Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy (28 page)

“Because the wind blows off the river and spreads the lavender scent inland,” George said. He chuckled. “It closes off the gap perfectly. So you’ve got the Thames to the
south, the iron district to the north, and the lavender factory in the west: three strong geographical influences that stop the haunting from spreading. They act as a kind of funnel that distorts
the shape of the cluster. And if the cluster’s distorted, there’s no point in looking for a conventional center to it, is there? Which brings me to this….”

He got out another map and spread it on the table. Lockwood pushed our cups out of the way to make room; Holly put the plate of biscuits on the floor.

It was similar to the first, except that the dots were colored orange, and there were far fewer of them, particularly to the north and east.

“This is the situation one month ago,” George said. “It was already bad, but not nearly as crazy as now. I got most of this from that report Kipps gave me. See how
there’s already plenty going on in the middle of the King’s Road? But also in the west, too. And if we go even farther back…” He produced yet another map, this one with only the
smallest smattering of green dots. “This is
six
weeks ago, when it all officially began. See where the center of activity is now?”

“Looks like it’s shifted farther west,” I said, “back along the King’s Road. There’s not so much going on, though.”

“No, it was only just getting started. But here’s the clincher.”

A fourth map. It had the fewest dots of all—just seven, in fact. They were all dark blue, like spots of ice, and all were set in a little bow-shaped arc around the western tip of the
King’s Road. “This is two months ago,” George said, “before the whole thing blew up. Nothing special—just a Shade in a launderette, a couple of Tom O’Shadows, a
patch or two of Gray Haze….Incredibly minor stuff, scarcely made the local papers at the time—I had to really grub about to find reports of ’em—and they aren’t included in
DEPRAC’s tally. Barnes probably wouldn’t consider them to be part of the outbreak at all.” He looked around at us. “But
I
do. If you start here, and then look at
the others in sequence, you’ll see the pattern I’m talking about.”

“It’s a wave,” I said.

“Right. A ripple of supernatural activity spreading from a single focus, flowing out along the only channel available to it, through the heart of Chelsea.”

“And that focus—” Lockwood prompted.

“Is just about
here
.” George stabbed his finger at a blank portion of the map, around which the seven blue dots circled like an arc of orbiting moons. It was a block on the
south side of the King’s Road, right at its western tip, not far from the river and the lavender works. It seemed to be a single large building.

There was a respectful silence. Lockwood exhaled slowly. “You’re a genius, George. I’ve said it before.”

George selected a giant biscuit from Holly’s plate. “You can say it again if you like.”

“Why DEPRAC hasn’t figured this out,” I said, “is beyond me. What idiots they are.”

“I actually might not have noticed the pattern myself,” George admitted, “without Flo Bones’s help. She’s been patroling Chelsea’s river edge for days. She
confirms that the strongest supernatural activity she’s noticed is all down in that corner. She’s seen masses of spirits swirling about, displaying signs of agitation. That’s
where the psychic wave breaks most heavily on the shore.” He prodded the map in the same place again. “No question about it. The power’s emanating from there.”

“So what
is
this place,” I asked, “at the end of the King’s Road, and why haven’t we heard of it? And why, if it’s the focus”—I gestured
at the maps—“aren’t there any dots on it at all?”

“Good questions.” Taking his time, in the manner of a plump magician producing a rabbit from a hat, George reached into his folder once more. He pulled out a picture, a
black-and-white copy of a photograph taken from a newspaper clipping.

It showed the front of an imposing building, twice the height of the shops around it; a brooding, square construction in a heavy, classical style. Flags flew from the parapet. Squared columns
were inset into the walls. It had a lot of windows, tall, rectangular, reflecting the blank sky. The ground-floor windows were shaded beneath awnings; people in old-fashioned clothes walked the
sidewalks there, past indistinct but intricate displays. In the center, a darkly uniformed figure could be seen standing outside a rank of broad glass doors.

“That, my friends,” George said, “is Aickmere Brothers department store, once world famous, still celebrated, and now—in my opinion—the probable focus of the
Chelsea hauntings.”

“Never heard of it,” I said.

“I have.” Lockwood twisted the photograph to face him. “I went there once as a little kid, I think. It used to have a great toy department.”

