Now there was nothing but seven exhausted agents scattered wheezing on the quiet hill.
V
A Big Night Out
20
‘Destroy it!’ I cried. ‘That’s the only option. We take it to the furnaces and we burn the thing now!’
‘Yes,’ Lockwood murmured, ‘but is that really practical?’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ George said. ‘We simply can’t do it. It’s too important for us – and for psychic science generally. And Luce, flicking marmalade at my head is really not a valid argument. You’ve got to calm down.’
‘I’ll calm down,’ I snarled, ‘when this cursed skull is off the premises.’ I threw the marmalade spoon at the jar. It struck the side of the glass, bounced off with a ping, and landed in the butter.
‘Oh, dear . . .’ A mocking whisper sounded in my head. ‘Temper, temper . . . This is such an exhibition.’
‘And you can shut up!’ I said. ‘I don’t need you to butt in too!’
Morning had come, which meant yet more crystal-clear skies, another late breakfast, and – in my case at least – the releasing of a lot of pent-up rage. It hadn’t come out on our long journey home from Hampstead, nor in my fitful sleep; it hadn’t even stirred when I came into the kitchen and saw the ghost-jar on the worktop. But when, as we discussed the night’s events, I heard the ghost’s hoarse chuckle cutting through my mind, my control finally snapped. I’d leaped at the jar, and it was all Lockwood could do to prevent me from smashing it there and then.
‘I keep telling you, it lured us to the house!’ I said. ‘It knew about the horror in that room! It knew Wilberforce’s ghost would be there! That’s why it let slip about the papers in the first place; that’s why it led us upstairs. It’s vindictive and evil, and we were fools to listen to it. You should have heard it laughing at us last night, and now it’s doing it again!’
‘All the same,’ Lockwood said mildly, ‘we do have the papers. It didn’t lie about that.’
‘That was just a way of trapping us, don’t you see? It’s preying on our weaknesses. And it does that by getting into my head! It’s all right for you – you can’t hear its horrid whispering.’
‘Oh, how mean,’ the skull’s voice said. ‘Anyway, be consistent. Last thing I heard, you were begging me to speak. And I don’t know why you’re being so ungrateful, either. I got you the papers – and gave you a nice little work-out too. A pathetic little spirit like Wilberforce was never going to cause you any real trouble.’ It gave a fruity chuckle. ‘Well? I’m waiting for a thank-you.’
I stared across at the ghost-jar. Sunlight danced mutely on its glass sides, and there was no sign of the spectral face. But a door had suddenly opened in my mind, a memory come sharply into focus. It was from last night, up at the house – one of the voices I’d heard echoing from the past:
‘Try Wilberforce,’ the voice had said. ‘He’s eager. He’ll do it . . .’
The tones had been familiar. I knew them all too well.
‘It was him!’ I pointed at the skull. ‘It was him talking to Bickerstaff in the workroom! So much for him not knowing about the mirror – he was there when it was made! Not just that, he actually suggested they make Wilberforce look into it!’
The skull grinned back at me from the centre of the plasm. ‘Impressive,’ it whispered. ‘You have got Talent. Yes, and it was such a shame that poor Wilberforce didn’t have the strength to cope with what he saw. But now my master’s mirror is back in the world again. Perhaps someone else will use it and be enlightened.’
I passed these words on to the others. Lockwood leaned forwards. ‘Great – it’s being talkative. Ask it what the mirror actually does, Luce.’
‘I don’t want to ask this foul creature anything. Besides, there’s no way it would ever tell us.’
‘Hold on,’ the ghost said. ‘Try asking nicely. A little bit of courtesy might help.’
I looked at it. ‘Please tell us what the mirror does.’
‘Get lost! You haven’t been very polite today, so you can all go boil your heads.’
I felt its presence disappear. The plasm clouded, concealing the skull from view.
With gritted teeth, I repeated everything. Lockwood laughed. ‘It’s certainly picked up a few choice phrases from its constant eavesdropping.’
‘There’re a few more I’d like it to hear,’ I growled.
‘Now, now. We’ve got to detach ourselves from it,’ Lockwood said. ‘You, Lucy, most of all. We mustn’t let it wind us up.’ He crossed to the jar and closed the lever in the plastic seal, cutting off any connection with the ghost. Then he covered it with a cloth. ‘It’s slowly giving us what we want,’ he said, ‘but I think we could all do with a little privacy. Let’s keep it quiet for now.’
The phone rang, and Lockwood went to answer it. I left the kitchen too. My head felt numb, the echoes of the ghostly whispers still lingered in my ears. Thankful as I was to have some peace from the skull, it didn’t make me feel much better. It was only a temporary respite. Soon they’d want me to talk to it again.
In the living room, I took a breather. I went over to the window and looked out into the street.
A spy was standing there.
It was our old friend, Ned Shaw. Grey, dishevelled and whey-faced with weariness, he stood like an ugly post box on the opposite side of the road, stolidly watching our front door. He’d clearly not been home; he wore the same jacket as the night before, half shredded by Lockwood’s rapier. He had a takeaway coffee in one hand and looked thoroughly miserable.
I went back to the kitchen, where Lockwood had just returned. George was busy doing the dishes. ‘They’re still watching the house,’ I said.
Lockwood nodded. ‘Good. Shows how desperate they are. This is Kipps’s response to our seizure of the papers. He knows we’ve got something important, and he’s terrified of missing out on what we do next.’
‘Ned Shaw’s been there all morning now. I almost feel sorry for him.’
‘I don’t. I can still feel where he spiked me. How’s your cut doing, Lucy?’
I had a small bandage where Kat Godwin’s blade had struck. ‘Fine.’
‘Speaking of sharp objects,’ Lockwood said, ‘that was Barnes on the phone. DEPRAC’s done some research into the knife that killed Jack Carver. Remember I said it was an Indian Mughal dagger? I was right, though I got the century wrong. From the early 1700s, apparently. Surprised me.’
‘Where was it stolen from, though?’ George said. ‘Which museum?’
‘Oddly enough, no museum has reported it missing. We don’t know where it’s from. An almost identical one is kept in the Museum of London. It was found in the tomb of a British soldier in Maida Vale Cemetery a couple of years ago. The chap had served in India, and had all sorts of curios buried with him. They were dug up, checked by DEPRAC, and put on show. But that dagger’s still safely in its case, so where this one comes from is a mystery.’
‘I still think it comes from the Bloomsbury Antiques Emporium,’ I said. ‘And our friend Winkman.’
‘He is the most obvious suspect,’ Lockwood agreed. ‘But why didn’t he take back his money? Hurry up with the dishes, George. I want to look at the papers we found.’
‘You could always give me a hand,’ George suggested. ‘Speed things up a little.’