Barnes nodded peaceably. “Perfect. That’s the idea.”
We stayed at Aldbury Castle for two more nights, and made halfhearted forays on each to see what supernatural activity remained. But as Mr. Skinner had said, signs of the village ghosts had greatly diminished. With the destruction of the iron circle at the Rotwell facility, and the end of the Creeping Shadow’s mysterious comings and goings, the cluster at once calmed down. Many of the Visitors did not appear at all, while those that did seemed weaker and less vicious. It was easy to claim (as we did) that this change was entirely due to our own zeal. We made lots of noise running about the place, and threw occasional salt-bombs around to make it look like we were doing something. Mostly we just stayed at the inn and played cards.
On our fifth morning in the country, things had quietened down over on the eastern fields. Many of the DEPRAC cars had left, and the cordons by the village had been lifted. By now our heroic status in the village was assured. There were still a few Type One ghosts kicking around, but nothing that needed to delay us. Kipps in particular was keen to head off—for two nights he’d been forced to choose between sleeping in the bed with George, or in the storage closet with the skull (he’d preferred the skull, for unnamed reasons)—but we were all eager to get home. A farewell committee from the village accompanied us to the station, Danny Skinner marching proudly at the head. We were given gifts of root vegetables. Lockwood took possession of an envelope stuffed with cash—our payment from the grateful villagers. The children threw garlands of flowers. When the train departed, handkerchiefs were waved until we disappeared from view.
On our way home, I sat opposite Lockwood. He seemed pale and tired. In the days since our visit to the institute, we hadn’t spoken privately of what had happened to us. Occasionally, when our eyes met, we shared something that couldn’t be expressed in words.
We smiled at each other, and gazed out at the woods and fields. It was a beautiful spring scene. The column of smoke above the eastern hills had long since drifted away on the wind; nevertheless, a hint of it hung in the air. It had entered the train car with us at Aldbury Castle station, and through the opened windows, the smell of distant burning stayed with us all the way to London.
TERRORIST LINK TO ROTWELL AGENCY!
FORBIDDEN WEAPONS FOUND AT RUINED INSTITUTE
STEVE ROTWELL STILL MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD
FIRST INTERVIEW WITH DEPRAC INVESTIGATOR MONTAGU BARNES INSIDE
The sensational discoveries made in the rubble of the ruined Rotwell Institute facility in Hampshire continued yesterday, with confirmation that police had uncovered the remains of a large “weapons factory” in one of the outbuildings. Among the items recovered are said to be several unexploded “ghost-bombs” of the kind used in a terrorist attack on the London carnival last November, in which an attempt on Ms. Penelope Fittes’s life was made. Several members of the institute staff, including facility chief Mr. Saul Johnson, have been arrested, amid claims that they and agency head Mr. Steve Rotwell were intimately involved in that attack. Mr. Rotwell’s whereabouts remain unknown, but it is believed that he may have perished in the explosions that destroyed the facility.
In today’s exclusive interview in the Times, DEPRAC chief investigator Mr. Montagu Barnes gives a detailed account of his team’s dangerous exploration of the ruins. “It was an inferno when we arrived,” he says. “But we managed to discover a store of illicit weapons, including deadly ectoplasm-guns. Ghost-bombs are just the tip of the iceberg, believe me.” He refused to comment on the contents of the central building at the site, which was severely damaged in the incident. “Sadly, the purpose of that building is not yet clear. Rest assured that inquiries are continuing.”
Police investigations widened yesterday, following reports of forbidden Sources found stored at the institute. Several arrests have been made among staff at the Greater London Metropolitan Furnaces in Clerkenwell, and more are expected in the coming days. However, such developments pale into insignificance next to the crisis surrounding the Rotwell Agency. With its leader missing, and other key executives also implicated in serious crimes, public confidence in the organization has plummeted, and its future hangs in the balance. Latest reports suggest that DEPRAC has invited Fittes Agency head Ms. Penelope Fittes to take temporary charge of the rudderless organization in an effort to stabilize its fortunes. She will run both companies from her offices in the Strand.
Full Barnes Interview: see page 3
“Ghost-bombs and Plasm-guns”—True Secrets of the Weapons Factory: see pages 6–7
“Maimed Lion”: A Pull-out History of the Rotwell Agency: see pages 25–33
“Well,” Lockwood said, “that’s another investigation successfully swept under the rug.” He tossed the paper onto the breakfast table and reached for the toast. “Old Barnes is a master at this sort of stuff. All that flimflam with the illegal weapons allows him to quietly gloss over the only important thing, which is the iron circle. Still, I suppose we should be happy that he’s glossed over our part in the affair, too.”
“I’m very happy about that,” Holly said.
We all were. We were happy about many things that morning. And because of this, we’d decided to enjoy an official celebratory breakfast at 35 Portland Row.
It was the day after our return from Aldbury Castle, and the sun was shining bright. Holly had thrown open the kitchen door. Birds sang, new leaves sparkled; cool spring air flooded the room, almost driving out the smell of George’s smoked kippers. Best of all, the team was there to share the occasion.
The whole team, that is. Including me.
Part of my happiness stemmed from the fact that I’d spent the previous night back in my old attic room. Back for real, I mean. In a symbolic gesture, George had even taken away most of his clothes. I still had to be careful what I stepped on—the floor was likely to remain a minefield of eerie socks and hankies for a while yet—but it was my place again now.
Well, mine…and the skull’s. While I slept it had occupied its old position on the windowsill, from where it could (it claimed) enjoy looking out at the quiet night, and (more probably) try to scare the toddlers in the house opposite by glowing an unholy green. This morning it was down in the kitchen, too, since its retrieval was another thing we were celebrating that day. Within thirty seconds of arriving, however, it had disgraced itself by leering at Holly in such a knowing way that she’d dropped her plate of whole wheat waffles into her lap. It had then been removed from the table and placed in a dark corner by the sink, its jar half shrouded by a dishcloth.
The skull wasn’t the only morally dubious guest that morning. Quill Kipps was there, too. While not himself a member of Lockwood & Co. (which would, in his words, be a fate worse “than being whipped naked across Wimbledon Common”), there was talk of him being a consultant who might be called in from time to time. He was with us that morning to discuss this, and also to celebrate our return to London. Eggs were being poached, bacon was fried, and even Holly’s super-healthy waffles glistened temptingly under oodles of honey and fresh butter. We all ate contentedly and well.
Lockwood sat at the head of the table, passing laden plates, making sure everyone had their fill. I was relieved to see that he looked like his normal self. His color had returned, and he moved with his customary ease. Physically it was taking both of us a long time to recover from our walk through the iron circle. I still felt weary, and had been troubled by obscure nightmares—but these seemed to be lessening. On a morning such as this it was easy to imagine that the effects of our ordeal would soon fade.