My heart gave a jolt. ‘Not . . .’
‘No, fortunately. Out cold. But he’d been coshed with something hard. Whoever hit him had then flung open the coffin, thrown all your seals aside, and tipped the contents out onto the floor.’
He turned over the top two photographs and spun them along the table. Kipps took one, Lockwood the other. We leaned in to take a look.
The shot had been taken from just inside the chapel door; in the background I could see one of the desks and a portion of the altar. All across the floor was splashed a mess of agency equipment: our iron chains, our silver net, and several other seals and wards with which we’d secured the coffin. In the centre, the iron coffin lay on its side, with the mummified corpse half tumbled out onto the flagstones. Bickerstaff was just as unappetizing as my brief glimpse last night had suggested, a blackened, shrunken thing in ragged robe and mouldy suit. One long bony arm splayed out at an unnatural angle, as if snapped at the elbow; the other lay palm up, as if reaching for something that had gone. Fronds of white hair stretched like the legs of drowned spiders around the naked skull.
‘Nasty,’ George said. ‘Don’t look at that face, Kat.’
The blonde girl scowled across at us. ‘I’m used to such things.’
‘Yes, you work with Kipps here, don’t you? I suppose you are.’
Kipps was frowning at the picture. ‘That coffin looks heavy to lift,’ he said. ‘Must be more than one thief.’
‘Excellent point,’ Barnes said. ‘And you’re right. Terry Morgan woke up in hospital an hour ago. He’s pretty shaken, but he was able to describe how he was attacked. He heard a noise in the undergrowth beside the steps. He looked over, saw a man in a dark ski-mask fast approaching. Then someone else struck him from behind.’
‘Poor kid,’ I said. Kat Godwin, sitting opposite, raised an eyebrow at me. I stared back at her, expressionless. I could do the stony-faced look too.
‘And so the mirror is gone . . .’ Kipps mused. ‘They must have done it near dawn, when they thought it was safe to remove the defences. Still, it was a risky thing to do.’
‘What’s really interesting,’ Barnes said, ‘is the speed of it. The coffin was opened around midnight. Less than four hours later the thieves were at the door. There wasn’t time for word to spread normally. This was a direct order from someone at the scene.’
‘Or someone who’d recently left the scene,’ Kat Godwin said. She smiled at us.
I glanced at Lockwood. He was staring intently at the photo, as if something in it puzzled him. He hadn’t noticed Godwin’s jibe. ‘Who knew about the coffin?’ I said.
Barnes shrugged. ‘The excavators, the Sensitives, the night-watch kids . . . and you.’
‘If you think we did it,’ I said, ‘feel free to search the house. Start with George’s dirty laundry basket. That’s where we always hide the stuff we steal.’
The inspector made a dismissive gesture. ‘I don’t think you stole it. But I do want it found. Mr Lockwood!’
‘He’s half asleep,’ Kipps said.
Lockwood looked up. ‘What? Sorry.’ He put the photograph down. ‘The mirror? Yes, you were saying you want it found. May I ask why?’
‘You know why,’ Barnes said gruffly. ‘Cubbins only had to glance at the mirror to feel a weird and foul effect. Who knows what it would have done to him? Besides, all psychic artefacts are classified as dangerous materials by the state. Their theft, sale or dispersal among the population is strictly forbidden. Let me show you something.’
Barnes flicked copies of another black-and-white photograph down the table. This one showed the drab interior of a public hall. The photo had been taken from the back of the room. About ten people sat in wooden pews, facing a raised platform. A policeman stood on this, and strips of police tape could be seen stretched across a doorway. Sunlight speared through windows high up by the roof. On the stage was a table, and just visible on this table was an object like a broad glass fruit bowl.
‘The Carnaby Street Cult,’ Barnes said. ‘Twenty years ago. Obviously before your time, any of you. But I was there, a young officer on the case. It was the usual thing. Bunch of people who wanted to “communicate” with the dead, learn secrets about the afterlife. Only they didn’t just talk about it; they went about buying objects from the relic-men in the hope they might meet a Visitor one day. See that bowl there? In it they put their precious relics: bones found buried in the yard of Marshalsea Prison, with the manacles still on ’em. Well, often enough the relic-men sold them any old junk, but this was the real deal. A Visitor came. And you can see the kind of message that it brought them.’
We stared at the photo, at the slumped heads of the congregation in the pews. ‘Hold on,’ Kat Godwin said. ‘So those people . . . they’re all . . .’
‘Dead as doornails, every man jack of them,’ Barnes said heartily. ‘Thirteen, all told. I can give you dozens of other instances – could show you the pictures too, but I dare say it would put you off your breakfast.’ He sat forward, began prodding the desk with a hairy finger. ‘The message is this. Powerful artefacts are deadly in the wrong hands! They’re like bombs waiting to go off. This mirror, or whatever it might be, is no exception. DEPRAC is highly concerned, and we want it found. I’ve been instructed to give it full priority.’
Lockwood pushed his chair back. ‘Well, good luck to you. If we can be of any further assistance, just let us know.’
‘Much against my better judgement,’ Barnes said, ‘you can. I’m short-staffed this morning. There’s a serious outbreak in Ilford, which many DEPRAC teams are working on. Since you’re already involved with this case, and since it could be argued that it’s your fault the thing wasn’t handed to us last night, I want you to pursue it. You’ll be properly paid.’
‘You’re hiring us?’ George blinked at the inspector. ‘Just how desperate can you be?’
The moustache drooped ruefully. ‘Fortunately the Fittes Agency has offered Kipps and his team as well. They’re also on the case. I want you all to work together.’
We stared in dismay across the table. Kipps and Godwin gazed coolly back.
I cleared my throat. ‘But, Mr Barnes, it’s a big city. There are so many agents to choose from. Are you sure you need to use them?’
‘Pick a madman off the street,’ George protested. ‘Go to a rest home and choose a random OAP. Anyone would be better than Kipps.’
Barnes gave us all a baleful glare. ‘Locate the missing relic. Find out who’s stolen it and why. Do it as quickly as possible, before someone else gets hurt. And if you want to keep my good opinion’ – the moustache jutted forward; teeth appeared briefly beneath it – ‘you’ll all work well together, without sarcasm, insults or, above all, swordplay. Do you understand?’
Kipps nodded smoothly. ‘Yes, sir. Of course, sir.’
‘Mr Lockwood?’
‘Certainly, Inspector. That won’t be a problem.’
‘Here’s the way it is,’ Lockwood said as we all left the room together. ‘You keep out of our way, and we’ll keep out of yours. No espionage or funny business on either side. But now we come to the little matter of our contest. This is our opportunity to go head to head, as we agreed. Are you still up for it, or do you want to back out now?’
Kipps let out a short, barking laugh. ‘Back out? Not likely! Our agreement comes into force as of today. First side to track down the mirror and bring it to Barnes wins the bet. The loser takes out the advert in the paper and eats very public humble pie. Agreed?’
Lockwood had his hands in his pockets; he looked casually round at George and me. ‘Are you both happy?’