George liked it; he knew his way around. He took me to the Periodicals section on the fourth level and showed me the Catalogue—a series of giant leather-bound books that summarized the contents of the floor. For events of recent decades, there was an Index, too, which cross-referenced stories contained in all the magazines. For old stuff, though, you had to locate the periodical you wanted, choose the relevant date, and sift through the endless yellowed pages yourself, looking for your story.
Armed with a list of magazines from George, I weighed in, finding copies of the Cornhill Journal and Mayfair News from summer 1883, and taking them to the reading tables perched above the central atrium. I began to browse, looking for any mention of the horrors of Hanover Square.
Soon I had the smell of stale ink in my nostrils. My eyes ached from poring over minute print. Worse, my mind ached from all the half-glimpsed irrelevant details. Victorian controversies. Forgotten society ladies. Essays on faith and empire by hairy, self-confident men. This was stuff that would have been dull when it was published, let alone more than a century later. It was ancient history. How could George enjoy doing this?
Ancient history…That was exactly what Lockwood had once said about his sister, who’d died only six years ago. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how present she was, influencing his every action. I remembered his coldness the night before; his dismissal of my empathy for the little ghost. And of course Holly Munro had backed him up today: she wanted the thing destroyed, no questions asked. I’d only seen her for five minutes, but she’d been irritating that morning.
I continued reading, moving among the shelves, steadily working through George’s list. My mind wandered. Whenever I passed the Catalogue and Index, I thought about the events, six years before, in Portland Row.
Once, when I returned to the tables, I discovered George there, surrounded by magazines, copying lines into his notebook. “Found out about our ghost?” I asked.
“Nope. Not a sausage on that yet. I’m taking a break, checking out something else.” He yawned and stretched. “Don’t know if you remember, but when Miss Wintergarden came to see us, she was wearing a little silver brooch.”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I was meaning to ask you about that. Was it the same as—?”
“It was. An ancient Grecian harp or lyre. The precise same symbol we saw on Fairfax’s goggles, and on that box that Penelope Fittes was holding, you know, when we spied on her in her library.”
I nodded. Combe Carey Hall…the Black Library of Fittes House….Months separated the two incidents, but as I’d almost died on both those nights, I didn’t have any problem recalling them. The odd little harp symbol had puzzled us ever since, the few times we remembered it. It represented…what had Wintergarden called it? “Was it the Orpheus Club?” I said.
“Orpheus Society. I’ve just been looking it up.” George adjusted his glasses as he tried to decipher his own spidery handwriting. “It’s listed in Debrett’s Almanac of Registered British Groups, Clubs, and Other Organizations as a ‘theoretical society for prominent citizens to research the Problem and the nature of the Other Side.’ They make it sound like a talking shop for posh bigwigs, but we know there’s more to it than that. It’s got a registered address in St. James. Not a clue what it is, but we should check it out sometime.” He eyed my latest pile of tomes. “How are you getting on?”
“Nothing so far. How recent does the Index go, by the way? Last few years?”
“They keep it up to date as far as they can, yes. Why?”
“No reason.”
Some while later, with George elsewhere, I strolled over to the Index shelf.
I found the volume I wanted. The one for six years ago. A list of subjects contained in the magazines and newspapers of that year: events, hauntings, features, names.
On impulse I flipped to the Ls.
There wouldn’t be anything. I knew that. I wasn’t doing any harm.
But when my inky finger ran down the column, there it was:
Lockwood, J.
I felt as cold as when I’d entered the sister’s room. The name, apparently, was mentioned in the Marylebone Herald, the monthly paper for our area of London. It gave the date, and the catalogue number for the bound edition.
It was the work of a moment to locate the relevant file. I went to a remote alcove and sat there with the folder on my knee.
The death of Miss Jessica Lockwood (15), daughter of late psychic researchers Celia and Donald Lockwood, has been reported by St. Pancras Coroners. In the latest tragic incident to hit the family, she was ghost-touched in an accident at her home in Marylebone, last Thursday night. Her younger brother was unable to stop the attack, and she was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. Funeral arrangements will be announced. The family requests that no flowers be sent.
That was it, just the scantiest mention, but it contained enough to keep me sitting there, unmoving. Many things to think about, and one most of all. The way I remembered it, when we’d talked about his sister, Lockwood had definitely implied that he hadn’t been around when the accident took place.
This article implied that he had.
The day got worse. Of course it did. By early afternoon, George and I had still found nothing (at least nothing, in my case, that we’d officially gone to find). It was time to get home to the office, but George wanted to do a final check on some obscure journals that were housed in another building, a few blocks from the main Archives. He said he’d follow later, so I tramped back alone to Portland Row. And when I entered the hall, the first thing I saw was Holly Munro, all outfitted in an agent’s work belt and rapier. She had a cool leather coat on, and black leather fingerless gloves; also a wool sweater I’d never seen before.
She saw me staring. “This sweater? I know. It’s not very flattering. It’s one of Lockwood’s old ones. He says it shrank in the wash. Still smells of him, though.”
Lockwood peered out of the living room, carrying a workbag in either hand. “Holly’s joining us tonight,” he said. “Where’s George?”
“He’s still looking. But—”
“We can’t wait for him. We’ll only have an hour or two before dark, at this rate. He can meet us at the house. I’ve got your bag here, Lucy. We need to get going, so now’s the time if you need to pee or anything.” He disappeared.
Holly and I stood facing each other down the hall. She had that little smile on, the default one that might mean anything or nothing. I could hear Lockwood rummaging somewhere in the next room, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.
“I don’t actually need to pee,” I said.
“No.” We stood there. Where had she gotten the gloves from? They looked suspiciously like the spare ones that I kept in my weapons locker. I recognized the sword for sure: it was one of the old blades we used for practice in the rapier room.
I took a breath. “So why—”
“Lockwood had—”
We’d both spoken at the same time. Now we both stopped—me the most decisively; after a pause, Holly resumed. “Lockwood had a difficult interview with Miss Wintergarden,” she said. “She’s demanding instant results. A most exacting lady. He says we need as many pairs of eyes as possible this afternoon, to try to find the Source before nightfall. I offered to come along, and he’s found me a few things to make sure I’m protected and kept warm. I hope you don’t mind this, Lucy.”