Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow (34 page)

“You won’t be leaving?”

“Of course not.”

In the silence, Mr. Skinner approached carrying a cup of black coffee, with a little jug of cream. He set them on the table.

“Thank you. Wait.” Rotwell reached into his jacket, removed a wallet, and selected a crisp note, which he handed to the innkeeper without looking. He waited until Skinner had retreated, then curled a heavy finger into the handle of the china cup. He did not drink, but stared at the black liquid. “You have quite a reputation, Mr. Lockwood,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“A reputation for becoming involved in things that don’t concern you.”

“Really?” Lockwood smiled. “May I ask who says so? Have some of your employees or associates been complaining? What are their names? Perhaps I know them.”

“No names. The fact is generally accepted. This means,” Rotwell said, “that when I learn you’ve unexpectedly turned up near my institute, where important and delicate research is continually being done, I am concerned. I worry that you might be tempted to stray from the proper bounds of agency work and poke your nose into unauthorized matters.” He lifted his hand, drained the coffee in a single gulp, and set the cup down.

There was a pause. Lockwood stirred. “Did you follow any of that, Luce?”

“Not a word.”

“George?”

“Hopeless. Like a foreign language.”

“Yes, you’ll have to speak more plainly than that, Mr. Rotwell,” Lockwood said. “George here often uses big words I can’t understand, but even he’s struggling to follow you. What is it that you don’t want me to do?”

Steve Rotwell made a gesture of irritation. “You are here to deal with the cluster?”

“I am.”

“That is your sole interest?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

Rotwell grunted. “That is not an answer to my question.”

“Well, it’s all you’re going to get,” Lockwood said. “Mr. Rotwell, Aldbury Castle isn’t your ‘patch,’ your ‘territory,’ your ‘doorstep,’ or anything else. If you object to me helping to clear this village of its ghosts, you will have to make an official complaint to DEPRAC and see where it gets you. Until you do so, I’m free to act here. In the meantime, do have another coffee and tell me about this ‘important and delicate research’ that’s going on up at the institute. It sounds fascinating. Are we likely to see some new Rotwell products anytime soon?”

Instead of answering, Rotwell took up his gloves and got ponderously to his feet. He looked to the window, where dusk was advancing across the green, then started to leave. An afterthought halted him. Where he stood now, he blocked the light, casting Lockwood into shadow. “You’re a precocious boy,” he said. “I won’t list your talents—you’re evidently all too aware of them. What you lack, I suspect, is the ability to know when to stop. Because you, Mr. Lockwood, are an overreacher. I recognize that quality; in many ways I’m one, too. It means, I believe, that you will keep pushing the boundaries until one day you go too far. There are witnesses here, so I openly warn you now—don’t cross me. If you do, you will regret it. I say that to you hoping in firm good faith that you will heed my warning. But I don’t believe you will. You’ll cross me, because that is what you wish to do. And I will deal with you then.” He put on his gloves, buttoned up his coat. “In the meantime, good luck with your little ghost-chase. I’m sure it’s a job you’re well qualified for.”

With that, Mr. Rotwell departed. The door clattered shut behind him.

We all stared at the door. Then we all turned to Lockwood.

He smiled at us. It was a long, lazy smile, but his eyes glittered.

“Well,” he said, “the man’s an accurate judge of character, if nothing else. I wasn’t sure whether investigating what he’s up to was worth the risk. I considered it a fifty-fifty shot at the very best. But he’s settled the matter for me. We’re
definitely
going to do it now.”

N
ight fell on Aldbury Castle, and we turned the lanterns low in the bar. Danny Skinner threw logs on the fire. The leaping flames danced on the rapiers laid out on the table; they danced in our eyes as we sat like robbers around a hoard, checking work belts, hefting bags of salt and iron into backpacks, drawing routes of attack on George’s map. We had many hours of work ahead of us, and Visitors seldom come to full strength much before midnight, so with our preparations complete, we sat quietly for a time. Holly read a book; Lockwood stretched out on a bench and dozed. George challenged Danny to a game of chess and was soon, to his annoyance, in some difficulty. I sat by the fire, seeing figures in the flames.

