The quality of their voices changed, became suddenly more muffled. I guessed they’d turned away from me. I rapidly pulled the remaining length of blade out of view; then, with infinite care, I leaned to the side, and peered round the edge of the cabinet.
Not fifteen feet away, I saw the backs of two people: Penelope Fittes conversing with a dumpy, middle-aged man. He wore the black tie and dinner jacket of a party guest; from what I could see, he had a rather thickset neck, a pinkish jowly face.
‘Speaking of unusual artefacts,’ Penelope Fittes said, ‘I do have something to give you.’ She moved suddenly, and I ducked back into hiding. I could hear the points of her shoes clicking crisply on the dark wood floor. ‘Think of it as a token of my good will.’
I couldn’t tell where she was going, whether or not she was getting closer to me. I pressed myself tighter against the back of the cabinet.
Something made me look up. Lockwood was lying flat on his stomach on the surface of the balcony almost directly above. He was doing his best to merge in with the metal and the darkness. The black dinner jacket helped. His pale face didn’t. I signalled at him to turn his head away.
‘Lucy!’ he mouthed.
‘What?’
I couldn’t make it out at first. He mouthed it several times. His eyes swivelled from me towards the centre of the room. Then I realized what he was telling me: ‘My glass.’
I craned my head round the edge of the cabinet and, sure enough . . . my heart skipped another beat. There it was, his punch glass, sitting on top of the little display case in the centre of the room. It was almost as if the spotlight was deliberately trained on it. How it sparkled. You could even see the little residue of red liquid at the bottom.
Penelope Fittes had crossed to that very cabinet. She was standing right beside it; the glass was at her shoulder. She had opened a drawer below the case, and was bringing something out.
All she had to do was glance up and focus on it, and she would see the glass right there.
But she didn’t. Her mind was on other things. She closed the drawer and turned to her companion.
‘We’ve repaired it,’ Penelope Fittes said. ‘And tested it. It works again splendidly. I hope the Orpheus Society make better use of it than before.’
‘You are very kind, madam, and they will be grateful. I’ll be sure to pass on their thanks, and let you know how their experiments go.’
‘Very good. I don’t suggest you re-join the party. It’s rather an obvious box. But you can go out this way.’
The click-clack of her shoes sounded again – and to my horror I saw that the little door through which we’d entered the library was not far from me. They would pass right by my hiding place. After an instant’s frozen indecision, I acted: I eased off my shoes – first one foot, then the other – then pressed my fingers to the floor and pushed myself up slightly, so that I could shuffle both feet backwards. Now I no longer sat, but squatted on the balls of each foot, with my back still flat against the cabinet. With one hand I picked up my shoes; with the other, I held my rapier steady, so that it wouldn’t knock against anything and make a sound. I did all this faster than it takes to tell.
I waited. Up above, Lockwood had turned his head to face the wall; he had become a patch of shadow. The footsteps drew close, and now they passed by, a few feet beyond the cabinet, and I had a sudden waft of Penelope Fittes’ flowery perfume. The man carried a wooden box under his arm. It was not very big, perhaps twelve inches square, and five or six deep. They paused beside the door, and I glimpsed the box clearly for an instant. Stamped in the centre of its lid was an odd little symbol. It was a little like a harp, with three strings, bent sides, and a splayed base. Even in that extreme moment it made me frown; I had seen that symbol before.
Then the woman opened the door for him, and that was my chance to move. With two quick shuffles, I was round the corner of the cabinet and hunching down again, so that I was out of sight when our hostess chose to turn round.
The door closed; the man must have departed without words. Penelope Fittes walked past the cabinet and away across the room. Once she had gone by, I shuffled back to my original position.
I listened to her cross the library, going at a brisk pace. When she reached the centre, she stopped abruptly. I could imagine her looking around. I thought of George, of Lockwood’s glass . . . I squeezed my eyes tight closed. Then the footsteps resumed, there was the briefest swell and ebb of party noise, and the sound of keys turning in the door.
I exhaled properly for the first time.
‘Nice moves, Luce,’ Lockwood said, pushing himself up from the balcony. ‘You were just like a sprightly crab. Where did George go?’
Yes, where was he? I surveyed the library’s emptiness.
‘Anyone care to help me?’ a small voice called from under the reading table. ‘I’m stuck down here, and I think my bottom’s wedged.’
Back in the conference halls, the party was in full swing. The band played boisterously, the waiters filled glasses at ever greater speed; the guests, dancing with more enthusiasm than talent, were louder and more red-faced than before. We found a quiet place beside a unicorn-shaped chocolate fountain and took in some badly needed drinks.
‘You should really join a circus, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘There are people who’d pay good money to see contortions like that.’
‘That’ll be my next career.’ George took a long swig of punch. ‘Certain parts of me still feel folded. You’ve got the book?’
Lockwood patted his jacket pocket; after less than a minute’s hasty searching, we’d discovered ‘The Confessions of Mary Dulac’, a thin pamphlet bound in black leather, on a high shelf on the upper level. ‘Safe and sound,’ he said.
George grinned. ‘Good. This has already been a successful night, and we haven’t even come to the main event yet. Can we nip somewhere and read it now?’
‘Afraid not,’ Lockwood said. ‘Better drink up. It’s twenty to eleven. Time to go.’
‘Not leaving so soon, Mr Lockwood . . .?’ Inspector Barnes materialized dourly at our elbows. It was hard to say what seemed more out of place: the pink cocktail in his hand, or the fountain spurting chocolate bubbles at his side. ‘I was hoping for a quiet word.’
To our annoyance, Quill Kipps was lurking behind him, like a slim and baleful shadow.
‘That would be delightful,’ Lockwood said. ‘Have you enjoyed the party?’
‘Kipps here tells me,’ Barnes said, ‘that you might have uncovered some interesting documents up in Hampstead. What are they, and why haven’t you shared them?’
‘I’d be delighted to do precisely that, Inspector,’ Lockwood said. ‘But it’s been a long day and we’re very weary. Could we visit you in the morning to explain?’
‘Not now? Surely you could tell me this evening.’
‘It’s not really a suitable location. Far too noisy. Tomorrow morning at Scotland Yard would be so much better. We could bring you the documents then too.’ Lockwood gave a warm, ingratiating smile; George took a half-glance at his watch.
‘You do seem in rather a hurry,’ Barnes said. His pouched blue eyes appraised us steadily. ‘Just off to bed now, are you?’
‘Yes, George here turns into a pumpkin if he’s out too late – as you can see, he’s well on the way already.’
‘So you’ll show me these documents tomorrow?’
‘We will.’
‘All right, but I’ll expect you bright and early. No excuses, no no-shows, or I’ll come to find you myself.’
‘Thank you, Mr Barnes. We very much hope to have good news for you then.’
‘That was bad timing,’ Lockwood said as we crossed the reception area towards the outer doors of Fittes House. ‘Kipps will know we’re up to something tonight.’