‘No one’s paying attention,’ George said. ‘Now . . .’
We followed him through the door and into an echoing marble hall. It contained the doors to six elevators, five coloured bronze and one coloured silver. The walls were lined with oil paintings of young agents – girls, boys, some smiling, others sad and serious – all beautifully depicted in their silver-grey jackets. Plinths beneath each one were decked with rapiers and wreaths of flowers.
‘Hall of Fallen Heroes,’ George whispered. ‘I never wanted to end up here. See that silver elevator? That goes straight up to Penelope Fittes’ rooms.’
George led us along a series of interconnecting passages, progressively narrower and less splendid, stopping occasionally to listen. The sound of the party grew dim. Lockwood still had his drinks glass; in his dinner suit, he moved as seamlessly as ever. I tottered along in my stupid dress and shoes.
At last George stopped at a heavy-looking wooden door. ‘We’ve gone the long way round,’ he said, ‘because I didn’t want to bump into anyone. This is a service entrance to the Black Library. It might be open. The main doors are almost certainly locked at this time of night. It’s got Marissa Fittes’ own collection of books on Visitors, many rare items. You realize that it’s utterly forbidden for us to go in? If we’re caught, we’ll be arrested and can wave our agency goodbye.’
Lockwood took a sip of his drink. ‘What are the chances of anyone coming in?’
‘Even when I worked here, I was never allowed more than a glimpse through the door. Only senior staff use it, and they’ll be at the party. It’s not a bad time. But we shouldn’t stay long.’
‘Good enough,’ Lockwood said. ‘Just a quick look and then we’re done. Burglary’s more fun than socializing, I always say. The door’ll probably be locked, anyhow.’
But it wasn’t locked, and a moment later we were inside.
22
The Black Library of Fittes House proved to be a vast octagonal room, rising the height of two full floors towards a glass dome in the roof. It being night, the surface of the dome was dark, but lanterns beneath it shone warm light down into the centre of the library. The walls were bookshelves, tier upon tier, with a metal balcony running around them at first-floor height. In two places, spiral stairs descended from this to ground level, where we stood. The floor was made of wooden tiles, mostly of dark mahogany; but in the centre, a design in paler woods depicted a rearing silver unicorn. The middle of the room was sparsely furnished; here and there were reading tables, and glass cabinets displaying books and other objects. Directly opposite us was a set of double doors, closed and locked. From somewhere came the hum of a generator; otherwise a great hush lay on the library. The air was cool and the light dim.
Inset lamps above each bookshelf glowed like hovering fireflies around the half-dark of the perimeter. The books themselves had been expensively bound in leather – purples, dark browns and blacks. There must have been many hundreds on the ground floor alone.
‘Impressive . . .’ Lockwood breathed.
You might have expected George to be in his element here – along with crisps and weird experiments, libraries are his thing – but he was twitchy, biting his lip as he scoped the balconies for signs of movement. ‘First we need the index to the collection,’ he said. ‘It’ll probably be on one of the reading tables. Hurry up and help me. We mustn’t stay long.’
We followed him swiftly out into the bright centre of the room. All around was watchful silence. Somewhere beyond the double doors I heard a murmuring: echoes of the party elsewhere on this floor.
The table nearest the door had a large leather book lying on it; George hauled it open with an eager cry. ‘This is the index! Now we just need to see if “The Confessions of Mary Dulac” is here.’
While he turned the pages, I glanced at the nearest display cabinets. Lockwood was doing the same. ‘More relics,’ he said. ‘There’s no end to their collection. Good Lord, these are the knitting needles in the Chatham Puncture case.’
I peered at the inky label on the side of my cabinet. ‘By the looks of it, I’ve got someone’s pickled lungs.’
George gave an agitated hiss. ‘Will you two stop messing about? This is no place—’ He stopped short. ‘Yes! Yes – I don’t believe it! They do have “The Confessions”! It’s listed here as book C/452. It’s somewhere in this room.’
Lockwood drained his glass decisively. ‘Very good. What are we looking for?’
‘Check out the books. They should all have numbers written on the spines!’
I hurried to the shelves, inspected the volumes upon them. Sure enough, each had its number in gold leaf, stamped into the leather. ‘Got the As here,’ I said.
Lockwood ran to the nearest stairs, vaulted the steps two at a time. His shoes tapped softly on the metal balcony. ‘B/53, B/54 . . . Nothing but Bs . . . I’ll check further along.’
‘What was the number again?’ I said.
‘Shh!’ George had suddenly stiffened where he stood. ‘Listen!’
Voices beyond the double doors; the rattling of a key in the lock.
I moved. I didn’t see what the others were doing. I flung myself towards the nearest display cabinet, positioned between the shelves and the illuminated centre of the room. Just as the door opened, I ducked down low behind it, scrunching up in high heels and party dress, bare knees pressed close to my chin.
A brief burst of party murmur, cut off by the firm closing of the door.
Then a woman’s voice. Familiar; deeper than you’d have expected.
‘It will be quieter here.’
Penelope Fittes.
I squeezed my eyes tight shut, and pressed my teeth hard against the surface of my knee. That Lockwood! Yet another of his impulsive ideas had steered us towards disaster. This part of the evening was supposed to be relaxing – we were meant to save the dangerous part for Winkman.
Footsteps on wood. They were walking into the centre of the room, just where George had been a moment before. I waited for the inevitable outcry, the shock of disclosure.
‘What was it you wished to say, Gabriel?’ Penelope Fittes asked.
I opened my eyes; as I glanced to the side, my heart jumped. My rapier was sticking out beyond the edge of the cabinet. The tip of the silver blade gently sparkled in the light.
A man was speaking, polite and deferential. ‘The members are getting restless, Ms Fittes. They feel that you are not helping them sufficiently with their work.’
That same husky little laugh. ‘I’m providing every assistance. If they aren’t up to the challenge, it’s not my problem.’
Very slowly I began to inch the rapier blade back in.
‘You wish me to tell them this?’ the man said.
‘Certainly you must tell them. I’m not their nursemaid!’
‘No, madam, but you are their inspiration— What’s that?’
I froze, bit my lip. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of my face and pooled beneath my chin.
‘The pickled lungs of Burrage the poisoner,’ Penelope Fittes said. ‘My grandmother had a great interest in crime. You would not believe the things she collected. Some of them have been of immense use over the years. Not these lungs, admittedly. They have no psychic charge at all.’
‘Odd choice of decoration for a library,’ the man said. ‘It would put me off my reading.’
The laugh again. ‘Ah, it doesn’t disturb those of us who come here. We have our minds on higher things.’