Kipps nodded to us lazily. ‘Tony. Cubbins. Julie.’ They pattered down the stairs.
‘Er . . . it’s Lucy!’ I called after him.
‘Why did none of us trip him?’ George muttered. ‘It would have been so sweet.’
Lockwood shook his head. ‘Be strong, George. Remember – no provocations!’
We stood a while at the chapel entrance, analysing the spot where the unfortunate night-watch guard had been attacked. It faced slightly away from the camp, and would have been in darkness. An intruder might certainly have approached sidelong from the bushes, climbed up onto the steps, and stood there without being seen by anyone below. The lock of the door itself had been stoved in by something sharp, probably a chisel.
That was all we could make out. We ducked under the tape and out of the day’s heat, into the cool of the chapel.
Things hadn’t changed much since Barnes’s photo had been taken. Chains, coffin, and the crumpled corpse of Dr Bickerstaff: all were as before – except that, rather to my relief, the body had been covered with a piece of dirty sacking.
In the daylight, the iron coffin seemed bigger than I remembered it: hefty, thick-walled and crusted with corrosion. Off to one side, a discarded watch-stick lay amid the scattered salt and iron.
Lockwood bounded over to the chains; he bent low and inspected the flagstones. ‘The thieves crouched just outside the circle,’ he said. ‘You can see the toe-prints of their boots here, scuffed into the salt. It was dawn. They were almost safe from Visitors. But they didn’t want to bank on it. They’d knocked out the kid and taken his stick. They used that to pry open the lid and pull off the silver net. Then they hung back, waiting to see if anything happened. Nothing did. All was quiet. Now they stepped into the circle and tipped the coffin, so the body tumbled out onto the floor.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do that? Why not just grab the mirror?’
‘Maybe they wanted to see if anything else was in there,’ George said.
‘And they didn’t want to manhandle Bickerstaff,’ I added. ‘That part I understand.’
‘Fair enough,’ Lockwood said. ‘So they tipped it over. But was there anything else inside . . .? And is there now?’
He hopped over the body and peered inside the coffin. Taking his rapier from his belt, he poked it into the furthest recesses. Then he straightened.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Odd. In the photograph, I thought . . .’
‘So what did you see in the photo?’ I asked.
‘A bundle of sticks.’ He brushed his hair irritably back from his face. ‘I know; doesn’t seem likely. Maybe it was a trick of the eyes. Anyway, it’s not there now.’
For a while we assessed the rest of the chapel. I paid particular attention to the little wooden door behind the altar rail. It had been padlocked and triple-bolted. I pulled at the padlock speculatively.
‘Internal door, leading down to the catacombs,’ I said. ‘Firmly locked on this side. I did wonder if that was the way the thieves came and went, though I suppose it doesn’t square with the night-watch kid’s account.’
‘Looks secure,’ Lockwood agreed. ‘OK, let’s go outside.’
‘So what do you think about Kipps’s theory?’ George asked as we set off down the steps. ‘You think the thieves went past the night-watchers’ camp? Think the kids are in on it somehow?’
Lockwood pulled at his long straight nose. ‘I very much doubt it. It’s far more likely that—’ He stopped; we’d heard a cry of pain.
The camp had quietened down since we’d been inside. Saunders, Joplin and the workmen had gone about their business, and Kipps was nowhere to be seen. Only one final night-watch kid was left, four burly Fittes agents standing over him like a wall. He was just picking up his checked yellow cap from the ground; as he stood up I recognized the surly urchin who’d been stationed at the gate the previous day. The kid put his cap back on. At once the biggest agent, Ned Shaw, leaned over and casually slapped the side of his head. The cap fell off again; the boy stumbled and almost fell.
Six quick strides – and Lockwood was at the scene. He tapped Shaw on his shoulder. ‘Stop doing that, please. You’re twice his size.’
Shaw turned round. He was about fifteen, as tall as Lockwood, and hefty with it. He had a bland, strong-jawed face, not unhandsome, except for eyes slightly too narrowly set. Like all the Fittes crowd, his outfit was pristine, but the effect was undermined by his brown shock of hair. It looked like a baby yak had fallen on him from on high.
Shaw blinked; there was uncertainty in his face. ‘Shove off, Lockwood. This has nothing to do with you.’
‘I understand your eagerness to clout this kid,’ Lockwood said. ‘I’ve itched to do the same myself. But it’s not on. You want to push people around, pick someone taller.’
Shaw’s lip curled like someone was winding it round a pencil. ‘I’ll push anyone I like.’
‘Little kids? That makes you a coward.’
Shaw smiled briefly; he looked out into the haze of the cemetery. He seemed to be thinking of something peaceful and far away. Then he turned and punched Lockwood hard on the side of the face – or tried to, because Lockwood swayed back and dodged the blow. Shaw’s momentum carried him forward; Lockwood took hold of his flailing arm and twisted it sharply to the side and back. At the same time he stuck his boot behind one of Shaw’s ankles. Shaw cried out; lost his balance, tripped over his own feet and fell, knocking into one of the other agents and sending them both flailing to the ground.
Shaw’s face flushed purple; he instantly sought to rise, but found the point of my rapier gently resting against his chest.
‘Our no-provocation rule is surprisingly flexible,’ George remarked. ‘Can I give him a kick too?’
Shaw silently regained his feet. Lockwood watched impassively. I lowered my sword-arm, but held it ready. None of the other Fittes agents did anything at all.
‘We can continue this whenever you like,’ Lockwood said. ‘Just name a time.’
‘Oh, we’ll continue it’ – Ned Shaw nodded – ‘don’t you worry about that.’ He glared at Lockwood and then at me, his fingers twitching.
‘Come on, Ned,’ one of his companions said. ‘This little runt doesn’t know anything anyway.’
Ned Shaw hesitated; he gave the night-watch boy a narrow, appraising stare. At last he nodded and gave a signal to the others. Without further words they loped away among the gravestones. The kid watched them go, his eyes wet and shining.
‘Pay no attention to him,’ Lockwood said. ‘They can’t really touch you.’
The boy drew himself up to his full, not very considerable height. He adjusted his cap with an angry gesture. ‘I know that. Course they can’t.’
‘They’re just bullies throwing their weight around. Some agents do that, I’m afraid.’
The boy spat into the cemetery grass. ‘Yeah. Agents. Stuck-up snobs, the lot of them. Who gives a damn about agents? Not me.’
There was a silence. ‘Yes, actually we’re agents too,’ I said, ‘but we’re different from Ned Shaw. We don’t use his methods. We respect the night watch. So if we ask you a few questions, it’ll be done differently. No slapping about, for one thing.’
I smiled winningly at the boy. The boy stared back at me.
‘We’re not going to thump you, is what I mean.’
The boy sniffed. ‘That’s a laugh. I’d like to see you try.’
Lockwood’s nostrils twitched slightly. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Listen, a dangerous artefact was stolen last night. In the wrong hands, it could do terrible things around London.’