‘Me too,’ Lockwood said. ‘Well, I don’t see why we can’t do both. Yes . . . why not? We’ll make it a real night to remember.’ He strode to the table, swung a chair round. ‘George: kettle, Lucy: biscuits. Flo, why don’t you please sit down?’
No one moved; all of us stared at him. ‘Do both what?’ George asked.
‘It’s really very simple.’ Lockwood was grinning now. The radiance of his smile filled the room. ‘Tomorrow night we’ll enjoy the party. Then we’re going to steal the mirror back.’
21
If there’s one thing more stressful than being attacked by ravening ghost-rats, it’s finding that you’re going to a posh party and haven’t got a thing to wear. According to Lockwood, who subscribed to a magazine called London Society, the dress code on such occasions was dinner jackets for men and cocktail dresses for women. Agents were also permitted to wear agency uniforms, with rapiers, but since Lockwood & Co. had no uniform, this wasn’t much help. It was true I had certain items in my wardrobe that might, at a stretch, be termed ‘dresses’, but ‘cocktail’ they most definitely were not. This fact, on the morning of the great Fittes Anniversary Party, sent me into a sudden panic. A frantic trip to the Regent’s Street department stores ensued; by mid-morning I was back and breathless, laden with shopping bags and shoe boxes. I met Lockwood in the hall.
‘I’m not sure any of this is right,’ I said, ‘but it’ll have to do. What are you and George wearing?’
‘I’ve got something somewhere. George wouldn’t recognize a suit if it walked up and smacked him round the head. But he hasn’t done anything about it; his friend Joplin’s been here for the last two hours. They’re looking at the manuscript.’
Now that he mentioned it, I could hear the murmur of voices in the living room, talking over one another at great speed. ‘Can he translate it?’
‘I don’t know. He says it’s very obscure. But he’s mightily excited. He and George have been hooting over it like a couple of owls. Come and see. I want him off, anyway. We’ve got to get ready for tonight, and I need to go out and see Flo.’
It had been three days since we’d seen Albert Joplin, and to be honest I’d almost forgotten his existence. The little cemetery archivist was that kind of man. Last time I’d set eyes on him, shortly after the theft at Kensal Green, he’d cut a distressed and angry figure, loudly criticizing the lack of security on the site. His mood, clearly, had improved. When we went in, he and George were sitting on either side of the coffee table, talking and chuckling loudly as they stared down at the Bickerstaff papers laid out before them. Joplin was just as stoop-shouldered and tweedy as ever; light coatings of dandruff still iced his shoulders. But today his face shone, his eyes sparkled. If he’d been lucky enough to possess a chin, it would no doubt have been jutting with excitement. He was scribbling rapidly in a notepad as we entered.
‘Oh, hello, Mr Lockwood!’ he called. ‘I have just finished transcribing the text. Thank you so much for showing it to me. It is such a remarkable find.’
‘Any luck with the translation?’ Lockwood asked.
Joplin ran a hand through his mat of disordered hair; a small grey cloud of particles floated loose into the air. ‘Not yet, but I’ll do my best. This seems to be some kind of medieval Italian dialect . . . it is rather obscure. I will work on it, and get back to you. Mr Cubbins and I have had excellent discussions about it already. He’s a lad after my own heart. A most intelligent, enquiring mind.’
George looked like a cat that had not only got the cream, but had been nicely stroked for doing so. ‘Mr Joplin thinks the mirror may be uniquely important,’ he said.
‘Yes, Edmund Bickerstaff was ahead of his time,’ Joplin said, rising. ‘Quite insane, of course, but a kind of pioneer.’ He gathered a mess of papers together and thrust them into a satchel. ‘I think it’s tragic that the mirror has been stolen. Tragic too that – if it’s ever found – it would immediately be handed over to the DEPRAC scientists. They share nothing with those of us working on the outside . . . Speaking of such problems, I told Mr Cubbins that I haven’t managed to find that other document you wanted – Mary Dulac’s “Confessions”. I cannot think of another library that might have it – short of Marissa Fittes’ Black Library, perhaps, which is also out of bounds.’
‘Ah well,’ Lockwood said. ‘Never mind.’
‘I wish you luck with all your investigations,’ Joplin said. He smiled at us; taking off his thick round spectacles, he rubbed them contemplatively on a corner of his jacket. ‘If you have success, I wonder, perhaps you might give me a little glimpse of . . . No, I can see I’ve said too much. Forgive my impudence.’
Lockwood spoke with studied coolness. ‘I can’t comment about our work, and I’m sure George wouldn’t do so, either. I look forward to hearing what you make of the writing in due course, Mr Joplin. Thank you for your time.’
Bobbing and smiling, the little archivist made his departure. Lockwood was waiting for George when he came back up the hall.
‘Kipps has stationed Kat Godwin outside our house today,’ George said. ‘I told Joplin not to talk with her, if she asks him anything.’
‘You two got along well again, I saw,’ Lockwood said.
‘Yeah, Albert speaks a lot of sense. Especially about DEPRAC. Once they get hold of something, it’s never seen again. And this mirror could be something special. I mean – the idea that this might be some kind of window is extraordinary. We know that normal Sources somehow provide a hole or passage for ghosts to pass through. This thing is a multiple Source – made from lots of haunted bones – so just maybe that would make the hole big enough to look through . . .’ He glanced sidelong at us. ‘You know what, if we do get the mirror back tonight, there’ll be no harm in checking it out ourselves before we hand it over. I could bring it back here, and we could try—’
‘Don’t be an idiot, George!’ Lockwood’s shout made both of us jump. ‘No harm? This mirror kills people!’
‘It didn’t kill me,’ George protested. ‘Yes, yes, I know I only saw it for a second. But maybe there’s a way to view it safely.’
‘Is that what Joplin told you? Rubbish! He’s a crank, and you’re no better than he is if you even contemplate messing about with a thing like this. No, we get the mirror, we pass it on to Barnes. That’s all there is to it. Understood?’
George rolled his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Another thing. What did you tell him about what we’re doing tonight?’
‘Nothing.’ George’s face was as inexpressive as ever; two small spots of colour showed on his cheeks. ‘I didn’t tell him anything.’
Lockwood stared at him. ‘I hope not . . . Well, forget about it. We need to get ready and there’s a lot to do.’
Indeed there was. The next few hours were a confusion of activity as we prepared for two separate, overlapping expeditions. Our duffel bags, stocked with an unusually high number of magnesium flares, were readied, together with our normal boots and work clothes. Lockwood and George, careful to avoid the watchful eyes of Kat Godwin in Portland Row, took these out the back way, and were gone for several hours. Meanwhile I polished our best rapiers, before spending ages trying on shoes and dresses in front of the mirror in the hall. I wasn’t very happy about any of them, but plumped for a dark-blue, knee-length number with a scooped neck. It made my arms look fat and my feet look too big, and I wasn’t convinced about the way it clung to my stomach. Other than that it was perfect. Plus it had a fabric belt to which I could fix my sword.
I wasn’t the only one to have reservations about my dress. Someone had knocked the cloth off the ghost-jar, and the face had re-materialized. It pulled extravagant expressions of horror and disgust whenever I passed by.