There was a respectful silence. Lockwood exhaled slowly. “You’re a genius, George. I’ve said it before.”
George selected a giant biscuit from Holly’s plate. “You can say it again if you like.”
“Why DEPRAC hasn’t figured this out,” I said, “is beyond me. What idiots they are.”
“I actually might not have noticed the pattern myself,” George admitted, “without Flo Bones’s help. She’s been patroling Chelsea’s river edge for days. She confirms that the strongest supernatural activity she’s noticed is all down in that corner. She’s seen masses of spirits swirling about, displaying signs of agitation. That’s where the psychic wave breaks most heavily on the shore.” He prodded the map in the same place again. “No question about it. The power’s emanating from there.”
“So what is this place,” I asked, “at the end of the King’s Road, and why haven’t we heard of it? And why, if it’s the focus”—I gestured at the maps—“aren’t there any dots on it at all?”
“Good questions.” Taking his time, in the manner of a plump magician producing a rabbit from a hat, George reached into his folder once more. He pulled out a picture, a black-and-white copy of a photograph taken from a newspaper clipping.
It showed the front of an imposing building, twice the height of the shops around it; a brooding, square construction in a heavy, classical style. Flags flew from the parapet. Squared columns were inset into the walls. It had a lot of windows, tall, rectangular, reflecting the blank sky. The ground-floor windows were shaded beneath awnings; people in old-fashioned clothes walked the sidewalks there, past indistinct but intricate displays. In the center, a darkly uniformed figure could be seen standing outside a rank of broad glass doors.
“That, my friends,” George said, “is Aickmere Brothers department store, once world famous, still celebrated, and now—in my opinion—the probable focus of the Chelsea hauntings.”
“Never heard of it,” I said.
“I have.” Lockwood twisted the photograph to face him. “I went there once as a little kid, I think. It used to have a great toy department.”
At his side, Holly Munro was nodding. “Me too. My mother took me to Aickmere Brothers to look at the silver jewelry. I remember it being very ornate and splendid, but also a bit shabby.”
“That would be right,” George said. “It’s the largest department store outside central London, and one of the oldest and grandest anywhere. It was originally built in 1872, and expanded greatly between 1910 and 1912. When its Arabian Hall, known as the ‘Hall of Wonders,’ was unveiled a hundred years or so ago, it supposedly featured fire-eaters, belly dancers, and a live tiger in a cage. Those glory days, I think, are long gone. But people still go there—to this very day, in fact—because that side of Chelsea hasn’t been evacuated. It’s a couple of blocks from one of the DEPRAC cordons. And there have been no reported hauntings in the store at all.”
“If your theory’s correct,” Lockwood said, “that’s more than a little odd.”
“Isn’t it? All the more so when you uncover its past history. I’ve been looking back for historical mentions of this part of Chelsea, to see if there’s been any ghostly activity. When I became interested in Aickmere’s, I honed in on that specific site.” George took a bite of biscuit. “Well…I found things.”
I looked at him. “Bad?”
“You remember Combe Carey Hall?”
Lockwood and I exchanged looks. “The most haunted house in England? Yes.”
“It’s not as bad as that.”
“Thank God.”
“Thing is, I can’t imagine why.” George patted the plump manila folder. “Turns out, you see, this end of the King’s Road is an historic black spot. Half the worst possible things you can think of took place just about there.”
I took a punt. “Plague?”
“Yup. The Black Death swept through in the 1340s. See how the road swerves just beside Aickmere’s? That’s because there was a plague pit there, where they piled the bodies and dosed them with quicklime. Used to be a little mound on the spot, and a circle of stones, but the Victorians leveled it when they were widening the thoroughfare.”
“There are plenty of other plague pits in London,” Lockwood objected. “Sure, they’ve had cluster hauntings associated with them, but nothing on the scale of this.”
“I know,” George said, “and I can’t begin to explain why this has stirred things up so much. I’m just giving you the facts. So we’ve got plague. What else d’you reckon?”
“War,” I said. “Battle or skirmish.”
“Another point to Lucy. She’s good at playing Atrocities. Yes, it’s a Blitz bombing. In 1944, Aickmere Brothers was closed for six months after a doodlebug landed on the building next to it, pulling down the side wall and part of the roof. Twelve people were killed, including air raid wardens stationed on that roof. Twelve years ago, store management called in agents after those wardens were seen reenacting their shrieking death-falls through several floors: they fell straight through Haberdashery and Home Furnishings and landed in Cosmetics.”
“Was the Source found?” Holly Munro asked.
“I believe bone fragments were discovered and store defenses were improved.”
Lockwood pulled doubtfully at his collar. “I don’t know, George….None of this strikes me as anything particularly special. And if those Visitors were dealt with—”
“I’m just getting warmed up. There’s a big one you haven’t thought of yet.”
“Executions!” I said. “Murders, hangings, garrottings! Um, torture in general! Um…”
“All right, all right, hold on. Yes to all of that, but you need to be more exact.”
“Suspected occult activities!”
“No. Go back to the last bunch. Where, historically, would you find all those nasty things taking place?”
“Prison,” Holly Munro said. She flicked an imaginary piece of fluff off the hem of her dress.
“Bingo.” George looked around at us. “Prison. The King’s Prison, to be exact, a notorious hellhole first constructed in 1213 by order of King John. It’s said they put it well outside the city, so that no one could overhear the awful sounds from inside.”
I pointed to the map, at the blank rectangle that marked Aickmere’s department store. “You’re saying it was right here?”
“No one knows the exact site. It was pulled down in Tudor times. But it was supposed to be at the western end of the King’s Road somewhere, and we do know the plague pit was dug outside it. So…”
“So now we’re definitely on to something!” There was a light in Lockwood’s eyes; he rubbed his hands. “Okay, now I am interested. If Aickmere’s is on roughly the same spot as an old medieval prison…”
“It wasn’t even a nice medieval prison,” George put in. “Other medieval prisons looked down on it, it was so foul. It was a place where anyone who’d displeased the sovereign was put away, and there weren’t too many rules about what happened to them after that. It had an unlucky history. It was burned down twice, and sacked during the Peasants’ Revolt, when a troop of soldiers was ambushed and put to the sword. In those days the whole region was marshy, an unhealthy tract of mud and tributaries of the Thames, and a fearsome breeding ground for disease. Lots of inmates died and their bodies were just chucked in the river. It was famous for its appalling overcrowding, too. By the end it was more of a hospital than a prison—most of the inmates were lepers and other outcasts with terrible diseases. The Tudor authorities drove them out and knocked the whole place down, and I don’t think anyone was too upset to see the last of the King’s Prison.”