Lockwood (33 page)

‘
Don’t be an idiot, George!
’ Lockwood’s shout made both of us jump. ‘No harm? This mirror kills people!’

‘It didn’t kill me,’ George protested. ‘Yes, yes, I know I only saw it for a second. But maybe there’s a way to view it safely.’

‘Is that what Joplin told you? Rubbish! He’s a crank, and you’re no better than he is if you even contemplate messing about with a thing like this. No, we get the mirror, we pass it on to Barnes. That’s all there is to it. Understood?’

George rolled his eyes. ‘Yes.’

‘Another thing. What did you tell him about what we’re doing tonight?’

‘Nothing.’ George’s face was as inexpressive as ever; two small spots of colour showed on his cheeks. ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’

Lockwood stared at him. ‘I hope not . . . Well, forget about it. We need to get ready and there’s a lot to do.’

Indeed there was. The next few hours were a confusion of activity as we prepared for two separate, overlapping expeditions. Our duffel bags, stocked with an unusually high number of magnesium flares, were readied, together with our normal boots and work clothes. Lockwood and George, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of Kat Godwin in Portland Row, took these out the back way, and were gone for several hours. Meanwhile I polished our best rapiers, before spending ages trying on shoes and dresses in front of the mirror in the hall. I wasn’t very happy about any of them, but plumped for a dark-blue, knee-length number with a scooped neck. It made my arms look fat and my feet look too big, and I wasn’t convinced about the way it clung to my stomach. Other than that it was perfect. Plus it had a fabric belt to which I could fix my sword.

I wasn’t the only one to have reservations about my dress. Someone had knocked the cloth off the ghost-jar, and the face had re-materialized. It pulled extravagant expressions of horror and disgust whenever I passed by.

The others got back late; evening was coming on. We ate; they got changed too. To my surprise George conjured up a dinner jacket from the bowels of his bedroom. It was rather saggy under the arms and seat, and looked as if it had once belonged to an orang-utan, but it
was
sort of passable. Lockwood strolled out of his room wearing the crispest, most dapper dinner jacket and black tie I’d ever seen. His hair was combed back, his rapier sparkling; it hung at his side on a silver chain.

‘Lucy, you look delightful,’ he said. ‘George, you’ll have to do. Oh, here’s something for you, Luce. Might go well with that excellent dress.’ He took my hand, and placed in it a necklace of pretty silver links, with a small diamond suspended as a pendant. It was really very beautiful.

‘What?’ I stared at it. ‘Where’d you get this?’

‘Just something I had. I suggest you close your mouth when you wear it – it’s more elegant that way. Right, I can hear the taxi honking. We have to go.’

Fittes House, headquarters of the estimable Fittes Agency, lies on the Strand just down from Trafalgar Square. We reached it shortly after eight p.m. For the occasion of the party, certain sections of the street had been blocked to normal traffic. Crowds had gathered near Charing Cross Station to watch the guests arrive.

At the marbled entrance, fires burned in braziers on either side of the doors. Illuminated banners, two storeys long, hung from the walls. Each showed the rearing unicorn holding its radiant Lantern of Truth. Below, in silver letters, was emblazoned the simple proud motif: 50
YEARS
.

A purple carpet of scattered lavender stalks covered the pavement between the doors and the road. This was roped off from the pressing knots of photographers and autograph hounds, and from the TV cameras and their trailing worms of flex. A queue of limousines waited in the centre of the Strand, ready to disgorge their guests.

Our taxi chugged up, trailing little clouds of smoke. Lockwood swore under his breath. ‘I
knew
we should have come by tube. Well, we can’t do anything about it now. Sure you’ve got your shirt tucked in, George?’

‘Stop worrying. I even brushed my teeth as well.’

‘My God, you
have
made an effort. All right, here we go. Best behaviour, everyone.’

Out of the cab; a flurry of flashlights and snapping shutters (ceasing abruptly, since no one knew who we were); a few craning hands with autograph books outstretched; the soft and fragrant crush of lavender beneath my shoes; the brightness of the crane-lights; the heat of the brazier; then up the steps to the coolness of the portico, where a grey-suited doorman took our ticket and silently ushered us inside.

It was over a year since I’d been in the foyer of Fittes House. A year since I’d failed my interview. I well remembered the dimly lit panelling, the soft gold light, the low, dark sofas and the tables piled with brochures for the agency. I also remembered the distinctive scent of lavender polish and exclusivity. That time I hadn’t even got past reception. I’d ended up ignored and tearful, slumped beneath an iron bust of Marissa Fittes at the far side of the room. The bust was still there in its alcove: stern-faced and schoolmistressy, it watched as smiling Fittes kids led us off beyond the counter, across an echoing marbled floor and under oil paintings, dark with age.

