Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow (29 page)

We found the society at the end of an elegant cul-de-sac, a quiet street of stuccoed townhouses, where the brass plates on the pillars gleamed spotlessly and the flowers in the hanging baskets beneath the hotel windows bloomed with plush, complacent health. The plaque gave the name without pomp or fanfare; and at our knock the door was opened at once by a smiling old man, who bowed and gestured for us to enter.

“Come in, come in, and welcome. I am the secretary of the society.”

The secretary was an amiable white-haired gentleman, stooped of shoulder but twinkling of eye. He wore a long frock coat and starched collar in an old-fashioned style, and his hair was swept back generously from an impressive forehead. We stood with him in a small, cool foyer. The floor was marble, the walls a deep maroon. Beyond him, an elderly man and woman were walking down a staircase. Somewhere nearby, a clock was ticking.

“We’re here to see Ms. Penelope Fittes, sir,” Lockwood said. “My name is Anthony Lockwood. These are my colleagues, George Cubbins and Lucy Carlyle.”

The old man nodded. “I was told to expect you. Dear Penelope is in the reading room.” He continued to gaze at Lockwood. “So you are Celia and Donald’s boy? I believe I’ve read about you in the
Times
. Yes, yes, I think I see them both in you.”

“Did you know them, sir?” Lockwood asked.

“Oh, indeed. They were candidates for membership in the society once. In fact, they gave a most interesting lecture in the very room I’ll be taking you to now. ‘Ghost Lore among the Tribes of New Guinea and West Sumatra,’ or something of that nature. They were folklorists, of course, perhaps not
scientists
in the strictest sense of the word….Still, their scholarship was impeccable. Their loss was a great one.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lockwood said. His face was impassive.

“Well, well, you didn’t come to talk to
me
. It’s just along here.” The old man led the way down a softly carpeted corridor, past paintings of august gentlemen similar to himself. At the end of the passage, a stained glass window let in shafts of yellow and ruby light. Beneath it was a plinth with a stone carving of a simple three-stringed harp. The secretary indicated it. “Perhaps you’ve seen our little symbol?”

“Seen it around,” I said casually. I thought of the pair of goggles back at Portland Row, which we’d stolen from a murderer some time before.

“Orpheus’s lyre,” George added. “That’s what it represents, right?”

“Exactly so. You know about Orpheus, of course,” the secretary said. “Greek fellow from the myths. He was the patron of musicians and of explorers into the unknown.”

“He went down into the underworld, didn’t he?” George said. “In search of his dead wife.”

“Indeed, Mr. Cubbins.” The Secretary turned left down a second corridor, where another aged club member, bald and smiling, stood aside to let us pass. “He sang and played his lyre so beautifully that he could charm the dead—and soothe the fearsome entities that guarded them. He even persuaded Hades, grim god of the underworld, to let his wife go.
That
is power indeed!”

“So the society takes Orpheus as its inspiration?” said Lockwood, who had been unusually quiet since arrival.

“We, too, seek to find ways of subduing ghosts. We are a motley band of inventors, industrialists, and philosophers—anyone, in fact, with an interesting perspective on the Problem. We discuss, we debate, we work on devices that might stem the ghostly invasion.”

“A bit like the Rotwell Institute, in fact?” George said.

The old man clicked his tongue. His smile became rueful. “Not exactly. The institute is much too…
commercial
for our tastes. They seek profit above truth. Many of their products are frankly worse than useless. The society is for
idealists
, Mr. Cubbins. We hunt for real answers. There is a battle to be won—not simply against ghosts, but against death itself.”

“What kinds of devices do you create, sir?” George asked. He had a spark in his eye. I knew he was thinking of the goggles.

“Many kinds! I will give you one example. Young people like you are fortunate—you hear and see supernatural things. But decrepit fellows such as me are powerless after dark. So we hunt for ways to help older folk defend themselves against the spectral foe. We have made progress, built prototypes…but they are not yet ready for public use.”

George nodded slowly. “I
see.
You’ve built prototypes, have you? Fascinating….”

“Indeed.” The secretary stopped at a dark oak door. “Well, here we are—the reading room.”

“What about Orpheus?” I said. “Did he bring his wife back in the end?”

