George had parked himself in his favourite chair by the coffee table. His face, usually so inexpressive, showed a mix of contrition, defiance and attempted unconcern. ‘We’d been talking about the inscription on the lid,’ he said sullenly. ‘Once DEPRAC gets its hands on the coffin today we know we’ll never see it again, so Joplin said—’
‘What Joplin said shouldn’t have had any effect on you!’ Lockwood cried. ‘You think that’s a good excuse for nearly getting killed? Trying to decipher some scratchings on a foul old coffin? I’m surprised at you, George! Honestly surprised.’
He wasn’t really, and nor was I. One of George’s most famous characteristics, aside from sarcasm, wind and general bloody-mindedness, was his fascination with things unknown. When he wasn’t roaming dusty archives researching background stuff on cases, he roamed dusty archives researching Visitor Theory – trying to discover why ghosts were returning, and how precisely this occurred. It wasn’t just the skull in our ghost-jar that fascinated him; where possible, he also investigated other objects of psychic power. It figured that the iron coffin fell into that category.
It also figured that the tiresome little scholar, Joplin, shared George’s approach.
Lockwood had fallen silent now. He waited, arms folded, clearly expecting an apology, but George wasn’t giving up the argument quite yet. ‘I agree that the coffin and its contents are dangerous,’ he said doggedly. ‘That mirror I saw was horrible. But their powers are entirely unknown. So I think it’s a legitimate agency job to discover anything we can about what it is we’re dealing with – and that includes the inscription. It could have given us some clues to what Bickerstaff – and his ghost – were up to.’
‘Who cares?’ Lockwood cried. ‘Who cares about any of that? It’s not part of our job!’ In many ways, Lockwood was the complete opposite of George, and not just in terms of bodily hygiene. He had no interest in the mechanics of ghosts, and little in their individual desires or intentions. All he really wanted was to destroy them as efficiently as possible. As much as anything, however, I guessed it was George’s careless amateurism that had truly offended him here. ‘That kind of stuff,’ he went on more quietly, ‘is for Barnes and DEPRAC to worry about. Not us. Right, Lucy?’
‘Right! Of course it isn’t. Absolutely not.’ I adjusted a corner of my skirt carefully. ‘Though sometimes it is interesting . . . So did you actually see the inscription, George? I never thought to ask.’
George nodded. ‘I did, as it happens.’
‘What did it say?’
‘It said: As you value your soul, forsake and abjure this cursed box. Just that.’
I hesitated. ‘Forsake and abjure?’
‘It means don’t open it, basically.’
‘Well, it’s a bit late for that now.’
Lockwood had been glaring at us throughout. He cleared his throat. ‘It doesn’t really matter any more, does it?’ he said sweetly. ‘Because, as I keep telling you, Bickerstaff and his mirror thing are no longer any of our business. And George—’
‘Hold on,’ I said suddenly. ‘We’re talking about this being Edmund Bickerstaff. But how does that square with Joplin’s story of how Bickerstaff died? That bloke in the coffin wasn’t torn apart by rats, was he? He’d had a bullet through his head.’
George nodded. ‘You’re right. Good point, Lucy.’
‘Though I suppose he might have been shot and then sort of nibbled.’
‘I guess so . . . But he seemed in one piece to me.’
‘It doesn’t matter!’ Lockwood exclaimed. ‘If the case was open, it would be interesting, as you say. But the job’s done now. It’s over. Forget it! The important thing is that we did what we were paid to do, which was to locate and contain the Source.’
‘Er, no, we didn’t contain the Source, actually,’ George said. ‘As I rather conclusively proved. All that iron and silver, and still Bickerstaff’s ghost was able to get out. That’s unusual. Surely even you would admit it’s worth investigating.’
Lockwood uttered an oath. ‘No! No, I don’t! You dislodged the net, George – that was how the Visitor was able to escape and ghost-lock you. You could have died! The problem is that, as always, you’re too easily distracted. You need to get your priorities straight! Look at this mess in here . . .’
He stabbed a finger in the direction of the coffee table, where the ghost-jar sat, the skull dully visible, the plasm as blank and greenish as ever. George had conducted further experiments that afternoon. Noonday sun hadn’t done anything, and nor had brief exposure to loud bursts of classical music on the radio. The table was strewn with a little sea of notebooks and scribbled observations.
‘This is a perfect example,’ Lockwood went on. ‘You’re wasting too much time on that wretched jar. Try spending a bit more time on solid case research, help the company out a little.’
George’s cheeks flushed. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I mean that Wimbledon Common business the other day . . . The stuff about the history of the gallows, which you completely missed. Even that idiot Bobby Vernon uncovered more useful information than you!’
George sat very still. He opened his mouth as if about to argue, then closed it again. His face lacked all expression. He took off his glasses and rubbed them on his jersey.
Lockwood ran his hands through his hair. ‘I’m being unfair. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.’
‘No, no,’ George said stiffly. ‘I’ll try to do better for you in future.’
‘Fine.’
There was a silence. ‘How about I make some cocoa?’ I said in a bright voice. Hot chocolate helps soothe things in the early hours. The night was growing old. It would soon be dawn.
‘I’ll make it,’ George said. He stood abruptly. ‘See if I can do that right. Two sugars, Luce? Lockwood . . . I’ll make yours an extra frothy one.’
Lockwood frowned at the closing door. ‘You know, that last comment makes me uneasy . . .’ He sighed. ‘Lucy, I’ve been meaning to say: that was an impressive move back there – what you did with the rapier.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You aimed it perfectly, right between their heads. An inch to the left, and you’d have skewered George right between the eyes. Really sensational accuracy there.’
I made a modest gesture. ‘Well . . . sometimes you just do what has to be done.’
‘You didn’t actually aim it at all, did you?’ Lockwood said.
‘No.’
‘You just chucked it. In fact, it was pure blind luck that George lost his balance and fell out of the way. That’s why he wasn’t kebabbed by you.’
‘Yup.’
He smiled at me. ‘Still . . . that doesn’t stop it being a great piece of work. You were the only one who reacted in time.’
As always, the full warmth of his approval made me feel a little flushed. I cleared my throat. ‘Lockwood,’ I said. ‘Bickerstaff’s ghost . . . What kind was it? I’ve never seen anything like it before. Did you see how it rose up so high? What Visitor does that?’
‘I don’t know, Luce. Hopefully all the rest of the iron we piled on will keep it quiet till dawn. Then, I’m glad to say, it becomes DEPRAC’s problem.’ He sighed, rose from his chair. ‘I’d better go and help George. I know I’ve offended him. Also I’m slightly worried about what he’s doing to my cocoa.’