So to more double doors, each marked with the rearing unicorn. Silver-jacketed flunkies, identical down to the dimples in their chins, gave vigorous salutes; our approach had clearly made their lives worthwhile. With symmetrical flourishes they drew the doors aside and so unleashed upon us a riot of sound and genteel splendour.

It was a vast, broad reception room, lit by sparkling chandeliers. The high ceiling, decorated with stuccoed ornamental plaster swirls, featured panels on which were painted some of the most famous psychical achievements of the Fittes Agency. Marissa Fittes fighting the Smoke Wraith in the Bond Street bathhouse; Fittes and Tom Rotwell unbricking the skull of the Highgate Terror just as the clock on the wall struck midnight; the tragic death of poor Grace Peel, first martyr of the agency . . . Legendary, heroic moments, familiar to us from our schooldays. This was the house where it had all originated, where psychic detection had been raised to an art-form; where the
Fittes Manual
, the foundation of our education, had been penned by the greatest operative of them all . . .

I took a deep breath, set my shoulders back, and stepped forward, trying not to trip in my ridiculous high heels. Drinks were offered to me on a silver tray; with more eagerness than class I snatched an orange juice and looked around.

Early as it was, the place was already crowded out, and I didn’t need psychic Sight to tell at once that these were the Great and Good of London. Sleek-haired, sleek-faced men, wearing dinner jackets as black and lustrous as panther pelts, stood conversing with bright-eyed, confident women, all glossy and be-jewelled. I’d read somewhere that since the Problem started, female fashions had become more colourful and revealing, and that was certainly the case here. Several of the fabrics on display would have blinded you if you’d looked at them too closely. The same was true of the plunging necklines; I noticed George rubbing his glasses even more assiduously than usual.

Aside from the show and glamour, the sight of this crowd was subtly disconcerting, and at first I couldn’t figure out why. It took me a while to realize that I’d never seen so many
grown-ups
out at night-time. Child waiters moved tactfully among the crowds, offering canapés of uncertain nature. A few young agents were present too; mostly from Fittes, but some from Rotwell’s, recognizable by their wine-red jackets and haughty air. The rest were adult. It really
was
a special occasion.

Here and there across the room slender pillars of silver-glass rose to meet the ceiling. Each, lit by its own internal lamps, shone a different eerie colour. These were the famous Relic Columns, which tourists paid to see. At present, their contents were hidden by the crowd. On a dais at the far side of the room, a string quartet played something jaunty, vigorous and life-enhancing. Melancholic music was banned after curfew, in case it gave rise to oppressive thoughts. The chatter of the crowd was determinedly upbeat: laughter bullied the air. We walked through a sea of smiling masks.

Lockwood sipped his drink. He seemed relaxed, perfectly at ease. George (despite his efforts) retained a slightly crumpled look, as if he’d recently been trodden on. I was sure my face was flushed and my hair disarranged; certainly I was less pristine than the shiny women all around. ‘This is it, then,’ Lockwood said. ‘The centre of it all.’

‘I feel
so
out of place.’

‘You look terrific, Luce. You might have been born to this. Don’t step back like that; you just prodded that lady’s bottom with your sword.’

‘Oh
no
. Did I?’

‘And don’t turn round so fast. You nearly cut that waiter in two.’

George nodded. ‘Don’t move, basically – that’s my advice.’ He took a canapé from a passing kid and inspected it doubtfully. ‘Now we’re here, what are we going to do? Does anyone know what the hell this is? I’m guessing mushrooms and ectoplasm. It’s all frothy.’

‘This is the ideal opportunity to take our minds off the later mission,’ Lockwood said. ‘We’re meeting Flo at eleven forty-five, so we have plenty of time to relax and mingle. There’ll be people here from government, from industry, from lots of important groups and companies. They’re the ones who will be giving us all our future cases –
if
we do things right tonight. So we should circulate and get chatting to someone.’

‘OK . . .’ I said. ‘Where shall we start?’

Lockwood blew out his cheeks. ‘Don’t really know . . .’

We stood at the side of the room, watching the backs of the party-goers, the glitz and the jewellery and the slim brown necks go waltzing by. The sound of their laughter was a wall we could not get past. We drank our drinks.

‘Who do you recognize, Lockwood?’ I said. ‘You read the magazines.’

