The very first day had set the tone. We’d had several difficult cases the night before, and were in fragile shape. Coughing, scratching, we made our sorry way to the office to find Ms. Munro dusting the suit of armor by Lockwood’s desk. She was full of perk and polish; a bunny rabbit sitting in a chive bed could not have been more chipper. She bounded forward. “Good morning,” she said. “Made you all some tea.”
There were three cups on the tray, and the tea in each was different. One was a milky brown, just how I like it. One was strong and teak-colored, which is Lockwood’s preferred taste, and the last (George’s) had the strength and consistency of the wet earth you find in exhumed graves. In other words, they were perfect. We took them.
Holly Munro held a piece of paper neatly inscribed with a short list. “It’s been a busy morning already. You’ve had five new requests so far.”
Five! George groaned; I sighed. Lockwood ruffled his unkempt hair. “Go on, then,” he said. “Tell us the worst.”
Our assistant smiled, pushing a stray twist of hair back behind a shell-like ear. “It’s really not too terrible. There’s an interesting-sounding Visitor in Bethnal Green, something that seems to be half-buried in the sidewalk yet hobbles at great speed along the Roman Road, trailing a cloak of shadow.”
“Following the ancient level of the street,” George grunted. “Another legionary. We’re getting more and more of those.”
Ms. Munro nodded. “Then there’s a strange hammering in a butcher’s cellar; four orbs of yellow light revolving outside a house in Digwell; and two cobwebby ladies seen in Victoria Park, who dissolve as witnesses approach.”
“Stone Knockers,” I said. “Cold Maidens. And the lights are probably Wisps.”
There was a glum silence. “That’s the weekend taken care of,” George said.
Lockwood nursed his tea dispiritedly. “The legionary’s okay, but the others are pretty yawnsome. More annoying than dangerous. They’re all Type Ones, scarcely even that, but they’ll take a lot of time and effort to quell.”
“Quite,” Ms. Munro said brightly. “Which is why I declined them all. Except for the Bethnal Green legionary, which I’ve penciled in for Tuesday week.”
We stared at her. “Declined them?” Lockwood said.
“Of course. You’re taking on far too much; you have to save your energy for proper cases. The Stone Knocker can be subdued by hanging rosemary in the cellar, while the Wisps and Cold Maidens are outdoors, and so can be safely ignored. Don’t worry about the clients. I’ll send them typed instructions for dealing with their issues. Now, why don’t you tell me about last night’s cases while you drink your tea?”
We told her, and she sat there making notes to be recorded in our casebook. Then she typed up our invoices and went out to mail them, more or less while we were still sitting around in a daze. Afterward she took more calls, interrogated prospective clients over the phone, made arrangements for interviews, and scheduled a couple of evening visits. She did it all efficiently and well.
So well, in fact, that within days we found our diary becoming more manageable. As she’d promised, all the really small-time things—stuff that could be dealt with by ordinary people using salt, charms, and wards—were weeded out. Lockwood, George and I were suddenly able to have nights off, and work together on most cases again.
It was impressive, and I did my best to appreciate Holly Munro, really I did. There was much to appreciate. In so many ways it was hard to find fault with her at all.
Her manners and appearance were exemplary. She always sat up straight, with her neat little shoulders back, and a bright-as-a-button expression on her wide-eyed face. Her black hair was immaculate; there was never any grave-grit under the manicured nails of her small and pretty hands. She wore clothes well. Her skin looked as smooth and delectable as coffee-colored marble; it had the kind of flawlessness that made you acutely aware of all the fascinating blemishes you called your own. Come to think of it, everything about her had this effect. She was all smooth and clear and shiny, like a mirror; and like a mirror she reflected back your imperfections.
I was very polite to her, just as she was very polite to me. She was good at being polite, in much the same way as she was excellent at keeping the office floor swept and dusting the masks in the hallway. No doubt she also brushed her teeth well every night and cleaned behind her ears. We all have talents, and those were hers.
Our relationship consisted of lots of polite little encounters in which Holly’s efficiency rubbed up against my way of doing things. Here’s a fairly typical exchange:
H MUNRO (sweetly, batting eyelashes): Lucy, hi. Sorry to bother you, I know you’re working hard.
ME (looking up from my issue of True Hauntings; I’d been up until four the night before): Hi, Holly.
H MUNRO: Just wondering. Would you like me to move your clothes from the drying line in the storeroom? I’m just tidying up in there.
ME (smiling): No, no, it’s fine. I’ll do it sometime.
H MUNRO (beaming): Okay. Only I’ve ordered a new set of shelves for that wall. It’s coming today, and I wouldn’t want the deliverymen to mess your stuff up. I could fold everything for you, if you like. It’s no trouble.
H MUNRO (beaming): Okay. Only I’ve ordered a new set of shelves for that wall. It’s coming today, and I wouldn’t want the deliverymen to mess your stuff up. I could fold everything for you, if you like. It’s no trouble.
H MUNRO (beaming): Okay. Only I’ve ordered a new set of shelves for that wall. It’s coming today, and I wouldn’t want the deliverymen to mess your stuff up. I could fold everything for you, if you like. It’s no trouble.
ME: Don’t worry. (I was a big girl. I could fold my own pants.) I’ll do it later.
H MUNRO: Brilliant. The men are coming in about twenty minutes. Just so you know.
ME (trilling laugh): Oh, okay…I’ll do it now, then.
H. M.: Thanks so much.
ME: No, no. Thank you.
All the while, Lockwood and George would be somewhere near at hand, smiling genially like two pipe-smoking dads watching their offspring playing happily in the garden. I could almost see them congratulating each other that their new employee was turning out so well.
And of course she would, in the end. I just needed to give her time.
One individual who didn’t share this common view was the skull in the jar. Holly knew of its existence—she frequently had to dust around it—but not that it was a Type Three that could communicate with me. The skull didn’t like her. Her arrival in the office each day was the cue for much elaborate rolling of eyes and puffing out of cheeks behind the silver-glass. On several occasions I caught the ghost making appalling faces directly behind her back, and then winking at me broadly as she turned around.
“What’s with you?” I growled. It was late morning, and I was having a restorative bowl of cereal at my desk. “You’re supposed to be a secret, remember? You know the rules: minimal manifestations, no rude faces, and absolutely no talking.”
The ghost looked wounded. “I wasn’t talking, was I? Do you call this talking? Or this?” It pulled a rapid series of grotesque expressions, each one worse than the last.
I shielded my eyes with my spoon hand. “Will you stop that? The milk’s curdling in my cereal. You need to quit the tomfoolery when she’s around, or I’ll lock you up in the storeroom.” I stabbed at the granola decisively. “Understand, skulclass="underline" Holly Munro is one of the team, and you need to treat her with respect.”