Only Kipps found it impossible to relax. He paced, he stretched, he touched his toes and performed other extravagant warm-up exercises that cast distasteful shadows on the wall. His hair sprouted like gingery watercress behind the goggles perched on his forehead; he could scarcely wait to use them in the field. Finally, the urge overcame him. Pulling on his goggles, he swooped to the window and stared out toward the green.

“I just saw another!” he cried. “Faint as anything, but I definitely picked it out! The Phantasm of a man over by the bridge!”

I grunted. Lockwood lay with his arm over his eyes; he sighed heavily.

“And there!” Kipps rotated slightly, squinting through the goggles. “Two cloaked figures on the green. They’re standing close together, hoods down, huddled like they’re sheltering from the cold. Ghost-fog’s rising from their capes. Now they’re breaking into a run….They’re gone! Oh, this is
great
. There’s so much to see!”

George looked up from the chessboard. “I’m pleased he’s so happy, but did anyone else prefer the dourer, quieter Kipps? This could be a long night.”

Kipps rotated again. “And oh, that’s horrible. There by the fire! A gaunt, wizened thing with protruding teeth….”

Danny Skinner spoke with dignity. “That would be my grandfather, remember? He’s still alive.”

“Oh, yes. Got a bit carried away there.” Kipps pulled up the goggles, looked at his watch. “Come on, Lockwood, what’s all this shirking? It’s almost ten thirty. Time we were off.”

Lockwood swung his legs around, pulled himself up off the bench. He yawned. “You’re right. We need to get going. We’ll do it as planned. Two teams, two hours in the field; then we rendezvous back here to see how things are going. Kipps and I will take the row of houses next door, where we’ve a couple of Specters to tackle. You others, start on the green. Come on, George; you’re only two moves from being checkmated, anyway. The cursed village awaits us! Let’s begin.”

Out on the road, away from the meager lights of the inn, the immense dark of the countryside opened out above us. There was a moon up, but it was obscured by cloud. As Kipps had described, various patches of other-light drifted on the green. After swift farewells, he and Lockwood slipped silently away along the lane, while George, Holly, and I readied our packs. I moved away from the others for a moment. I had decided not to carry chains, feeling that the mass of iron suppressed my Talent too readily. Now, with a little psychic freedom, I detected a frisson in the air. It was just noticeable, like a battery’s hum, a stirring of energies….I looked up at the sky, at the dark ring of woods. Where did it come from? Impossible to say. This was where the skull might have come in handy. Once again I found myself wishing I had it at my side.

“All right,” George said. “I’ll read the map. That’s my forte. Lucy or Holly—one of you had better be team leader. Give orders, make the snap decisions; you know the kind of thing. I’ll leave that up to you.”

There was a pause. “I don’t mind,” I began. “Holly, why don’t you—?”

“Lucy, why don’t you—?”

We fell silent. “Can’t be me,” George said. “I’m terrible at quick thinking.” Humming gently, he scribbled something inconsequential on his map.

“Tell you what,” Holly said, “why don’t
you
take the first hour, Lucy? Then, if you want, I can do the next. You’re a more experienced agent than me anyway.”

“Okay,” I said. “Agreed. Thanks, Holly. Sounds like a good plan.” I adjusted my belt. “So, then, George. What’s first on our list?”

“That would be the malevolent black cloud hanging above the grass, just over there.”

Our proposed route would zigzag between reported hauntings: it would be like a cross-country race, basically, with a ghost at every checkpoint. And first up was the entity lurking near the site of the old gallows. If it had once been a peddler, infamous for his rotten pies, it was now a weak Dark Specter, a shapeless, pulsing mass, sending out thin tendrils of darkness in every direction.

We approached with caution. “Well,” I said, “they may have burned the gallows, but they clearly haven’t sealed the place. I think this is a salt-and-iron job. Do you agree?”

