet more deeply felt. I didn’t answer. George opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Kate Godwin checked her watch, stared
off down the street like she was waiting for someone.

“How did it happen?” I said finally.

“Typical DEPRAC foul-up,” Bobby Vernon said.

Kipps rubbed the back of his neck with a pale hand. He sighed. “It was a building on Walpole Street. Open floor-plan office. We were working our way through it, taking psychic readings.
Some of Tendy’s group were up on the floor above. Bloody idiots disturbed a Specter, drove it down the central stairway to our level. Came straight through a wall where Shaw was and clasped
him around the head before any of us could move.”

Kate Godwin nodded. “He didn’t have a chance.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, well. It’ll happen again,” Kipps said. “Not to us, maybe, but to someone.” His eyes were always red-rimmed; I thought they seemed redder than normal.
“We’re out again tonight on a three-line whip. Barnes has us all performing like so many dancing bears. The Chelsea outbreak’s crazy. There’s no system to it—or if
there is,
I
can’t see it.”

“Got to be a system,” George said. “
Something’s
stirring up the ghosts in that area. There’ll be a pattern, if you know where to look.”

Kipps grimaced. “You think so? The best minds in DEPRAC have failed to find it so far, Cubbins. I’ve just been at a meeting here, and no one’s got a clue. The most
they’ve come up with is to suggest holding a special agency parade to reassure the public that nothing’s wrong. Can you believe it? We’ve got thousands of people evacuated, ghosts
rampant, rioting in London—and they’re planning a
carnival
. The world’s gone mad.” He scowled at us as if it had been
our
suggestion, and flourished the
sheaf of papers. “Oh, and see this? Copy of all the case reports the different teams have filed in the last week. Apparitions, Glimmers, chill spots—you name it. Hundreds of incidents,
and no pattern whatsoever. All team leaders are supposed to read it now, and come up with our own suggestions. As if I’ll have time for that! I’ve got a funeral to go to.” He
slapped the papers disgustedly against his fist. “I might as well lob this in the trash.”

We stood there awkwardly. I didn’t know what to say.

“You can give it to me, if you like,” George said. “I’d be interested.”

“Give it to you?” Kipps’s brief laugh had no humor in it. “Why should I do that? You hate me.”

George snorted. “What, you want me to blow you a kiss? Who cares whether I
like
you or not? People are dying here. I might be able to
do
something with it, do us all a
favor. If you want to read it yourself, fine. Otherwise give it here. Just don’t put it in the stupid bin.” He stamped his foot, red in the face and glaring.

Kipps and his companions blinked at him, slightly taken aback. I was a bit, too. Kipps looked at me; then, shrugging, tossed the papers across to George. “Like I say,
I
don’t want them. I’ve got other things to do. We may see you at the carnival—
if
Lockwood and Co.’s invited, which I strongly doubt.” He gave a cursory wave,
and with that, the three Fittes agents sloped off into the crowd.

If the National Newspaper Archives building were ever haunted, it would be a devil of a job to sort it. Spreading over six vast floors, each honeycombed with eight-foot-high
shelves and book stacks, it’s bigger than any factory and more complex and labyrinthine than the oldest Tudor house. Plus, you’d be constantly tripping over all the scholars crouched in
gloomy recesses, staring at old documents, trying to understand the history of the Problem. History was what the Archives were about; you could smell it in the air, taste it on your breath. After
half an hour of leafing through century-old magazines, you felt it fused to your fingertips, too.

George liked it; he knew his way around. He took me to the Periodicals section on the fourth level and showed me the Catalogue—a series of giant leather-bound books that summarized the
contents of the floor. For events of recent decades, there was an Index, too, which cross-referenced stories contained in all the magazines. For old stuff, though, you had to locate the periodical
you wanted, choose the relevant date, and sift through the endless yellowed pages yourself, looking for your story.

Armed with a list of magazines from George, I weighed in, finding copies of the
Cornhill Journal
and
Mayfair News
from summer 1883, and taking them to the reading tables
perched above the central atrium. I began to browse, looking for any mention of the horrors of Hanover Square.

Soon I had the smell of stale ink in my nostrils. My eyes ached from poring over minute print. Worse, my mind ached from all the half-glimpsed irrelevant details. Victorian controversies.
Forgotten society ladies. Essays on faith and empire by hairy, self-confident men. This was stuff that would have been dull when it was published, let alone more than a century later. It was
ancient history. How could George enjoy doing this?

Ancient history
…That was exactly what Lockwood had once said about his sister, who’d died only six years ago. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how present she
was, influencing his every action. I remembered his coldness the night before; his dismissal of my empathy for the little ghost. And of course Holly Munro had backed him up today: she wanted the
thing destroyed, no questions asked. I’d only seen her for five minutes, but she’d been irritating that morning.

I continued reading, moving among the shelves, steadily working through George’s list. My mind wandered. Whenever I passed the Catalogue and Index, I thought about the events, six years
before, in Portland Row.

Once, when I returned to the tables, I discovered George there, surrounded by magazines, copying lines into his notebook. “Found out about our ghost?” I asked.

“Nope. Not a sausage on that yet. I’m taking a break, checking out something else.” He yawned and stretched. “Don’t know if you remember, but when Miss Wintergarden
came to see us, she was wearing a little silver brooch.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I was meaning to ask you about that. Was it the same as—?”

“It
was
. An ancient Grecian harp or lyre. The precise same symbol we saw on Fairfax’s goggles, and on that box that Penelope Fittes was holding, you know, when we spied on
her in her library.”