“We’ll be glad to do it,” Lockwood said.
“I’m pleased to hear that, Anthony. Yours is a company that I much admire, and I believe we can do great things together in future. I think of this as a joint venture between us, and I will send a representative of the Fittes Agency to accompany you.”
“It’s the Source that we’re after,” Barnes said. “That goes without saying. The place was cleaned out very thoroughly back when it all happened, but they must have missed something. We want to know what.”
“If that’s all,” Ms. Fittes said, “I’ll introduce you to my secretary, to make arrangements. The house is empty; you can visit tonight, if you’d like.”
She stood, a languid flowing movement. That was our cue; we also stood, as one.
While farewells were being said, I waited by a side table. Photographs of past agents studded its surface like gravestones. There were famous operatives, and famous teams posing below a unicorn banner in some swanky hall. The agents themselves were young, smiling confidently in pressed gray jackets. Adult supervisors stood alongside, hemming them in. In some an old, sharp-faced woman in black, hair scraped sternly up, was also present: Marissa Fittes, the founder of the agency.
But one of the photos was different, and it caught my eye. Black and white and faded, it showed a slight, dark-haired woman sitting in a high-backed chair. The room was filled with shadows. She was looking away from the camera, off toward the light. An air of melancholy hung about her; she seemed both thin and ill.
“That was my mother, who died young.”
I turned with a start. The others were filing out, but Penelope Fittes was at my shoulder, smiling. Strong perfume garlanded her like flowers.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“Oh, please don’t be. I barely remember her. It was Grandmama Marissa who ran the household, who built the business, who taught me everything.” She nodded at the woman in the black dress. “Dear Grandmama made me what I am. Everything you see around you is hers.” She touched my arm. “You know I asked for you specifically, Lucy.”
I blinked. “No, I didn’t know that, Ms. Fittes.”
“Yes. When I first mentioned this case to Anthony, he told me you were no longer working with him. That disappointed me, for—between you and me, Lucy—it was because of you and Anthony that I became interested in Lockwood and Company.” Ms. Fittes laughed prettily, her black eyes sparkling. “He is a fine agent, but I have long been an admirer of yours, too. I told him that if he wanted the commission, he would have to get you back.”
“Oh. Did you? It was your idea? That’s…very kind of you.”
“He said he would try. I’m so glad he did, Lucy. I’m so pleased you agreed to rejoin the agency.”
“Well, as it happens I haven’t actually—”
“See how you get on with this case,” Penelope Fittes said. “I have every confidence in your abilities, but I believe that success will depend mainly on you. A skillful Listener will be essential at the Guppy house. Anthony knows that if it goes well, Lockwood and Company will greatly benefit. Now, you had better catch up with your friends.” She waved me on; as I left the room, her scent spiraled around me like twisting arms.
In some ways, what happened after that was just like the old days. We’d seen the client and had the briefing; next we’d prepare our equipment and research the case. If we were to visit Ealing that evening, there was no time to lose, so Lockwood set the wheels in motion as soon as we left Fittes House. Standing on the crowded sidewalk, he promptly divided forces; he and Holly would buy extra supplies of salt and iron, while George would scour the National Newspaper Archives to find out all he could about the Guppy murder. And I—
What would I do? Where did I fit in?
“We’ll meet you at the Café Royale in Piccadilly Circus, Luce,” Lockwood said. “We can all get a taxi from there. Four o’clock okay? That’ll give you time to sort out your own stuff, won’t it?”
“Sure,” I said.
I was still thinking about what Penelope Fittes had said to me a moment before. That it had been her idea to involve me. At my apartment the previous day, Lockwood had somehow skirted around that particular detail. Unless I’d missed something, he’d very much made it seem as if the impulse had come from him.
“Great, then we look forward to seeing you later. Isn’t it an excellent case? I’m glad you’re with us on this one.”
“Sure…” Obviously, it didn’t really matter whose idea it had been to bring me along. And I didn’t have any right to feel annoyed about it, either. I was the one who’d left Lockwood & Co., after all.
Business, that’s all it was; just business. “Actually,” I said, “there’s just one thing. Four o’clock’s too late—it won’t give us enough daylight when we get to Ealing. Better to arrive well before dark, so we can get the lay of the land and plan the layout of our circles. It’s best to take preliminary readings before sunset anyway. And it’ll give us the chance to look in all the nooks and crannies that would be invisible to us after dark. For all those reasons, I’d suggest we meet at two.” I smiled coolly at him. “Agreed?”
Lockwood nodded; if he was perhaps slightly taken aback, he hid it well. “I see what you’re saying, but would that give George enough time—?”
“I think it’s a very good point that Lucy makes,” Holly Munro said, unexpectedly. “George?”
George made some minor adjustment to his glasses. “Getting gobbled by a big bloke has never been my idea of fun,” he said, “even if said bloke is a ghost. I’m all for taking extra care. Yes, I’ll be finished at the Archives by two. Let’s go with that and get there early.”
Lockwood’s expression had become one of studious unconcern. “You’re all probably right. Fine. Two o’clock it is, Lucy. We’ll see you there.”
“Do you want anything from Mullet’s supply store?” Holly Munro asked me.
“No, it’s okay, thanks,” I said. “I’ve got everything I need. I’ll see you later.”
I turned before they did and made off into the crowd. I was going against the flow, having to force my way a little, but that suited my mood just then. When I was sure I was out of sight, I took a side road down to the Thames Embankment, where a lot of the cheaper merchants plied their trade under the brick arches of Hungerford Bridge. It had been a fib, what I’d said just then. I was almost out of supplies.
I didn’t feel bad about the fib, though. I’d been lied to as well.
The tide was low, and wet gravel glinted steeply at the base of the Embankment wall. Seagulls wheeled high above. The road was busy with traffic; I crossed over and walked upriver toward the bridge. Above my head, spotlighted billboards advertised the latest products of the giant Rotwell Agency. In one poster, their mascot, Roger, a roguish cartoon lion, gave a mighty thumbs-up while trampling a cartoon ghost. In another, Roger held some of the exciting new home defense equipment that had been dreamed up by the scientists of the Rotwell Institute and was now, thanks to their partners in the Sunrise Corporation, available to customers everywhere. In a third, he appeared with his paw draped over the bulky shoulder of Steve Rotwell, the agency’s chairman, whose personal pledge—WE FIGHT TO MAKE SAFE YOUR NIGHT—was printed in a speech bubble emerging from his mouth. Steve Rotwell’s teeth sparkled, his green eyes twinkled, his chin protruded like the prow of a gunship; he radiated more machismo than the cartoon lion. He was the epitome of reassurance in the age of the Problem and—thanks to all this advertising—the most popular figure in London.