Both George and Holly did, and since the site was small and well-defined, it was a relatively straightforward undertaking. Holly volunteered to draw the apparition out. First she stole close, goading it with careful jabs and flurries of her rapier, until, in a sudden rush, it sped for her. As she skipped away, parrying the tendrils with her blade, George and I nipped in with our bags of salt and iron filings, and sowed the burned ground thickly. Almost from the outset, the shape began to lose its inky density; it wore down like a stain being rubbed, writhing and diminishing until it became a shower of black sparks that fell into the grass and melted clean away.

I wiped my sleeve across my brow. “Well done, Holly. Think we can cross
that
ghost off our list. They’ll be having family picnics here by summer. What’s next?”

Next was the Phantasm Kipps had seen on the bridge, and that proved equally easy to subdue. We followed it up with a Stone Knocker on the green, and a Lurker at a bus stop. Holly and I dealt with them all.

George chuckled. “This tour is turning out to be a piece of cake. Okey-doke, you’ve each had turns at combat. How about I take care of the next one?” He consulted his map and notes. “Looks like there was the Shade of an old woman seen in the backyard of a cottage in The Run. I reckon I could keep some old grandma at bay. Let’s see if she’s around, shall we?”

The Run was the row of cottages on the far side of the green. It didn’t take long to get there. At the edge of the grass, a gate in the boundary fence provided access to a sunken lane, with the cottage lights glimmering up ahead.

It was dark in the lane; the hedges pressed close. Above us, tree branches carved black slices through the sky. We drew together as we walked; it wasn’t a place to linger.

“The house is a bit farther along,” George whispered. “We should see it in a—” He came to a halt. “Uh-oh. Who’s this?”

In the darkness of the lane stood a figure, half-turned away from us, its back lit by the flickering other-light of a nonexistent candle. Long strands of hair curtained the face. Its arms hung limp, the head bowed, the shoulders slumped in an attitude of piteous sorrow, but the hand at its side was balled into a tight white fist.

We stood there. Neither we nor the apparition moved.

“It’s got a nightgown on,” Holly whispered. “That’s never good.”

“Is it a girl, do you think?” George breathed. “The legs don’t seem like a grandma’s legs. Not that I’ve looked at the legs of
that
many grandmas, obviously. I’ve got other hobbies.”

Who knew what the thing had been? “Hang on,” I said, “it’s moving.”

Bony feet shuffled on the dirt road. With miniscule jerky steps, and the flap of dirty cotton, the figure began to turn. The night’s cold corkscrewed inward, twisting around us like a winding sheet. We pressed closer together.

“Visitors always rotate counterclockwise,” George said in a tight, high voice. “Did you know that? They never turn clockwise. Fact.”

“Fascinating, George,” I said. “Now shut up a minute. Rapiers ready. I’ll try to talk to it. Watch the arms, watch the feet. Watch for changes of expression.”

“It would help if we could actually
see
the face,” George muttered.

Holly flinched back. “There’s blood on the front of the nightdress.”

This was true: it was an apron of blood, a thick black staining, long and glossy and wet. Still the figure shuffled around, rocking gently from side to side; now it faced us fully, but the head hung low, so only its crown and its dangling lengths of lank black hair could be seen, shimmering in other-light. I heard a sound like the rustling of leaves.

“Who are you?” I said. “Tell us your name. What happened to you here?”

I waited. Just the rustling again, a little louder.

Now George flinched too. “I can’t see the face yet. Can you see the face yet, Hol?”

“No. No, I can’t. Lucy—”

“Steady,” I said. I felt what they did, the swell of panic. It jangled down the nerve endings of my arms and sloshed in the liquid of my belly. “Steady, both of you. I’m getting something.”

“Look at all that
blood.
”

“Getting something…”

A voice like dry leaves, whispered through sandpaper lips. This time I heard it.

Oh.

“My eyes. Have you seen my eyes?”

The figure lifted its head. The hair fell back.