‘That’s what the skull wants us to do,’ I pleaded. ‘But we can’t trust it; you know we can’t. Let’s just leave it, Lockwood. Let’s get out of here.’
‘After all this? Not likely. Besides, Kipps will be up here in a minute.’ He pulled his gloves higher on his wrists, and stepped through the door. Gritting my teeth, I followed.
The drop in temperature was brutal; even in my coat it made me shudder. There was an immediate hike in the static too, as if someone had turned a dial the moment I went inside. The air was heavy with a peculiar sweet smell, not unlike the climbing shrub outside the window. It was thick, cloying, and somehow rotten. It had no obvious source.
It was not a room to remain in very long.
We walked slowly through drifting spears of moonlight, hands at our belts, surveying the floor. Most of the boards seemed held fast, stone-stiff and strong.
‘It’s in the middle somewhere,’ I said. ‘According to the skull.’
‘What a very helpful skull he is . . . Ah, this one gave a little. Keep watch, Lucy.’
In a moment he was on his knees, squatting by the floorboard, exploring its edges with his long fingers. I took my rapier from my belt and paced slowly around the room. I did not want to remain still there; somehow I needed to move.
I passed the door; across the landing, George was looking at me from his position by the banisters. He waved. The back of his rucksack glowed a faintish green. I passed the window; from it I could see the slates of the entrance porch, the path leading down the hill, the tops of ragged trees. I passed an empty fireplace; on impulse I let my fingers touch the blackened tiles—
Sound looped out of the past; the room was warm, fire crackled in the grate.
‘Here, my dear fellow. The boy’s set it all up for you. We’ve chosen you for this great purpose. You are to be the pioneer!’
Another voice: ‘Just stand before it and take the cloth away. Tell us what you see.’
‘Have you not looked yet, Bickerstaff?’ The speaker was querulous, prickly with fear. ‘Surely it should fall to you . . .’
‘It is to be your honour, my good Wilberforce. This is your heart’s desire, is it not? Come, man! Take a drop of wine for courage . . . That’s it! I stand ready to record your words. Now, there . . . We remove the veil . . . So, look into it, Wilberforce! Look, and tell us—’
Appalling cold, a cry of terror – and with it, the buzzing of the flies. ‘No! I cannot!’
‘I swear you shall! Hold him fast! Get him by the arms! Look, curse you – look! And talk to us! Tell us the marvels that you see!’
But the only answer was a scream – loud, loud, louder; and suddenly cut off—
My hand fell away from the wall. I stood rigid, eyes staring, frozen in shock at what I’d heard. The room was very still, as if the whole building held its breath. I could not move. I was engulfed by the echo of a dead man’s fear. The terror subsided; blinking, gasping, I remembered where I was. In the centre of the room, Lockwood crouched beside an uprooted floorboard. He was grinning at me broadly. He had several yellowed, crumpled papers in his hand.
‘How’s that, then?’ He smiled. ‘The skull spoke truth!’
‘No—’ I lurched towards him, caught his arm. ‘Not about everything. Listen to me! It wasn’t Bickerstaff who died here. It was Wilberforce. Bickerstaff forced him to look in the bone glass, right here in this room! The bone glass killed him, Lockwood – it was Wilberforce who died in this house, and I think his spirit’s still here now. We need to get out. Don’t talk, just leave.’
Lockwood’s face was pale. He rose; and at that moment George appeared beside us. His eyes shone. ‘Have you found them? You got the papers? What do they say?’
‘Later,’ Lockwood said. ‘I thought I told you to watch the stairs.’
‘Oh, it’ll be all right. It’s quiet down there. Ooh, it’s handwritten, and there are little pictures too. This is fascinating—’
‘Get out!’ I cried. A growing pressure beat against my ear. It seemed to me that the moonlight in the window was a little thicker than before.
‘Yes,’ Lockwood said. ‘Let’s go.’ We turned – and saw the hulking form of Ned Shaw standing in the doorway. He blocked the space. If you’d put a hinge on his backside and another on his elbow, he’d have made an ugly but effective swing-door.
‘George,’ I said. ‘How long has it been since you actually watched the stairs?’
‘Well, I might have nipped over a moment or two ago to see what you were doing.’
Shaw’s little eyes gleamed with triumph and suspicion. ‘What have you got there, Lockwood?’ he said. ‘What’s that you’re holding?’
‘I don’t yet know,’ Lockwood said truthfully. He bent, put the papers in his bag.
‘Give them here,’ Shaw said.
‘No. Let us pass, please.’
Ned Shaw gave a chuckle; he leaned casually against the door-jamb. ‘Not until I see what you’ve got.’
‘This really isn’t a place for an argument,’ I said. The temperature was dropping; the moonlight swirled and shifted in the room, as if slowly being stirred into life.
‘Perhaps you’re unaware,’ Lockwood began, ‘that this room—’
Shaw chuckled again. ‘Oh, I can see it all. The death-glow, the miasma forming. There’s even a little ghost-fog . . . Yeah, it’s not a place to linger.’
Lockwood’s eyes narrowed. ‘In that case’ – he drew his rapier – ‘you’ll agree we can leave right now.’ He stepped towards him. Shaw hesitated, and then – it was almost as if those hinges I mentioned were in position and nicely oiled – swung back and let us through.
‘Thanks,’ Lockwood said.
Whether it was the way he said it – lightly, but with amused disdain; whether it was my look of utter contempt, or the grin on George’s face, or simply a pressure inside that could not be borne, but Ned Shaw suddenly cracked. He ripped his rapier clear and, in the same movement, jabbed at Lockwood’s back. I knew the move; it was a Komiyama Twist, used on Spectres, Wraiths and Fetches. Not on people.
My gasp as the sword was drawn half warned Lockwood. He began to turn; the rapier point scratched at an angle along the fabric of his coat, caught against the threads and penetrated the cloth. It caught him just beneath his left arm; he cried out and sprang away.
Red-faced, panting, Shaw plunged after him like a maddened bull. Reaching the centre of the landing, Lockwood spun round, struck aside his enemy’s outstretched rapier and cut two parallel lines across the fabric of Shaw’s sword-arm, so that the jacket sleeve hung loose and limp. Shaw gave a bellow of fury.
Footsteps on the stairs. Kipps was taking them two at a time. Kat Godwin and little Bobby Vernon followed on behind. All had their rapiers in their hands.
‘Lockwood!’ Kipps cried. ‘What’s going on?’
‘He started it!’ Shaw cried, frantically warding off a series of remorseless blows as he retreated across the landing. ‘He attacked me! Help!’
‘That’s a lie!’ I shouted. But Kipps was already hurtling to the attack. He advanced on Lockwood side-on. It was a position from which Lockwood would be unable to see him: sneaky and effective – a typical Fittes ploy. And then my own anger, which had been bubbling up since Shaw’s treacherous assault, perhaps ever since that night on Wimbledon Common – overwhelmed me. I charged forward, rapier raised.
Before I could reach Kipps, Kat Godwin was upon me. Our blades met with a thin, high clash. The force of her first strike almost drove the weapon out of my hand, but I adjusted my wrist, absorbed the impact and held firm. For a moment we were locked together; I could smell the lemony reek of her perfume, see the crisp stitching on her smart grey jacket. We broke apart, circled each other. Dust rose from our shuffling feet and hung sparkling in the silvery air. It was very cold. There was a ringing in my ears.