‘Well . . . that tall fair-haired man with the beard and teeth is Steve Rotwell, head of Rotwell’s, of course. And I
think
that’s Josiah Delawny, the lavender magnate, over there. The one with the red face and the sideburns. I’m not going to talk to
him
. He’s famous for horse-whipping two Grimble agents after they smashed an heirloom during a ghost-hunt at one of his mansions. The woman chatting to him is, I believe, the new head of Fairfax Iron. Angeline Crawford. She’s Fairfax’s niece. Possibly another one not to make small-talk with, seeing as we killed her uncle.’

‘She doesn’t know that, does she?’

‘No, but there’s such a thing as good form.’

‘I can see Barnes,’ George said. Sure enough, not far away, the inspector was gloomily negotiating a champagne glass past his moustache. Like us, he stood alone, on the fringes of the crowd. ‘And Kipps! How did he get in? This party isn’t as exclusive as they’d have us believe.’

A knot of Fittes agents, Kipps among them, stalked past. Kipps pointed at us and made a comment. The others brayed with laughter; they minced away. I looked sourly at the chandeliers above us. ‘Can’t believe you once worked here, George.’

He nodded. ‘Yeah. You can tell I fitted right in.’

‘Seems more like a stately home than an agency.’

‘These conference halls are the posh bit, along with the Black Library. The rest of the offices aren’t so swanky. But Kipps is pretty typical, unfortunately.’

Lockwood gave a sudden exclamation; when I looked at him, his eyes were shining. ‘On second thoughts, we can scrap my last suggestion,’ he said. ‘Stuff the mingling. Who wants to do that? Boring. George – this library. Where is it?’

‘Couple of rooms away. It won’t be open. Only high-level agents have access.’

‘Do you think we could get in?’

‘Why?’

‘I was just remembering something Joplin said, about those “Confessions” that you’re after. He said the Black Library was the one place where a copy might be . . . Just wondering whether, since we’re here—’

At that moment the crowds parted, and Lockwood stopped speaking. A very tall and beautiful woman was walking towards us. She wore a slim, silver-grey dress that shimmered subtly as she moved. She had silver bracelets on her slender wrists, and a silver choker at her throat. Her hair was long and black and lustrous, falling around her neck in merry curls. She had very fine cheekbones, attractive if rather high, and an imperious, full-lipped mouth. My first impression had been of a person scarcely older than me, but her dark and sober eyes had the flash of long-established power.

A muscular man with cropped grey hair and pale skin spoke at her shoulder. ‘Ms Penelope Fittes.’

I’d known who she was. We all did. But she surprised me, even so. Unlike her main rival, Steve Rotwell, the head of Fittes shunned publicity. I’d always imagined her as a stocky, middle-aged businesswoman, as hatchet-faced as her famous grandmother. Not like this. She had the instant effect of reminding me how awkward I felt in my improvised dress and shoes. I could see the others instinctively drawing themselves up, trying to seem taller, more confident. Even Lockwood’s face had flushed. I didn’t look at George, but he’d almost certainly gone bright red.

‘Anthony Lockwood, ma’am,’ Lockwood said, inclining his head. ‘And these are my associates—’

‘Lucy Carlyle and George Cubbins,’ the lady said. ‘Yes. I’m very pleased to meet you.’ She had a deeper voice than I’d expected. ‘I was impressed by your handling of the Combe Carey Haunting – and grateful that you recovered the body of my friend. If I can ever be of assistance to you, be sure to let me know.’ Her dark eyes lingered on each of us. I gave an affirmative smile; George emitted some kind of squeak.

‘We’re honoured to be invited tonight,’ Lockwood said. ‘It’s a remarkable room.’

‘Yes, it contains many treasures of the Fittes collection. Sources of the strongest power – all rendered harmless, of course, for our pillars are made of Sunrise silver-glass, and have iron pediments and bases. Come, let me show you . . .’

She sashayed her way through the throng, which moved aside for us. In the nearest glass column, illuminated by pale green light, a battered skeleton hung suspended on a metal frame. ‘This is perhaps the most famous artefact of all,’ Penelope Fittes said. ‘The remains of Long Hugh Hennratty, the highwayman whose ghost became famous as the Mud Lane Phantom. My grandmother and Tom Rotwell located the body at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve in 1962. Rotwell dug it up while Marissa kept the ghost at bay till dawn by frantically waving her iron spade.’ Our hostess gave a husky little laugh. ‘I’ve always said it’s a good job she was a keen tennis player, or how would she have had the stamina or aim? But psychical investigation was in its infancy in those days – they didn’t know
what
they were doing.’