And that was the other thing: his pride. It was a fundamental part of him, just like his ability to close off from me, from others, from common sense. I couldn’t challenge him about his sister or his past, but I could challenge him on this.
“I think we should take Kipps up on his offer,” I said. “There are people dying out there, Lockwood, and we can’t stand back from it. We need to act. We need to engage, even if that does mean making compromises. That department store is massive: even if we’re just doing a reconnaissance, we need a proper team. And Kipps’s team is good—we know that. If we have faith in George,” I said, “in all the work he’s done, we should do this. We owe it to him. More than that, we owe it to ourselves.”
Lockwood gazed at me. I suddenly felt very hot and red in the face. “I just don’t think we have any choice,” I said. I sat down hurriedly. George was doing the thing with the pool of coffee, alternating between staring at it and me. Kipps, displaying a sensitivity I wouldn’t have associated with him, stood a short way off, seemingly engrossed in the attempts of two tiny Bunce agents to carry a massive sack of iron filings out of a nearby tent store. All around us rushed the DEPRAC staff and agents on their busy, busy errands; the noise of the square cocooned us. Lockwood just gazed at me. I waited to hear what he would say.
Aickmere Brothers department store, reached by a lengthy taxi ride that looped around the edges of the Chelsea containment zone, was easily the most impressive building on the western reaches of the King’s Road. A hulking yet austere presence, occupying an entire block, it rose four clear stories to its parapeted roof. Grooved pilasters—decorative columns embedded into the stonework—ran like ribs along the walls. Windows glittered; high above us colored pennants snapped and ruffled in the wintry breeze. A brightly uniformed doorman stood sentinel outside the entrance. From a distance—when you were standing on the little knoll of green grass opposite, where the road kinked south—it looked every bit the equal of the mighty stores of Oxford Street. As you crossed the street, however, you began to notice the smog stains on the peeling stone facade, the tired paintwork on the door frames, even the flakes of dandruff scattered on the shoulders of the doorman’s patched coat. Not everything was quite as glamorous as it seemed.
Which included the pretty patch of grass opposite, surrounded by chichi fashion shops and coffee bars. George, nudging me as we crossed, pointed at it. “Plague pit.”
“And the prison?”
“Most likely under Aickmere’s.”
Fifty yards farther up the street, a line of DEPRAC barricades, identical to the ones in Sloane Square, prevented access to the heart of Chelsea. Aickmere Brothers was certainly fortunate not to have been caught up in the evacuation; then again, it had not reported any ghosts.
“Curfew at five. Closing’s at four.” The doorman, a boggle-eyed, red-faced man with a mustache like that of a bearded walrus, looked askance at us as we filed through the revolving doors: Lockwood, George, Holly Munro, and me. Each of us scarcely squeezed our workbags through, particularly me: my backpack bore a heavy, jar-shaped load. Our rapiers jangled against the panels of curving wood.
Once, the mighty entrance hall would have proclaimed the store’s glories with a fanfare. Spiraling plaster columns, decorated with gold leaf, held up a blue-painted ceiling, studded with stars, planets, and plumply capering cupids. On the walls, murals showcased fauns, nymphs, and a host of exotic wildlife. Straight ahead of us, twin escalators, on either side of a central stair, led up to the next level. You could imagine the live music, the jugglers and fire-eaters of long ago….Now the murals were faded, pasted-over with DEPRAC warnings and announcements of forthcoming sales; and the gold leaf on the columns had peeled away. Shoppers idled among cases of uninspiring lavender goods and a few shabby mannequins. Schmaltzy music piped distantly through a crackly speaker system.
The only remotely impressive thing in the hall was a vast fake tree in front of one set of escalators, constructed of metal and slabs of bark, with tissue leaves of red, orange, and gold. It looked intricate and fragile. We set our bags down before it. Lockwood went over to reception.
“It’s gone downhill since I was last here,” Holly Munro said. “Or maybe I was too young to notice.”
She unbuttoned her coat and took off her gloves. As usual, she’d made herself up like we were heading out to a society garden party—instead of what we were doing: ghost-hunting on the grim side of London. Maybe it was wrong, but I so hoped she’d fall into an open coffin or catacomb or something before the night was out. It didn’t have to be a very bad fall. Just a dusty one. Involving bones.
George was surveying the room. “Yeah, don’t think much of the displays,” he said. “Some of these mannequins are hideous….Oh—it’s you, Quill. I thought you were an exhibit.”
Quill Kipps, Kate Godwin, and Bobby Vernon stepped forward out of the shadows of the tree. They too carried heavy bags; Bobby Vernon had an enormous salt-gun strapped to his shoulder.
“This,” Kate Godwin said, “is precisely why I was against coming here. We’ll have comments like this all night. He’s worse than the ghosts.”
George held up his hand. “Sorry, I’ll be good now. This is Holly, everyone.”
General introductions followed. Kipps was all smarm and oil; I swear Bobby Vernon let out a giggle as he shook Holly’s hand. Kate Godwin was just as stiff as I had been when first meeting Holly; our assistant seemed to affect girls that way.
Lockwood returned, coat swinging behind him. He grinned at us. “Hello, team.”
Kipps gave a sniff. “You’re late.”
“I’m team leader,” Lockwood said. “Meetings don’t start till I arrive. By definition, therefore, you were early. Right, I’ve asked to see the manager. Once we’ve got the go-ahead, we’ll start looking around, talk to the staff while they’re still here. We can do that singly or in groups, it doesn’t matter—but after dark, we’re not taking any chances. Then we’ll go around in pairs.”
Bobby Vernon was so small that when he stood beside us he looked like he was in the next room. He lifted a stick-like arm. “How’s that going to work?”
Lockwood frowned. “Bobby?”
“I count seven of us. That’s three pairs and one poor sap left over.”
“Ah, well, yes….Didn’t I tell you? We’ve got someone else coming. Actually I’d hoped they’d be here by now.”
“Who?” I said. None of us had heard this before. It seemed to me Lockwood had a vaguely evasive air.
Kipps sensed it too. “I trust it’s a proper agent, and not some weirdo friend of yours, Tony, brought in to make up the numbers.”
“Well—”
“Here I am, Locky.” We turned and looked back across the halclass="underline" there, just emerging from the revolving doors, with the rips in her long blue puffer jacket catching on the handle and her Wellington boots leaving a delicate trail of greenish mud on the marble floor, was Flo Bones. Through the window glass behind her, the doorman’s face could just be seen—bog-eyes popping, jaw lolling—staring after her in horror and bafflement. To be honest, Kipps’s team looked much the same, and even Holly Munro’s smooth calm was momentarily ruffled. Flo had her damp, stained burlap bag over her shoulder; as she approached she slung it off onto a pile of lavender pillows, unzipped her jacket, and bent her arms up in a languorous stretch. We got the unwashed shirt, the holed sweater, the frayed rope belt holding up her jeans; oh, yes, and the tidal smell. It was the full works.