‘OK . . .’ I said. ‘Where shall we start?’
Lockwood blew out his cheeks. ‘Don’t really know . . .’
We stood at the side of the room, watching the backs of the party-goers, the glitz and the jewellery and the slim brown necks go waltzing by. The sound of their laughter was a wall we could not get past. We drank our drinks.
‘Who do you recognize, Lockwood?’ I said. ‘You read the magazines.’
‘Well . . . that tall fair-haired man with the beard and teeth is Steve Rotwell, head of Rotwell’s, of course. And I think that’s Josiah Delawny, the lavender magnate, over there. The one with the red face and the sideburns. I’m not going to talk to him. He’s famous for horse-whipping two Grimble agents after they smashed an heirloom during a ghost-hunt at one of his mansions. The woman chatting to him is, I believe, the new head of Fairfax Iron. Angeline Crawford. She’s Fairfax’s niece. Possibly another one not to make small-talk with, seeing as we killed her uncle.’
‘She doesn’t know that, does she?’
‘No, but there’s such a thing as good form.’
‘I can see Barnes,’ George said. Sure enough, not far away, the inspector was gloomily negotiating a champagne glass past his moustache. Like us, he stood alone, on the fringes of the crowd. ‘And Kipps! How did he get in? This party isn’t as exclusive as they’d have us believe.’
A knot of Fittes agents, Kipps among them, stalked past. Kipps pointed at us and made a comment. The others brayed with laughter; they minced away. I looked sourly at the chandeliers above us. ‘Can’t believe you once worked here, George.’
He nodded. ‘Yeah. You can tell I fitted right in.’
‘Seems more like a stately home than an agency.’
‘These conference halls are the posh bit, along with the Black Library. The rest of the offices aren’t so swanky. But Kipps is pretty typical, unfortunately.’
Lockwood gave a sudden exclamation; when I looked at him, his eyes were shining. ‘On second thoughts, we can scrap my last suggestion,’ he said. ‘Stuff the mingling. Who wants to do that? Boring. George – this library. Where is it?’
‘Couple of rooms away. It won’t be open. Only high-level agents have access.’
‘Do you think we could get in?’
‘Why?’
‘I was just remembering something Joplin said, about those “Confessions” that you’re after. He said the Black Library was the one place where a copy might be . . . Just wondering whether, since we’re here—’
At that moment the crowds parted, and Lockwood stopped speaking. A very tall and beautiful woman was walking towards us. She wore a slim, silver-grey dress that shimmered subtly as she moved. She had silver bracelets on her slender wrists, and a silver choker at her throat. Her hair was long and black and lustrous, falling around her neck in merry curls. She had very fine cheekbones, attractive if rather high, and an imperious, full-lipped mouth. My first impression had been of a person scarcely older than me, but her dark and sober eyes had the flash of long-established power.
A muscular man with cropped grey hair and pale skin spoke at her shoulder. ‘Ms Penelope Fittes.’
I’d known who she was. We all did. But she surprised me, even so. Unlike her main rival, Steve Rotwell, the head of Fittes shunned publicity. I’d always imagined her as a stocky, middle-aged businesswoman, as hatchet-faced as her famous grandmother. Not like this. She had the instant effect of reminding me how awkward I felt in my improvised dress and shoes. I could see the others instinctively drawing themselves up, trying to seem taller, more confident. Even Lockwood’s face had flushed. I didn’t look at George, but he’d almost certainly gone bright red.
‘Anthony Lockwood, ma’am,’ Lockwood said, inclining his head. ‘And these are my associates—’
‘Lucy Carlyle and George Cubbins,’ the lady said. ‘Yes. I’m very pleased to meet you.’ She had a deeper voice than I’d expected. ‘I was impressed by your handling of the Combe Carey Haunting – and grateful that you recovered the body of my friend. If I can ever be of assistance to you, be sure to let me know.’ Her dark eyes lingered on each of us. I gave an affirmative smile; George emitted some kind of squeak.
‘We’re honoured to be invited tonight,’ Lockwood said. ‘It’s a remarkable room.’
‘Yes, it contains many treasures of the Fittes collection. Sources of the strongest power – all rendered harmless, of course, for our pillars are made of Sunrise silver-glass, and have iron pediments and bases. Come, let me show you . . .’
She sashayed her way through the throng, which moved aside for us. In the nearest glass column, illuminated by pale green light, a battered skeleton hung suspended on a metal frame. ‘This is perhaps the most famous artefact of all,’ Penelope Fittes said. ‘The remains of Long Hugh Hennratty, the highwayman whose ghost became famous as the Mud Lane Phantom. My grandmother and Tom Rotwell located the body at midnight on Midsummer’s Eve in 1962. Rotwell dug it up while Marissa kept the ghost at bay till dawn by frantically waving her iron spade.’ Our hostess gave a husky little laugh. ‘I’ve always said it’s a good job she was a keen tennis player, or how would she have had the stamina or aim? But psychical investigation was in its infancy in those days – they didn’t know what they were doing.’
The skeleton was stained a peaty brown; the skull had few teeth and was missing its lower jaw. Aside from half of one femur, dangling beneath the pelvis, the legs and feet were gone. ‘Hugh Hennratty seems in rough shape,’ I said.
Penelope Fittes nodded. ‘They say wild dogs dug the body up and ate the legs. This may account for the ghost’s anger.’
‘Chicken satay, anyone?’ A young waiter materialized beside us with hors d’oeuvres on a golden tray. George took one; Lockwood and I politely declined.
‘You must excuse me,’ Penelope Fittes said. ‘Circulation is the bane of a hostess’s life! You can never stay long with anyone – no matter how fascinating they might be . . .’ She gave a twinkling smile at Lockwood, nodded dreamily at George and me, and drifted away. The crowd opened to receive her and the pale man, then closed fast, leaving us outside.
‘Well. She’s nicer than I expected,’ Lockwood said.
‘She’s all right,’ I said.
George, chewing on his satay stick, shrugged. ‘She wasn’t as friendly as that when I was here. Ordinary agents never see her; she never comes down from her apartments. That grey-haired guy with her, though – her personal assistant – he used to get involved.’ His spectacles glittered resentfully. ‘He was the one who sacked me.’
I looked into the crowd, but Penelope Fittes and her companion had gone. ‘He didn’t seem to remember you.’
‘No. That’s right. Probably forgotten all about me.’ George stuck the stick into the soil of a nearby potted fern, and hoisted his sagging trousers. A sudden fire of indignation burned in his eyes. ‘You mentioned the Black Library just now, Lockwood. You know what, I don’t see why we shouldn’t take a little walk, see if we can peep in there.’
He led the way slowly round the edge of the hall. Outside the windows the summer dusk was deepening. Coloured spotlights cast strange effects of light and shadow across the moving crowd. Weird illuminations glowed inside the pillars – spectral mauves and blues and green. In several cases, ghosts appeared within the glass, staring sightlessly out, drifting ceaselessly round and round.
‘Are we sure about this?’ I asked. We were skulking in the shadows near a doorway, watching the throng, waiting for a chance to slip through. Not far away, Penelope Fittes talked animatedly to a handsome young man with a neat blond moustache. A woman with an incredible beehive hairdo shrieked at someone’s joke. On the dais a jazz ensemble began to play a sharp but plaintive bluegrass melody. From the side doors a steady stream of waiters came, each bringing more wonderful dishes than the last.