I shuddered. “Don’t.”
“Come on. If we follow the tunnel for long enough, we’ll find a way out.” He adjusted the hood of his cape. “Better keep these on until we’re well away from here.”
We got slowly, stiffly to our feet. “Who would have thought Portland Row had such treasures in it?” I said. “We owe your parents, Lockwood. They’ve kept us safe.”
He didn’t answer. It wasn’t a place for conversation. With that, we set our backs to death and darkness. Walking side by side, we followed the train track slowly up toward the light.
Lockwood was satisfied with the result of our subterranean expedition, or at least as satisfied as it was possible to be given that we’d failed to retrieve the skull and had both nearly died. The fact that it had taken us nearly two hours to locate a safe way out of the Underground system and had almost been squashed by a moving train outside of Stockwell didn’t bother him much either.
“Look at it this way,” he said the following morning, when we were sitting with George and Holly in the basement office of Lockwood & Co. “The positives of last night massively outweigh the negatives. First, we went in search of an important psychic artifact and discovered that we actually owned two others.” He glanced up at the suit of armor that stood beside his desk. The spirit-capes hung from it, glittering, resplendent, and slowly drying. They’d got a bit sooty in the Tube tunnels, and we’d had to dab them clean. “That’s a major result,” he went on. “Okay, maybe we won’t want to wear them too much in public. People might think we were in some kind of novelty show. But those capes could really help us out in dangerous situations. Right, George?”
There was nothing George loved more than mysterious psychic artifacts; he’d hardly been able to keep his hands off the capes all morning. “Yep, they’re amazing objects,” he said. “Obviously the silver links in the lining help keep the ghosts at bay, but it’s possible the feathers do something, too. Could be their natural oil, or some special coating the witch doctors used…I’ll have to experiment. And, Lockwood”—his eyes gleamed—“we should really check to see what else is hidden away upstairs in that room.”
“Maybe someday,” Lockwood said. “When we’ve got time.”
George grunted. “I know what that means. But you can’t keep ignoring those boxes—can he, Luce?”
“I guess not.” My reaction had been more muted than the others’. I was happy about the capes, of course, but that didn’t resolve my disappointment about the whispering skull. I’d been so close to retrieving it. I’d actually had it in my hand. Once the adrenaline of our escape had faded, I’d been left feeling pretty empty inside.
Lockwood knew what I was thinking, of course. “You mustn’t be too upset, Lucy,” he said. “We don’t know that the skull’s lost for good. There’s still hope—and that brings me to the really big result of the night…namely the sinister Mr. Johnson of the Rotwell Institute. You recognizing him there was huge. If you were still a member of Lockwood and Company, I’d give you a raise. As it is—”
“You’ll give me one?” George suggested.
“No. But I will go so far as to say it’s the most significant bit of work anyone’s done since the Chelsea Outbreak. You’re an amazing agent, Lucy.”
Well, you can guess that made me feel a bit better. While I was digesting it, Lockwood got up and walked around the front of his desk; he leaned back against it, tall and slim and full of life and purpose. I had a sudden sense that everything was possible, that fortune and our assembled Talents would favor us. I could feel my despondency lifting. It was the Lockwood effect.
“The implications are incredible,” he went on. “With one stroke, Luce, you made a connection between the black market and one of the most famous institutions in London. Holly—what can you tell us about the institute?”
Before coming to work at Lockwood’s, Holly Munro had been an agent at Rotwell’s—and then a personal assistant to Steve Rotwell, its chairman. She had not greatly enjoyed that particular job, Mr. Rotwell being a bullish, aggressive individual, but she had always spoken highly of the company in general. She certainly knew more than most about the way it was run.
“The institute is the agency’s research wing,” she said. “It keeps itself separate from the rest of the company. No ordinary operatives work for it. It’s all adult scientists investigating the mechanics of the Problem.”
“And making lots of lousy products in the process,” I said. “Like George’s silver bell thing we used at the Guppy house.”
George gave a shrill cry. “Hey, that worked! Just a little too late, was all.”
