“…forty-eight Type One sightings last night in the Chelsea containment zone,” he said. “And, if you take the reports as gospel, a possible seventeen Type Twos. That’s a staggering concentration.”
“And how many deaths so far?” Barnes asked.
“Eight, including the three tramps. As before, the Sensitives report dangerous emanations, but the origin is not yet clear.”
“Okay, once this demonstration is over, we’ll head down to Chelsea. I’ll want the agents split across the four sectors with the Sensitives organized into supporting bands that—Oh, gawd.” Barnes had noticed our arrival. “Hold on a minute, Kipps.”
“Evening, Inspector.” Lockwood wore his widest smile. “Kipps.”
“They aren’t on the list, are they?” Kipps said. “Want me to run them off?”
Barnes shook his head; he took a sip of soup. “Lockwood, Miss Carlyle…To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Since he spoke with all the joy of a man giving a speech at his mother’s funeral, “pleasure” was evidently a relative thing for Barnes. It wasn’t that he hated us—we’d helped him out too often for that—but sometimes mild irritation went a long way.
“Just passing by,” Lockwood said. “Thought we’d say hello. Looks like you have quite the gathering here. Most of the agencies in London are represented.” His smile broadened. “Just wondering if you’d forgotten our invitations.”
Barnes regarded us. The steam from his cup curled around his mustache fronds like mist in a Chinese bamboo forest. He took another sip. “No.”
“Good soup, is it?” Lockwood asked, after a pause. “What sort?”
“Tomato.” Barnes gazed into his cup. “Why? What’s wrong with it? Not quality enough for you?”
“No, it looks very nice….Particularly the bit on the end of your mustache. May I ask why DEPRAC hasn’t included Lockwood and Co. in the whole Chelsea operation? If this outbreak’s so dreadful, surely you could do with our assistance?”
“Don’t think so.” Barnes glared across at the crowd gathered beneath the Column. “It may be a national crisis, but we’re not that desperate. Look around you. We’ve got plenty of talent here. Quality agents.”
I looked. Some of the operatives standing close were familiar to me, kids with reputations. Others, less so. At the base of the steps, a group of pale girls in mustard jackets had been marshaled by an immensely fat man. By his dangling jowls, rolling belly, and self-importantly clenched buttocks, I recognized Mr. Adam Bunchurch, proprietor of that undistinguished agency.
Lockwood frowned. “I see the quantity. Quality, not so much.” He leaned in, spoke softly. “Bunchurch? I mean, come on.”
Barnes stirred his soup with a plastic spoon. “I don’t deny your talents, Mr. Lockwood. If nothing else, those pearly teeth of yours could light our way in the darkest alleys. But how many of you are there in your company? Still three? Exactly. And one of those is George Cubbins. Skilled as you and Ms. Carlyle undoubtedly are, three more agents simply won’t make any difference.” He tapped his spoon on the edge of the cup and handed it to Kipps. “This Chelsea case is huge,” he said. “It covers a massive area. Shades, Specters, Wraiths, and Lurkers—more and more of ’em appearing, and no sign of the central cause. Hundreds of buildings are under surveillance, whole streets being evacuated….The public aren’t happy about it—that’s why they’re holding this protest here tonight. We need numbers for this, and people who’ll do what they’re told. Sorry, but that’s two excellent reasons to leave you out.” He took a decisive sip of soup and cursed. “Ow! Hot!”
“Better blow on it for him, Kipps.” Lockwood’s expression had darkened as Barnes spoke; he turned away. “Well, have a good evening, Inspector. Give us a call when things get difficult.”
We set off back toward the taxi.
“Lockwood! Wait!”
It was Kipps, stalking after us, the binder under his arm.
“Can I help you?” Lockwood spoke coolly, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“I’m not coming to crow,” Kipps said, “though heaven knows I could. I’m coming with advice—for Lucy, mainly, since I know you’re unlikely to listen to sense.”
“I don’t need advice from you,” I said.
Kipps grinned. “Oh, but you do. Listen, you’re missing out. There’re weird things going on in Chelsea. More Visitors than I’ve ever seen before. More different kinds, all close together—and dangerous, too, like they’ve been stirred up by something. Three nights running, my team’s covered the same lane behind the King’s Road. First two nights: nothing. Third night, a Raw-bones came out of the dark; nearly got Kate Godwin and Ned Shaw. A Raw-bones! From nowhere! Barnes doesn’t have a clue why. No one does.”
Lockwood shrugged. “I’ve offered to help. My offer’s been rejected.”
Kipps ran fingers through his close-cropped hair. “Of course it has. Because you’re nobodies. What are you doing tonight? Some small, pathetic case, I’m sure.”
“It’s a ghost bringing terror to ordinary people,” Lockwood said. “Is that pathetic? I don’t think so.”
Kipps nodded. “Okay, sure, but if you want to work on the important stuff, you need to be part of a real agency. Either of you could easily find a proper job at Fittes. In fact, Lucy’s got an open invitation to join my team. I’ve told her that before.”
I stared him down. “Yes, and you’ve heard my answer.”
“Well, that’s your choice,” Kipps said. “But I say, scrub up, swallow your pride, and get stuck in. Otherwise, you’re wasting your time.” With a nod at me, he stalked away.
“Bloody nerve,” Lockwood said. “He’s talking nonsense, as usual.” Even so, he said little in the taxi, and it was left to me to give renewed directions to 6, Nelson Street, Whitechapel, and our appointment with the veiled ghost.
It was a terraced house in a narrow lane. Our client, Mrs. Peters, had been watching out for us: the door swung open before I could knock. She was a young, nervous-looking woman, made prematurely gray by anxiety. She wore a thick shawl over her head and shoulders and clutched a large wooden crucifix in gloved hands.
“Is it there?” she whispered. “Is it up there?”
“How can we tell?” I said. “We haven’t gone in yet.”
“From the street!” she hissed. “They say you can see it there!”
Neither Lockwood nor I had thought to look at the window from outside. We stepped backward off the sidewalk and into the deserted street, craning our necks up at the two windows on the upper floor. The one above the door was lit; tiles indicated that it was a bathroom. The other window had no light within it, nor (unlike the other windows) did its glass reflect the glare from the streetlight two doors down. It was a dull, black space. And in it, very difficult to see, was the outline of a woman. It was as if she were standing right up against the window with her back to the street. You could see a dark dress and strands of long black hair.
Lockwood and I returned to the door. I cleared my throat. “Yes, it’s up there.”
“Nothing to worry about,” Lockwood said, as we shuffled past Mrs. Peters into the narrow hall. He flashed her his fifty-percent smile, the reassuring one. “We’ll go up and see.”
Our client gave a whimper. “You understand why I can’t sleep easy, Mr. Lockwood?” she said. “You understand now, don’t you?” Her eyes were frightened moons; she hovered close behind him, keeping the crucifix raised like a mask before her face. Its top almost went up Lockwood’s nose when he turned around.