“Ooh, that’s better,” Flo said. “Me corns are killing me today. So, Locky, aren’t you going to introduce me to these nancies? Actually, don’t bother—I can guess ’em well enough from your descriptions. All right, then, are you Kipps? Heard a lot about you and those nice plastic jewels you’ve got pasted on your rapier hilt. I can get you more like that. They wash up sometimes on Woolwich beach, just below the crematorium.”
Kipps looked like he had been slapped between the eyes with a dead fish; as, in an olfactory sort of way, he had. “Er…no. No, thank you. And you are?”
“Florence Bonnard. Accent on the second syllable, if you don’t mind. You must be Kate Godwin—bit thinner than I expected, but there’s no escaping that chin. And you”—Flo grinned enigmatically at Bobby Vernon—“I’m very pleased to see you, Bobby. Ask me what my bag’s for.”
Vernon had edged slightly away. “Er…What is your bag for?”
“That,” Flo said, “is my relic-bag. To put things in.” She leaned close to Bobby. “Things I find in the soft, moist darkness of the river mud….Want to look inside? I could pop you right in, you’re that small.”
Vernon gave a squeak and vanished behind Kate Godwin; now Flo turned to Holly Munro. I must admit I was looking forward to this bit, but our assistant preempted Flo’s advances. She strode forward, hand outstretched. “Holly Munro, Anthony Lockwood’s new assistant. Very pleased to meet you.”
I waited for the verbal assault; or, better yet, a quick over-the-head toss into the lavender cushions. But Flo seemed taken aback. Her eyelashes fluttered; beneath her grime, I swear she flushed. “Charmed, I’m sure.”
They just shook hands. Somehow, this annoyed me too.
“Right,” Lockwood said. “Good. Everyone knows each other. So let’s get started. The manager’s waiting.”
“I’m not sure we should bother….” Kate Godwin was still eyeing Flo. “Surely it’s a safe bet all the ghosts will have scarpered now.”
The current chairman of Aickmere Brothers, Samuel Aickmere, represented the fourth generation of the family to run the store. He was a fussy, nondescript man (middle-aged, bland-featured, with hair that had started, rather timorously, to recede) who had tried to make himself less so by way of his clothes. He wore a dark wide-shouldered suit with a strong purple pinstripe. A purple handkerchief, crisply folded, jutted like a potted plant from his breast pocket. The cuffs of his shirtsleeves seemed slightly longer than necessary; you could scarcely see his fingers. His tie was shockingly pink; I sensed Lockwood flinching as he shook his hand.
Mr. Aickmere cast his eyes over our rapiers and workbags without pleasure. As we explained our purpose, his lips pressed tightly together.
“Quite impossible, I’m afraid,” he said, once Lockwood finished. “This is a reputable commercial establishment. Can’t have your sort in here.”
We looked at him. Aickmere’s office wasn’t particularly large. Sure, it had room for a marble-topped desk, chair, garbage can, filing cabinet, and dark green yucca plant. One or two submissive employees standing in front of the desk, caps in hand, might just have squeezed in too. But eight hard-bitten agents, bristling with rapiers, flares, and grim-faced purpose? We must have been quite an unnerving sight, standing there—and that was before you assessed us individually. George was just finishing a tuna sandwich, holding his hand underneath to catch the falling flakes. Bobby Vernon sported his enormous salt-gun. Kipps was Kipps. Flo was Flo. I kind of understood the guy’s point.
“Mr. Aickmere,” Lockwood said, “there is a major spectral incident going on all around you, a stone’s throw from your door. You understand that we are empowered to investigate its cause, wherever that might be?”
“It is ridiculous to look here! We have no dangerous Visitors in Aickmere’s!”
“In Chelsea? Really? That’s a remarkable claim.”
“There was some little trouble, a dozen or so years ago. It was swiftly dealt with.”
“That would have been the air-raid wardens?” George said.
“I don’t remember the details.” The man waved one sleeve at us airily. “But after the event, the building was reconstructed with supernatural safety in mind. We have iron laced into the foundations and into many walls. Our staff wear silver brooches and are trained in all necessary Visitor defenses. There are lavender sticks and Rotwell salt-sprays in every room. Why? Because our customers expect and demand a safe shopping experience. And they get it—of course they do. We have a whole silversmithing department, for heaven’s sake! No, there is no need for you to linger here.”
“We’ll be very discreet,” Lockwood said.
The manager smiled at us; the smile was a tight, hard thing, a line of defense scratched across rock. “I know what DEPRAC’s like. Closing honest shops down. Bolder’s in Putney. Farnsworth’s in Croydon. That won’t happen here.”
“No one’s trying to get you closed down,” Lockwood said. “And if there is anything to be found, it’s in your interests to have it cleared.”
“Agents leave devastation in their wake! They disrupt smooth service and endanger innocent lives!”
“George, how many of our clients have we managed to kill now?”
“Hardly any. A very small percentage.”
“There. I hope that reassures you, Mr. Aickmere. We will conduct quiet investigations and be on our way.”
“No. It’s my final word.”
Lockwood sighed; he rummaged in his pocket. “Very well, I have here a DEPRAC warrant card, signed by Inspector Montagu Barnes, which—”
“Allow me.” Kipps stepped forward. “Mr. Aickmere, my name is Kipps. I’m a team leader for the Fittes Agency, and one of my areas is Public Safety Noncompliance. We take refusal to adhere to operative statutes very seriously and have the power to authorize a detainment team to exercise immediate penal restraint in such circumstances.” He put his thin, pale hands together and cracked his knuckles like a rifle volley. “I do hope that this won’t be necessary in your case?”
Aickmere blinked at him. “I can’t say. I haven’t a clue what any of that means.”
“It means,” Kipps said, “let us do our job, or we’ll lock you up. That’s basically the size of it.”
The manager sat back in his chair. He removed the purple handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Ghosts after dark, children running amok…What an age we live in! Very well, do what you must. You won’t find anything.”
Lockwood had been staring at Kipps. “Thank you, sir. We appreciate it.”
“It’s a bit late for courtesy now….Well, I have one stipulation! I insist you don’t disturb any of our displays, particularly our Seasonal Creations.”
“Seasonal Creations? Oh, you mean like the tree thing in the foyer?”
“That ‘tree thing’ is ‘Autumn Ramble,’ hand-created by noted installation artist Gustav Kramp. Did you know that every piece of dry driftwood and tissue leaf has been personally glued by hand? It took an age to piece together, and it’s very, very expensive. I simply won’t have you ruining it.”
“We’ll certainly try to be careful,” Lockwood said, after a short pause.
“We run a tight ship here at Aickmere Brothers,” Mr. Aickmere said. “Everything in its proper place.” As if to prove it, he adjusted two pens beside the blotter in the center of his desk. “And my staff cannot be distracted from their duties.”
“Certainly not. We’ll be sure to treat everything in your store with appropriate respect—right, everyone?”
We nodded. George leaned in close to me. “Remind me to blow my nose on ‘Autumn Ramble’ when we get downstairs.”