Holly nodded. “The institute’s got a long history of inventing new defenses.”
“And marketing them very successfully,” Lockwood said. “Holly, when you were at Rotwell, did you know this Johnson?”
“Saul Johnson. Yes, I knew of him. He was one of the directors of the institute.”
“And did he ever get involved with ordinary ghost hunts? Lucy first saw him when she was out on a case with Rotwell’s.”
“No. I never remember that happening before. The institute scientists kept to themselves. They were usually off at their labs somewhere.”
“Right, so it looks to me,” Lockwood said, “as if something new and special is going on. Johnson—and presumably the institute generally—is out collecting powerful Sources, despite DEPRAC’s directives against doing precisely that. The mummified head you found last week, Lucy—Johnson will have seen that, clocked it, and given immediate orders to Harold Mailer to save it at the furnaces, ready for the marketeers to spirit away.”
“Looks as if everything important is being kept back now,” I said. “The Source from the Ealing Cannibal case was sitting on Johnson’s table last night, too.”
“Which raises the question,” George said, “of why.”
He said this in the kind of slow, deliberate way that made you feel a sudden thrill of excitement; you knew he had the answer and was about to reveal it in long words you only barely understood.
“Care to fill us in?” Lockwood said.
George paused. “Do I have to get up and come around to lean against the table in a cool, leaderish way like you?”
“That’s entirely optional.”
“Good, because my legs are too short to do it comfortably. My buttocks would keep sliding off. Think I’ll stay sitting here, if it’s all the same to you. Do you remember,” George went on, “what we found in the tunnels beneath Aickmere’s? Aside from a massive pile of human bones.”
“I found Lucy,” Lockwood said. His smile made me feel a little flushed. He’d had to climb down into the tunnels after the Poltergeist pulled me in.
“Aside from the bones and Lucy,” George said, “we found evidence that someone had been conducting some kind of weird experiments down there. There was a cleared circle in the middle of the bones, and candles set up around the edge, and marks where something metal had been pulled across the floor. And there was a massive ectoplasm burn mark in the very center of the circle. The bones were all psychically active, and we reckoned someone was using them as a single massive Source. Now we know that ordinary Sources represent weak points, where Visitors can slip through from”—he hesitated—“from wherever it is they ought to be. Imagine them as holes worn in old fabric. Like when the seat of your jeans wears through, Lockwood, that sort of thing.”
“I don’t get worn patches on the seats of my trousers,” Lockwood said. “And I don’t have any jeans.”
“Well, think of mine, then. I have plenty of old pairs. The fabric gets thin, then stringy, then widens to an actual hole. All of a sudden it’s embarrassing when you bend over. It’s the same here, except that it’s not your underwear showing—something else comes through.”
“This metaphor is disturbing in a number of ways,” Lockwood said. “Right now I’m actually less worried about the ghosts than about the other images you’re conjuring up. But go on. If you create a giant Source, theref
ore—”
“The weak point would be correspondingly bigger,” George continued. “It would create a bigger hole, for want of a better word. We saw that with the bone glass, too.” He was referring to an unpleasant artifact we’d once discovered—a mirror made of numerous haunted bones, designed by its maker to be a window to the Other Side. Whether it actually worked or not was unclear, since anyone who gazed into it invariably died, but the psychic frisson it gave off had certainly been strange and sinister. “I think whoever was behind the Aickmere’s thing was trying to make a window like the bone glass,” George said. “To do that, they needed a giant Source. Now Johnson seems to be out and about collecting powerful Sources—I reckon he’s up to the same game.”
“You think the Rotwell Institute was behind the Aickmere’s incident, too?” I asked.
“Maybe. Remember how quickly their teams turned up to clear the site after we’d discovered it? But it’s impossible to say. There was no clue as to who it was.”
“We found a cigarette butt, didn’t we?” Holly pointed out.
“Yep,” George said. “A Persian Light. Quite a rare brand.”
I sat up. “Hey, Johnson was smoking cigarettes.”
