So it would have ended, but for my father’s service revolver on my table. I tore myself free and took up the gun. Covering my face as Bickerstaff clawed at me and screamed, I shot – the bullet passed directly through his forehead. I fired also at the Boy, but like an eel he evaded my grasp, dived through the casement and escaped. In some moments, God forgive me, this is my supreme regret. I wish that I had killed him too.
I will not tell how we disposed of the doctor and his creation. Suffice it to say that we feared others might mimic our folly, and seek out knowledge that isn’t meant for Man. I only trust that we have constrained the Device as best we can, and that it may now lie for ever undisturbed.
I closed the pamphlet and tossed it aside. ‘So that’s it,’ I said. ‘That’s how Bickerstaff died. Mary Dulac shot him, then she and her friends buried him secretly in Kensal Green. We’ve solved it. The case is closed.’ I picked up my plate, ready to carry it to the sink – and stopped suddenly, staring at the table.
Opposite me, Lockwood was nodding. ‘Dulac may have been crackers,’ he said, ‘but she got it spot on. Everyone wants the glass. Everyone’s obsessed by what it might show, despite the fact that it seems to kill whoever looks in it. Those collectors last night would have paid thousands. Barnes is desperate too. Joplin’s been hounding us to have a peek, and George is scarcely any better.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘George and Joplin are so similar, aren’t they? They even clean their glasses in the same way. Incidentally, did I tell you that I think Joplin was the one who pinched Bickerstaff’s original stand from the coffin? He and Saunders are the only ones with access to the chapel where it was kept, you see. It’s just the kind of thing that he . . .’ He paused. ‘Lucy? What is it? What on earth’s wrong?’
I was still staring at the table, at the thinking cloth with all its notes and scribbles. It’s right in front of us all the time. Mostly, I never focus on what’s written there. Now, quite by chance, I had – and if my blood hadn’t drained from my face, it certainly felt like it. ‘Lockwood . . .’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Was this here earlier?’
‘Yes. That doodle’s been there for months. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it. I keep telling George not to do that kind of stuff; it puts me off my breakfast. What, do you think we should replace the cloth?’
‘Not the doodle. Shut up. This writing here. It says: Gone to see a friend about the mirror. Back soon. G.’
We stared at each other. ‘That must’ve been written days ago . . .’ Lockwood said.
‘When?’
Lockwood hesitated. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Look, here’s the pen he wrote it with. Right next to it.’
‘But that would mean . . .’ Lockwood blinked at me. ‘Surely not. He wouldn’t.’
‘A “friend”,’ I said. ‘You know who that would be, don’t you?’
‘He wouldn’t.’
‘He came back here with the bone glass, and instead of waiting for us, he went straight out again. To see Joplin.’
‘He wouldn’t!’ Lockwood had half risen; he seemed uncertain what to do. ‘I can’t believe it. I expressly told him not to.’
A vibration in the room. It was faint and very muffled. I looked over at the ghost-jar. Poisonous green light gleamed within it; the face was laughing.
‘The ghost knows!’ I cried. ‘Of course it does – it was right here!’ I shoved my chair back, sprang over to the glass. I turned the lever – and at once the foul cackles of the skull burst on my ear.
‘Missing someone?’ it jeered. ‘Has the penny just dropped?’
‘Tell us!’ I shouted. ‘What have you seen?’
‘I’ve been wondering how long it would take you to figure it out,’ the voice said. ‘I guessed twenty minutes. Must’ve taken twice that. Two dim dormice would have sussed it faster than you.’
‘What happened? Where did George go?’
‘You know, I think your little George is in a spot of trouble,’ the skull said gleefully. ‘I think he’s off doing something stupid. Well, I won’t lose any sleep over it, after all the things he’s done to me.’
I could feel panic rising in my chest, my muscles freezing. I stammered out the ghost’s words to Lockwood. All at once he was past me and grabbing the ghost-jar from the worktop. He swung it over and crashed it down upon the table, sending the plates flying.
The face rolled against the inside of the jar, the nose pressed flat against the glass. ‘Hey, careful. Watch with the plasm.’
Lockwood scraped his fingers back through his hair. ‘Tell it to talk. Say that if it doesn’t tell us what it saw George do, we’ll—’
‘You’ll what?’ the ghost said. ‘What can you do to me? I’m dead already.’
I repeated the words, then flicked the glass with a finger. ‘We know you don’t like heat,’ I snapped. ‘We can make things very uncomfortable for you.’
‘Yes,’ Lockwood added. ‘And we’re not talking ovens now. We’ll take you to the furnaces in Clerkenwell.’
‘So?’ the ghost sneered. ‘So you destroy me. How will that help you? And how do you know that’s not exactly what I desire?’
Lockwood, when I told him this, opened his mouth and then shut it again. The desires and dreams of a ghost are hard to fathom, and he didn’t know what to say. But I did. All at once, I knew precisely what that ghost had always wanted – what had driven it in life, and what kept driving it in death. I felt it; I knew it as if the longing was my own. There are some advantages to sharing headspace with a phantom. Not many, but a few.
I bent my head close to the glass. ‘You like keeping little secrets from us, don’t you?’ I said. ‘Your name, for instance, and who you once were. Well, we don’t really care about that. See, I think we know enough already to understand what makes you tick. You were one of Bickerstaff’s friends – maybe his servant, maybe not – and that means you shared his dreams. You helped him build that stupid bone mirror. You wanted to see it used. And why would you do that? Why did you have that mad desire to look past death and see what lies beyond? Because you were afraid. You wanted to be sure that something happened after it, that you wouldn’t be alone.’
The face in the jar yawned, showing appalling teeth. ‘Really? Fascinating. Bring me a hot cocoa, and wake me when you’re done.’
‘Thing is,’ I went on implacably, ‘the same fear’s driving you now. You still can’t bear to be alone. That’s why you’re always yabbering on at me, why you’re always pulling faces. You’re desperate for connection.’
The ghost rolled its eyes so fast they looked like Catherine wheels. ‘With you? Give me a break. I’ve got standards. If I wanted a proper conversation I’d find—’
‘You’d find what?’ I sneered. ‘You’d find it how? You’re a head in a jar. You’re not going anywhere and we’re all you’ve got. So – we’re not going to put you in the furnaces,’ I said. ‘We’re not going to torture you. All we do, if you don’t start co-operating, is shut your lever up, put you in a bag, and bury you in the ground somewhere. Nice and deep so no one ever finds you. Just you, on your own, for ever. How does that sound?’