The secretary chuckled. “No, my dear. No, he did not. He erred, and she remained on the Other Side. How I wish we could ensure the same for our dead friends today.” He pushed the door open and stood back. “The assembled company of Lockwood and Co.!” With that he ushered us in and departed, closing the door behind him.

It wasn’t a very big chamber, the Orpheus Society reading room; if Lockwood’s parents had once given a lecture there, the audience must have been quite small. A band of dark bookshelves encircled a cozy, carpeted space of armchairs and reading tables, randomly arranged. Penelope Fittes sat in a chair by the hearth, staring into the flames. Her long black hair gleamed, her profile might have been carved from alabaster; she was so much younger than any of the other members of the society, her luster almost came as a physical shock. She turned and smiled at us.

“Hello, Anthony,” she said. “Lucy, George. Come and sit down.”

Above the mantel hung a painting in a golden frame: a woman in a low-cut black dress, holding a lantern. Her hair was worn high on top of her head; a fierce light burned in her eyes. It was a face familiar from books and stamps and the postcards they sold in the Strand. It did not have the worn, burned-out look of the photographs at Fittes House.

Penelope Fittes had noticed my appraisal. “Yes, my sweet grandmother,” she said. “She set up this society, when she was still quite young. I continue to encourage them in their efforts. I have great regard for anyone who displays exceptional resourcefulness in combating the Problem. Which is why I have a proposition for you now.”

“Another case, Penelope?” Lockwood asked.

“Greater than that. A far greater honor. I would like you to join your agency with mine.”

Just like that; no mincing of words, no wasting time. She was smiling as she said it, but the impact of what she said was like a missile striking right between the eyes. I think I physically reeled; George made an incoherent sound. Lockwood’s face was frozen. I don’t think I’d ever seen him quite so taken aback. If the opening of Mrs. Barrett’s coffin ranked as nine out of ten on the shock-o-meter,
this
was ten out of ten. Ten plus. He blinked at her; it was as if he didn’t fully comprehend the words.

Ms. Fittes was too polite to acknowledge our stupefaction. “I was impressed with the way you tackled the very serious case in Ealing,” she said. “Impressed, but unsurprised. I have watched you since that matter of the Screaming Staircase two years ago. Time and again I have seen your team achieve small miracles of detection, overcoming great odds, defeating Visitors of considerable power. Your psychic Sight, Anthony, is superb, but it is not your only Talent; you are a leader I would love to have on my side. And Lucy”—her dark gaze switched to me—“I’m
so
pleased to see that you took my words to heart and have chosen to remain with Lockwood and Company. Your gifts are formidable, and I could help you develop them even further. Dear George”—the gaze switched again; I felt like a fish out of water that had suddenly been thrown back in—“you have already worked for my company once. Perhaps we didn’t fully appreciate
your
singular gifts. Come back to us and I will allow you full access to the Black Library at Fittes House—there are so many unread papers there, so much that is yet to be researched.” She leaned back in her chair. “There it is: my offer. I don’t make such proposals readily. But you have charmed me. Lockwood and Company is unique; with my help it could become immortal.” She smiled at us. “If you wish to consult with one another, please do so.”

A log crackled in the grate. A wall clock ticked. I couldn’t look at the others.

“Thank you, Penelope, thank you, Ms. Fittes….” When Lockwood spoke, his voice was thick; it lacked its usual fluency. “Thank you for the invitation. It is, as you say, an enormous honor.” He cleared his throat. “But I do not think we need to consult on this. I’m sure I speak for the others—and I certainly speak for myself—when I say that our independence is something we value above all else. We like being our own little agency. I’m sorry, but I don’t think we could happily become part of even such a tremendous organization as yours.”

Ms. Fittes’s smile remained, but she was as motionless as a stone. When she spoke, her voice was velvety. “No? Don’t misunderstand me, Anthony. I would create a new division especially for you. You wouldn’t need adult supervisors—you would operate exactly as you do now, except that the resources of the Fittes Agency would be at your disposal. I would trust you implicitly. You could even continue to work from your charming little home.”

Another silence in the reading room—this one stretched out even longer.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Lockwood said. “But again I must regretfully decline.”

The smiled flickered. “Well, you know your own mind, of course. I will respect your decision.”