George looked at me. “What? Were they Persian Lights?”
“I don’t know.”
He slapped the side of his forehead. “Oh, Luce. That was a missed opportunity. Didn’t you sniff it? They’ve got a very distinctive aroma, like burned toast and caramel.”
“No, as it happens I didn’t take time out to taste his cigarette smoke, George. I was too busy trying to avoid being killed.”
George slouched back in his seat. “You could have taken a quick whiff while running for your life, Luce. Where’s your dedication?”
Lockwood had been thinking. He tapped his fingers on the desktop. “Did Steve Rotwell have much to do with the institute, Holly?”
She frowned. “I assumed that he was in charge of it. He was always heading off to see them.”
“So he probably knows. Question is: What can we do about it?”
“Not a lot,” George said. “Still can’t really tell Barnes, can we? There’s not a shred of proof.”
“And Johnson will have spirited everything away somewhere,” Lockwood said. “The Rotwell Institute is based in Westminster, isn’t it, Hol?”
“That’s its head office, but not much goes on there. All its research facilities are outside London. There are several. I can’t remember them all offhand—sorry.”
Lockwood nodded ruefully. “Several facilities…That’s difficult. Do you think you could draw up a list for me? Might be useful, though to be honest I have no idea how we should proceed….” He sighed. “In the meantime, we’ve got a more pleasant appointment to keep. Penelope Fittes’s secretary rang first thing, Luce. You know she wants to thank us for the Ealing Cannibal case? Seems she’s out and about this morning, visiting the Orpheus Society, of which she’s patron, and wonders if we’d like to meet her there.”
“The Orpheus Society? In St. James’s?”
“The very same. Want to come along?”
He didn’t need to ask me twice.
For some time we’d been intrigued by the secretive and exclusive Orpheus Society, an outfit in central London whose members included many of the country’s most prominent industrialists. Officially, it was an upmarket London club devoted to discussion and research of the Problem, but we happened to know that it was engaged in more practical activities, too. George possessed a curious pair of crystal goggles marked with the society logo, an ancient Greek harp or lyre. Exactly what these goggles did had never been established; it was clear, though, that the Rotwell Institute was not the only organization developing equipment to use in the endless battle against the Problem. Unlike the institute, however, the society did not publicize its work, and the chance to learn more about it had never come up—until now. It was an opportunity not to be missed. Later that morning, leaving Holly to research the Rotwell Institute, Lockwood, George, and I set out later that morning for St. James’s in a mood of eager anticipation.
We found the society at the end of an elegant cul-de-sac, a quiet street of stuccoed townhouses, where the brass plates on the pillars gleamed spotlessly and the flowers in the hanging baskets beneath the hotel windows bloomed with plush, complacent health. The plaque gave the name without pomp or fanfare; and at our knock the door was opened at once by a smiling old man, who bowed and gestured for us to enter.
“Come in, come in, and welcome. I am the secretary of the society.”
The secretary was an amiable white-haired gentleman, stooped of shoulder but twinkling of eye. He wore a long frock coat and starched collar in an old-fashioned style, and his hair was swept back generously from an impressive forehead. We stood with him in a small, cool foyer. The floor was marble, the walls a deep maroon. Beyond him, an elderly man and woman were walking down a staircase. Somewhere nearby, a clock was ticking.
“We’re here to see Ms. Penelope Fittes, sir,” Lockwood said. “My name is Anthony Lockwood. These are my colleagues, George Cubbins and Lucy Carlyle.”
The old man nodded. “I was told to expect you. Dear Penelope is in the reading room.” He continued to gaze at Lockwood. “So you are Celia and Donald’s boy? I believe I’ve read about you in the Times. Yes, yes, I think I see them both in you.”
“Did you know them, sir?” Lockwood asked.
“Oh, indeed. They were candidates for membership in the society once. In fact, they gave a most interesting lecture in the very room I’ll be taking you to now. ‘Ghost Lore among the Tribes of New Guinea and West Sumatra,’ or something of that nature. They were folklorists, of course, perhaps not scientists in the strictest sense of the word….Still, their scholarship was impeccable. Their loss was a great one.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lockwood said. His face was impassive.
