“There were sensations of panic, as I have told you; I think it was also very cold. Maybe one girl reported movement in the air—a feeling of something passing her.”
There was nothing here that we couldn’t have predicted. It told us little. Lockwood nodded. “I see.”
“Oh, and one child reported two rushing forms.”
We stared at her. “What?” I said. “When were you going to mention this?”
“I had forgotten. One of the night-watch said it; the boy, I think. It was a garbled account. I was unsure whether to take it seriously.”
“In my experience, Miss Wintergarden,” Lockwood said, “one should always take the accounts of dead night-watch children very seriously indeed. What did the boy see?”
Her lips pursed thin. “Two cloudy figures: one large, one small. According to him they raced, one after the other, up the stairs. Following the line of footprints. The big shape had its hand outstretched, as if to seize the smaller. The little shape—”
“Was running,” I finished. “Running for its life.”
“Don’t think it worked out for them, whoever it was.” George said. “Call me intuitive”—he pushed his glasses up his nose—“but I’d hazard a guess they didn’t make it.”
“She’s an utterly awful woman,” Lockwood agreed. “Callous and ignorant and hysterical all at once. But she’s given us a good and dangerous case here, Luce, and we mustn’t mess it up.”
I smiled happily across at him. “Suits me.”
We were standing under the elm trees in the gardens of Hanover Square, looking toward Miss Wintergarden’s house. Number 54 was a dark, thin shard, wedged like a rotten tooth between other, indistinguishable terraced town houses on the shadowy side of the square. How elegant they should have been, with their painted facades and columned porticoes framing their neat black doors. But the recent storms had left dark stains on the stuccoed fronts, and the sidewalks and porticoes were a scattered waste of splintered twigs. No lights were on. The effect was of drabness and decay.
It hadn’t rained since the morning, but patches of standing water studded the grass, dull as fallen coins, reflecting the gunmetal sky. A strong wind was blowing, and the naked branches of the trees did the thing all naked branches do in winter with the daylight slowly failing. They rasped and rustled like giant papery hands being rubbed together. The world was heavy with unease.
The house waited for us on the other side of the street.
“Reminds me of Berkeley Square,” I said. “That was dangerous, too. Probably worse. I broke my rapier, and George nearly cut your head off, but we still came out of it well.”
I’d come out of it particularly well; it was one of my favorite cases. Perhaps this one would be even better. I felt optimistic about it, even cheerful. George was on his way, but he’d been working in the library and hadn’t yet arrived. Holly Munro was back at Portland Row, doing neat things with paper clips. For the moment it was just Lockwood and me.
He pulled his collar up against the wind. “Berkeley Square was in summer. Nice short night to get through. This one may be a long haul. It’s only three, and I’m hungry already.” He nudged his bag with the toe of his boot. “Tell you what, though, Holly’s sandwiches look fine, don’t they?”
“Mm,” I said. “Delicious.”
“It was nice of her to make them.”
“Mmm,” I said, stretching my smile wide across my face. “So nice.”
Yes, our lovely assistant had made us sandwiches. She’d also packed our equipment bags, and though I’d carefully gone through everything again myself (when it comes to the art of staying alive, I trust nobody but me), I had to admit that she’d done an excellent job. But the best thing she’d done that day, as far as I was concerned, was stay at home. Tonight it was going to be the three of us. Like it always used to be.
A few people were walking in the square—residents, probably, judging from their expensive coats. They glanced at us as they passed, taking stock of our swords, our dark clothes and watchful stillness, and hurried on, heads down. It was a funny thing about being an agent, something Lockwood had once said: you were admired and loathed in equal measure. After dark, you represented order and all good things. They loved to see you then. In daylight, you were an unwelcome intrusion into everyday life, a symbol of the very chaos that you kept at bay.
“She’s a great addition, isn’t she?” Lockwood said.
“Holly? Mm. She’s fine.”
“Strong-willed, I think. Not afraid to lay into that old harpy, Wintergarden. Really spoke her mind.” He had pulled back his coat and was checking the line of plastic canisters looped across his chest; at his belt, magnesium flares gleamed. “I know you had some concerns at first, Lucy….It’s been a couple of weeks. How are you getting on with Holly now?”
I blew out my cheeks, stared at his lowered head. What was there to say? “It’s okay…” I began. “Not always so easy. I suppose I do find sometimes that she—”
Lockwood straightened suddenly. “Great,” he said. “And look, here’s George.”
Here was George, his stocky figure scampering across the street. His shirt was untucked, his glasses fogged, his baggy trousers spattered with water. He had a shabby backpack slung over his shoulder, and his rapier swung behind him like a broken tail. He splashed breathlessly to a halt.
I looked at him. “You’ve got cobwebs in your hair.”
“All part of the job. I found something.”
George always finds something. It’s one of his best qualities. “Murder?”
He had that glitter in his eye, a hard light, diamond-sharp, that told us his researches had borne exciting fruit. “Yep, so much for that old biddy claiming her daddy’s house had never seen a spot of violence. It’s bloody murder, pure and simple.”
Lockwood grinned. “Excellent. I’ve got the key. Lucy’s got your tools. Let’s get out of this wind and hear the grisly details.”
Whatever else she may have been, Miss Fiona Wintergarden was not a liar. Her house was splendid, every room a florid testament to her wealth and status. It was a tall building, slender in width, but extending back a good distance from the square. The rooms were high-ceilinged and rectangular, sumptuously decorated with ornate plaster and patterned wallpapers featuring oriental flowers and birds. Heavy curtains cocooned the windows; display cabinets were set against the walls. One room on the ground floor was lined with dozens of small, dark paintings, as neatly regimented as lines of waiting soldiers. We found a splendid library; elsewhere bedrooms, bathrooms, and corridors all maintained the opulent feel. Only at the attic level, where the walls were suddenly plain whitewash, and a half dozen tiny servants’ rooms clustered beneath the eaves, did the luxurious skin peel back to reveal the bare bone and sinew of the house beneath.
Of all its features, it was the stairwell that most concerned us, and here again our client had told the truth. It was a remarkably elegant construction and the dark heart of the building. Approaching from the front door, you almost immediately came upon it: a great oval cavity cut right up through the house. The stairs hugged the right side of the oval, tight against the wall, curling steeply counterclockwise to the level above. On the left side, a slim banister arced around, cordoning off the stairwell from the hall; beyond it, a flight of steps led down to the basement. Standing in the hall—or on each landing—you could look up to see the curl of the stairs repeated again and again until you reached a great oval skylight at the attic, or down to the black-and-white tile flooring of the kitchen basement below.