At his side, Holly Munro was nodding. “Me too. My mother took me to Aickmere Brothers to look at the silver jewelry. I remember it being very ornate and splendid, but also a bit
shabby.”

“That would be right,” George said. “It’s the largest department store outside central London, and one of the oldest and grandest anywhere. It was originally built in
1872, and expanded greatly between 1910 and 1912. When its Arabian Hall, known as the ‘Hall of Wonders,’ was unveiled a hundred years or so ago, it supposedly featured fire-eaters,
belly dancers, and a live tiger in a cage. Those glory days, I think, are long gone. But people still go there—to this very day, in fact—because that side of Chelsea hasn’t been
evacuated. It’s a couple of blocks from one of the DEPRAC cordons. And there have been no reported hauntings in the store at all.”

“If your theory’s correct,” Lockwood said, “that’s more than a little odd.”

“Isn’t it? All the more so when you uncover its past history. I’ve been looking back for historical mentions of this part of Chelsea, to see if there’s been any ghostly
activity. When I became interested in Aickmere’s, I honed in on that specific site.” George took a bite of biscuit. “Well…I found things.”

I looked at him. “Bad?”

“You remember Combe Carey Hall?”

Lockwood and I exchanged looks. “The most haunted house in England? Yes.”

“It’s not as bad as that.”

“Thank God.”

“Thing is, I can’t imagine why.” George patted the plump manila folder. “Turns out, you see, this end of the King’s Road is an historic black spot. Half the worst
possible things you can think of took place just about there.”

I took a punt. “Plague?”

“Yup. The Black Death swept through in the 1340s. See how the road swerves just beside Aickmere’s? That’s because there was a plague pit there, where they piled the bodies and
dosed them with quicklime. Used to be a little mound on the spot, and a circle of stones, but the Victorians leveled it when they were widening the thoroughfare.”

“There are plenty of other plague pits in London,” Lockwood objected. “Sure, they’ve had cluster hauntings associated with them, but nothing on the scale of
this.”

“I know,” George said, “and I can’t begin to explain
why
this has stirred things up so much. I’m just giving you the facts. So we’ve got plague. What
else d’you reckon?”

“War,” I said. “Battle or skirmish.”

“Another point to Lucy. She’s good at playing Atrocities. Yes, it’s a Blitz bombing. In 1944, Aickmere Brothers was closed for six months after a doodlebug landed on the
building next to it, pulling down the side wall and part of the roof. Twelve people were killed, including air raid wardens stationed on that roof. Twelve years ago, store management called in
agents after those wardens were seen reenacting their shrieking death-falls through several floors: they fell straight through Haberdashery and Home Furnishings and landed in Cosmetics.”

“Was the Source found?” Holly Munro asked.

“I believe bone fragments were discovered and store defenses were improved.”

Lockwood pulled doubtfully at his collar. “I don’t know, George….None of this strikes me as anything particularly special. And if those Visitors were dealt with—”

“I’m just getting warmed up. There’s a big one you haven’t thought of yet.”

“Executions!” I said. “Murders, hangings, garrottings! Um, torture in general! Um…”

“All right, all right, hold on. Yes to all of that, but you need to be more exact.”

“Suspected occult activities!”

“No. Go back to the last bunch. Where, historically, would you find all those nasty things taking place?”

“Prison,” Holly Munro said. She flicked an imaginary piece of fluff off the hem of her dress.

“Bingo.” George looked around at us. “Prison. The King’s Prison, to be exact, a notorious hellhole first constructed in 1213 by order of King John. It’s said they
put it well outside the city, so that no one could overhear the awful sounds from inside.”

I pointed to the map, at the blank rectangle that marked Aickmere’s department store. “You’re saying it was right here?”