“Well, well, you didn’t come to talk to me. It’s just along here.” The old man led the way down a softly carpeted corridor, past paintings of august gentlemen similar to himself. At the end of the passage, a stained glass window let in shafts of yellow and ruby light. Beneath it was a plinth with a stone carving of a simple three-stringed harp. The secretary indicated it. “Perhaps you’ve seen our little symbol?”
“Seen it around,” I said casually. I thought of the pair of goggles back at Portland Row, which we’d stolen from a murderer some time before.
“Orpheus’s lyre,” George added. “That’s what it represents, right?”
“Exactly so. You know about Orpheus, of course,” the secretary said. “Greek fellow from the myths. He was the patron of musicians and of explorers into the unknown.”
“He went down into the underworld, didn’t he?” George said. “In search of his dead wife.”
“Indeed, Mr. Cubbins.” The Secretary turned left down a second corridor, where another aged club member, bald and smiling, stood aside to let us pass. “He sang and played his lyre so beautifully that he could charm the dead—and soothe the fearsome entities that guarded them. He even persuaded Hades, grim god of the underworld, to let his wife go. That is power indeed!”
“So the society takes Orpheus as its inspiration?” said Lockwood, who had been unusually quiet since arrival.
“We, too, seek to find ways of subduing ghosts. We are a motley band of inventors, industrialists, and philosophers—anyone, in fact, with an interesting perspective on the Problem. We discuss, we debate, we work on devices that might stem the ghostly invasion.”
“A bit like the Rotwell Institute, in fact?” George said.
The old man clicked his tongue. His smile became rueful. “Not exactly. The institute is much too…commercial for our tastes. They seek profit above truth. Many of their products are frankly worse than useless. The society is for idealists, Mr. Cubbins. We hunt for real answers. There is a battle to be won—not simply against ghosts, but against death itself.”
“What kinds of devices do you create, sir?”
George asked. He had a spark in his eye. I knew he was thinking of the goggles.
“Many kinds! I will give you one example. Young people like you are fortunate—you hear and see supernatural things. But decrepit fellows such as me are powerless after dark. So we hunt for ways to help older folk defend themselves against the spectral foe. We have made progress, built prototypes…but they are not yet ready for public use.”
George nodded slowly. “I see. You’ve built prototypes, have you? Fascinating….”
“Indeed.” The secretary stopped at a dark oak door. “Well, here we are—the reading room.”
“What about Orpheus?” I said. “Did he bring his wife back in the end?”
The secretary chuckled. “No, my dear. No, he did not. He erred, and she remained on the Other Side. How I wish we could ensure the same for our dead friends today.” He pushed the door open and stood back. “The assembled company of Lockwood and Co.!” With that he ushered us in and departed, closing the door behind him.
It wasn’t a very big chamber, the Orpheus Society reading room; if Lockwood’s parents had once given a lecture there, the audience must have been quite small. A band of dark bookshelves encircled a cozy, carpeted space of armchairs and reading tables, randomly arranged. Penelope Fittes sat in a chair by the hearth, staring into the flames. Her long black hair gleamed, her profile might have been carved from alabaster; she was so much younger than any of the other members of the society, her luster almost came as a physical shock. She turned and smiled at us.
“Hello, Anthony,” she said. “Lucy, George. Come and sit down.”
Above the mantel hung a painting in a golden frame: a woman in a low-cut black dress, holding a lantern. Her hair was worn high on top of her head; a fierce light burned in her eyes. It was a face familiar from books and stamps and the postcards they sold in the Strand. It did not have the worn, burned-out look of the photographs at Fittes House.
Penelope Fittes had noticed my appraisal. “Yes, my sweet grandmother,” she said. “She set up this society, when she was still quite young. I continue to encourage them in their efforts. I have great regard for anyone who displays exceptional resourcefulness in combating the Problem. Which is why I have a proposition for you now.”
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