“Please don’t take my remarks the wrong way, ma’am,” Lockwood said. “I mean no disrespect to you or your great organization. I hope there will be many more opportunities for collaboration between our agencies. We enjoyed working with Quill Kipps on the Guppy case,” he added. “Perhaps we can do so again.”

Now the smile was gone. “That will not be possible. Mr. Kipps is no longer employed by this agency.”

“No longer employed?” This time Lockwood didn’t bother hiding his astonishment; beside him, George and I were competing for whose jaw could drop the lowest. Kipps had made a seamless transition from agent to supervisor, and we’d assumed that he would go on to bore us for years with his rise through the ranks. “Did he—did he
leave
?” Lockwood asked. “Or was he—?”

“Oh no, he left of his own free will,” Ms. Fittes said. “Soon after returning from the Guppy case. His reasons were…confused. I did not interrogate him. I have many agents. I cannot spend my time mollycoddling those misguided individuals who don’t appreciate their own good luck. That being so, I had better get back to work. Thank you for coming in today. If you ring that bell, the secretary will be pleased to escort you out.”

Our visit to the Orpheus Society had not been as straightforward as we had assumed, and an air of unease hung over us on the journey home, a feeling that an important moment had just passed. It was disconcerting; nothing had actually
changed
, yet somehow the ground had insensibly shifted underfoot. We didn’t speak the entire way to Portland Row.

Holly was in the office. “How did it go? Did you get your medal?”

“Not exactly.” Lockwood flung himself down in his chair. “All okay here?”

“Fine. I made that list of Rotwell Institute sites you wanted. There weren’t that many of them in the end. Just five or six. It’s on your desk.”

“Thanks, Hol.” Lockwood picked up Holly’s list, glanced at it, put it down. He stared moodily out of the window.

George and I filled Holly in on the events of our visit. Her expression darkened. “Obviously you were quite right to say no, Lockwood,” she said. “No question about it. It’s flattering, I suppose, but you can’t just give up your independence. This is Lockwood and Co.”

“It was a strange offer,” I said. “Ms. Fittes was very complimentary about us, but it was like she just assumed we’d cave in and do her bidding. I don’t think she was very happy that we refused her, either.”

“That’s typical Fittes behavior.” Holly normally maintained a facade of breezy good humor about everything, but now she was looking as cross as I’d ever seen her. “At Rotwell’s we always used to talk about it. Penelope Fittes acts like she has a divine right to get whatever she wants, just because she’s head of the oldest agency. Her grandmother was just the same.”

“What about her mother?” I remembered the rather forlorn photograph I’d seen in Penelope Fittes’s study. “Didn’t she run the agency at one time?”

“Not for long,” Holly said. “She was different, they say—a gentler character. But of course she died, and Penelope took over. When
was
that, Lockwood? You’ll know.”

But Lockwood was still staring out of the window. He didn’t react even when the phone on his desk began ringing.

George looked at me. “
I
can’t pick it up,” I said. “I don’t work here anymore.”

“You never answered it even when you
did
work here.”

George got up and answered the phone. Whoever was on the other end was talkative. For a long while George’s side of the conversation was limited to grunts and sighs. Holly took up a feather duster and began doing unnecessary things to the suit of armor behind Lockwood’s desk. Lockwood still didn’t move.

At last George lowered the receiver and covered the mouthpiece with a hand. “Lockwood.”

“Mmm?”

“It’s that bloody Skinner kid again. He’s still talking about ghosts in that stupid village. It’s worse than ever, apparently. To hear him, you’d think they had Screaming Spirits jumping out of their breakfast cereal. Anyway, he’s begging me to ask you again.” George paused. “When I say ‘begging,’ it’s the usual mix of verbal abuse and desperate fawning. But somehow that works on me, I don’t know why. So I said I would.” He looked at Lockwood, who hadn’t moved. “You’re obviously doing some very important staring into space. I’ll just tell him to get lost….”

“No!” With a jolt that made me spill my tea and Holly knock the codpiece clean off the suit of armor, Lockwood sprang upright in his chair. “Give me that phone! It’s Danny Skinner, from Aldbury Castle?”

“Er, yes. Yes, it is. Why?”

Lockwood grabbed the receiver and put his feet up on his desk. “Look up the train schedule! Pack the bags! Cancel any appointments for tomorrow! Is that you, Danny? Lockwood here. We’re going to accept your fascinating invitation after all.”