Barnes instinctively disapproved of Lockwood & Co. He didn’t like our methods, he didn’t like our manners; he didn’t even like the charming clutter of our offices at Portland Row, although he had complimented me on the pretty tulips I’d put in the boxes outside the windows this past spring. Any ‘request’ to call in on him at Scotland Yard inevitably led to us standing in front of his desk being scolded like a row of naughty schoolchildren.
So it was something of a surprise when, instead of being stuck in the usual waiting area, which smelled faintly of ectoplasm wipes, we were led directly into the main operations room.
It was at its quietest, this hour of the day. The London street-map on the wall showed hardly any flashing lights; no one manned the ranks of telephones. A few neatly dressed men and women sat at a table, sifting through manila folders, collating new incident reports. A bloke with a mop swept up the residue of salt, ash and iron filings that had been tramped in by DEPRAC agents the night before.
At a meeting table on the far side of the room a flipchart had been set up. Near this sat Inspector Barnes, staring grimly at a pile of papers.
He wasn’t alone. Beside him, as pristine and self-satisfied as ever, sat Quill Kipps and Kat Godwin.
I stiffened. Lockwood made a small noise between his teeth. George groaned audibly. ‘We’ve had near-death experiences,’ he muttered, ‘we’ve had domestic rows, we’ve had a pitiful amount of sleep. But this is going to drive me over the edge. If I leap on the table and start shrieking, don’t try to stop me. Just let me howl.’
Barnes looked at his watch as we approached. ‘At last,’ he said. ‘Anyone would think you’d had a difficult night. Sit down and pour yourselves some coffee. I see you still can’t afford proper uniforms. Is that egg or ectoplasm on your T-shirt, Cubbins? I swear you had that the last time I saw you. Same shirt, same stain.’
Kipps smiled; Godwin looked blank. Yet again their outfits were crisp and spotless. You could have eaten your lunch off them, provided their faces didn’t spoil your appetite. Yet again I was conscious of my sorry state: my unbrushed hair, still dampish from my shower; my rumpled clothes.
Lockwood smiled round questioningly. ‘We’re happy to wait while you finish your meeting with Kipps, Mr Barnes. Don’t want to butt in.’
‘If you’re firing them, I know of two vacancies,’ George added. ‘Toilet attendants needed at Marylebone Station. Could wear those same jackets, and all.’
‘Mr Kipps and Ms Godwin are here at my request,’ Barnes said. ‘This is important, and I need more than one set of agents on hand. Now sit down, and stop glowering at each other. I want your full attention.’
We sat. Kipps poured us coffee. Is it possible to pour coffee unctuously? If so, Kipps managed it well.
Barnes said: ‘I’ve heard about your efforts at Kensal Green last night. Mr Paul Saunders of’ – he checked his notes, spoke with fastidious distaste – ‘of Sweet Dreams Excavation has given me a basic summary. I’m going to pass over the fact that you should have contacted us straight away to dispose of that coffin. In the light of what has happened since, I need all the details you can give me.’
‘And what has happened, Mr Barnes?’ Lockwood asked. ‘Saunders rang early this morning, but he wasn’t in a state to give me details.’
Barnes considered us thoughtfully. His face was as lived-in as ever, his pouchy eyes still sharply appraising. As usual, though, it was his impressive moustache that attracted my attention. To me, Barnes’s moustache closely resembled some kind of hairily exotic caterpillar, probably from the forests of Sumatra, and certainly previously unknown to science. It had a life of its own, rippling and ruffling in accordance with its owner’s mood. Today it seemed fluffed out, bristling with purpose. Barnes said: ‘Saunders is an idiot, and he knows that he’s in trouble, which makes him no good for anything. Had him in here an hour ago, blathering and blustering, making every excuse under the sun. The short story is that the iron coffin you found has been ransacked, and the contents stolen.’
‘Did someone get hurt?’ I asked. ‘I heard that a night-watch kid—’
‘First things first,’ Barnes said. ‘I need a full account of what happened to you when you opened the coffin. What you saw, what you heard; all the relevant phenomena. Go.’
Lockwood gave the story, with George and me pitching in with our impressions too. I noticed that George was hazy about what had happened to him when he and Joplin were in the circle. The way he told it, Bickerstaff’s ghost had swept down as soon as they’d approached the coffin. There was nothing about them both standing frozen, helpless, unable to move.
When I mentioned the voice, Lockwood frowned. ‘You didn’t tell me that before.’
‘Just remembered it now. It was the ghost, I suppose. It badly wanted us to look at something. Said it would bring us “our heart’s desire”.’
‘It was talking to you?’
‘I think it was talking to all of us.’
Barnes stared at me a moment. ‘You have impressive Talent, Carlyle. Now, this object that so startled Cubbins – you say it was a mirror or looking-glass, with a sort of wooden frame?’
George and I both nodded.
‘Is that it?’ Quill Kipps asked. ‘Not much of a description to go on.’
‘There was no time for a proper look,’ Lockwood said. ‘Everything happened very fast, and frankly it was too dangerous to spend time studying it.’
‘For once,’ Barnes said, ‘I think you acted wisely. So, to sum up – it seems we had two possible Sources in the grave. The body of Dr Bickerstaff and the mirror.’
‘That’s right. The apparition must have come from the corpse,’ Lockwood said, ‘because our net was still covering the mirror at the time. But from what George experienced, that mirror certainly has some kind of psychic energy of its own.’
‘Very well, then.’ From among his papers, Barnes took several glossy black-and-white photographs, which he set face down in front of him. ‘I’ll now tell you what happened in the early hours of this morning. After you left, this Mr Saunders had the coffin removed by one of his forklifts; it was taken to the chapel and carried inside. Saunders says they made sure all your silver nets and other seals were kept in place. They put a chain round it, set a night-watch boy to guard the door, and got on with other business.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Lockwood said. One of his familiar transformations had come over him. All signs of fatigue had been left in the taxi; now he was alert, interested, radiating concentration. ‘That chapel is Saunders’s office. He and Joplin work in there. Where were they the rest of the night?’
‘According to Saunders, he and Mr Joplin were busy in another sector of the cemetery. Most of the night-watch team were with them, though there were always people coming and going in the camp: fetching equipment, taking breaks and so on.
‘Midway through the night, around two-thirty, the guard changed over. Saunders supervised it, and took the opportunity to look inside the chapel. Says it was all quiet, the coffin exactly as before. Another lad, name of Terry Morgan, came on watch. Eleven years old, this boy.’ Barnes glared round at us, and rubbed his moustache with a finger. ‘Well, dawn came at four-thirteen this morning, so that’s when the psychic surveys had to stop. Just before four-thirty another kid came to the chapel to take over from Terry Morgan. He found the door hanging open. Inside was Morgan’s body.’