“No one knows the exact site. It was pulled down in Tudor times. But it was supposed to be at the western end of the King’s Road somewhere, and we do know the plague pit was dug
outside it. So…”

“So now we’re definitely on to something!” There was a light in Lockwood’s eyes; he rubbed his hands. “Okay, now I
am
interested. If Aickmere’s is on
roughly the same spot as an old medieval prison…”

“It wasn’t even a
nice
medieval prison,” George put in. “Other medieval prisons looked down on it, it was so foul. It was a place where anyone who’d
displeased the sovereign was put away, and there weren’t too many rules about what happened to them after that. It had an unlucky history. It was burned down twice, and sacked during the
Peasants’ Revolt, when a troop of soldiers was ambushed and put to the sword. In those days the whole region was marshy, an unhealthy tract of mud and tributaries of the Thames, and a
fearsome breeding ground for disease. Lots of inmates died and their bodies were just chucked in the river. It was famous for its appalling overcrowding, too. By the end it was more of a hospital
than a prison—most of the inmates were lepers and other outcasts with terrible diseases. The Tudor authorities drove them out and knocked the whole place down, and I don’t think anyone
was too upset to see the last of the King’s Prison.”

We contemplated this. “So, not a good place to choose for a holiday break,” I said. “We get the message.”

“But a
very
good place,” Lockwood said, “to generate Visitors, though the question must remain why the store itself isn’t having any current trouble.
That’s brilliant, George—well done. Well, we’ll have to go and check it out.” He smiled around at us. “And we’re going to need backup. If it’s even half
the place George thinks it is, three of us certainly won’t be enough.”

I looked at him. “You’re saying you want Holly to come too, I suppose?”

“Be glad to,” Holly Munro said.

Lockwood hesitated. “Well, if you want to, Holly—why not? That’s a great idea, Luce. But actually I was thinking of a much bigger unit, so we can separate into smaller teams,
cover ground more quickly. It’ll mean asking DEPRAC to loan us some agents—ten or twenty, maybe—but that won’t be a problem.” He pushed his chair back. “Holly,
if you can stay and get our supplies ready, we’ll get cracking and see Barnes now.”

“You think he’ll play ball?” George asked.

“Barnes may be grumpy,” Lockwood said, “but when I show him your findings, he’ll act soon enough. He knows how good we are.” He winked at us. “Don’t
worry. I know we have our differences, but there’s a lot of mutual respect there. If he hesitates, I’ll sweet-talk him. He won’t let us down.”

“That total and utter idiot,” Lockwood growled. “That mustachioed imbecile. That benighted, blinkered jobsworth. He’s a clown! A fraud! An oaf! I hate
him.”

“How’s the mutual respect thing going?” George said.

We were in Sloane Square, outside the Chelsea Working Men’s Club, in the heart of DEPRAC operations. Lockwood had gone inside to talk to Barnes; George and I were settled at a plastic
table near the catering vans, and we were just tucking in to our first round of tea and hot dogs when Lockwood returned. Jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, he threw himself into a chair.

“He’s not interested,” he said. “He doesn’t want to know.”

George stared at him. “So what’s his take on Aickmere Brothers? What’s he think of my presentation?”

“Nothing. He didn’t even look at it.”

“He didn’t look at my lovely dotted maps?” George set his hot dog down. “How can he have a valid counterargument, then?”

“He doesn’t. Didn’t even look me in the eye. Basically he cut me off as soon as I told him the address. He said there’s another big push going on in central Chelsea
tonight, and he can’t spare anyone to ‘fool around’ in the outlying areas. That’s a direct quote.”

“I’m surprised,” I said. “We know he’s a twit, but he’s normally a conscientious one.”

Lockwood drove his hands into his trouser pockets and stared balefully at the DEPRAC agents hurrying all around. “I’d have thought he would at least have heard me out. It’s not
like I even mentioned George’s name, or did anything else stupid to annoy him. I don’t get it. This whole outbreak’s a disaster. He should be dying for any new idea we could come
up with. As it is, we’re stymied. I just don’t see that we can go to Aickmere’s on our—” He gave a start, and shrank down in his chair. “Oh no…Don’t look
now. It’s Kipps. I saw him skulking nearby when I was speaking to Barnes. He must have heard the whole thing.”

Sure enough, here was Quill Kipps, jeweled rapier glinting, mincing across the square in our direction. George and I glared at him as he drew near. Lockwood looked away.

Kipps halted. He did disdainful things with his eyebrows. “Well, that’s charming,” he said. “I’ve had warmer welcomes in newly opened tombs. Now, Tony…I happened
to overhear what went on in there between you and Barnes—”

A muscle moved in Lockwood’s cheek. “Did you?”

“I heard him giving you the brush-off yet again.”