Lockwood (18 page)

‘I see it,’ I said. ‘Looks like a Shade to me.’

‘Agreed.’ He made a noise of faint perplexity. ‘It’s weird, though. We’re right by the Thames . . . How much running water do you need?’

The Problem, the great mystery, is itself composed of numberless small mysteries, and one of the oddest is the undeniable fact that Visitors, of all types and temperaments, hate fresh running water. They can’t abide it, even in small amounts, and won’t cross its flow. This is a precious fact, which every agent has relied on at one time or another. George claims he once escaped a Spectre by turning on a garden hose and standing safe behind its little spurting stream. It’s also why so many shops in central London have runnels by them, and why so much trade is done by boat, up and down the Thames.

Yet here was the river, only twenty yards away, and here was the glowing haze.

‘Low tide,’ I said. ‘The water’s drawn back. The Source must be dry.’

‘Must be.’ He whistled. ‘Well, I didn’t expect this.’

‘
Flo
did,’ I said. ‘She’s tricked us. This is some kind of trap.’

‘’S not.’ The voice spoke loudly in my ear. I gave a jump, collided with Lockwood; swung my rapier round to find Flo Bones leering at my side. She’d lowered the covers on her lantern; her face seemed to float in darkness, a grubby disembodied head. ‘Trap?’ she hissed. ‘This is your side of the bargain. This is the three of us scrabbling happily in the dirt. What’s the matter? You’re an agent. You’re not afraid.’

‘Of this? One Shade?’

‘Oh, you see just
one
up there, do you?’ She pursed up her mouth, all tight and crinkly, then snorted in disapproval. ‘
Very
good. Well done. Have a cigar and join a proper agency. There are
two
, you daft dollop. There’s a little one beside her.’

I scowled into the darkness. ‘Don’t see it. You’re making it up.’

‘No, she’s right . . .’ Lockwood had his hand cupped over his eyes; he was clearly concentrating hard. ‘Faint and formless, like a cloud. The tall one’s a woman, wearing a hat or shawl . . . a hooped skirt . . . Victorian or Edwardian, maybe.’

‘That’s it: old,
old
,’ Flo Bones said. ‘I expect a mother and child what jumped in the Thames together. Suicide and murder, an ancient tragedy. Their bones must be under that wharf, I reckon. And you don’t see it?’ she said to me. ‘Well, well.’

‘Sight’s not really my area,’ I said stiffly.

‘Ain’t it? Shame.’ Her head jerked close. ‘So, enough of this nattering. I want your ’elp now. Here’s how it goes. We all of us creep near the post, slowly, quietly, no sudden moves that might make ’em suspect nothing. Then it’s easy. You keep an eye on ’em, making sure they don’t get agitated, while I go a-ferreting with my trusty marsh-knife here.’ She pushed back the noxious coat, and I saw the blade at her belt for the first time – a short, wickedly curved weapon with an odd double prong at the point, like a giant can-opener or those little wooden forks you get with jellied eels. ‘Just watch my back,’ she said. ‘That’s all you have to do. It won’t be deep. I won’t take long.’

I made an exclamation of disgust. ‘So the idea is, we’re to stand guard while you go digging for a dead kid’s bones? Which you then hope to sell on the black market?’

Flo nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, yeah.’

‘Absolutely no way. Lockwood—’

He grasped my arm, squeezed it. ‘Come on, Luce. Flo’s wise. Flo’s clever. She’s got information. If we want it, we have to help her. Simple as that.’ Another sharp squeeze.

A fond, rather fatuous grin had spread over Flo’s face. ‘Ah, Lockwood, you always
was
sweet-talking. One of your best qualities. Not like this sour mare. So come on, then. Up and at ’em! Let’s go for glory and get this done!’

Without further words Lockwood and I checked our belts. We readied the rapiers in our hands. Shades are
usually
very passive and unresponsive; they’re too caught up in the replay or remembrance of the past to pay attention to the living. But it’s not something to rely on; and clearly Flo had reason to be cautious here. Slowly, setting our boots down with utmost deliberation on the shingle, we approached the tall black post.

High above us, the white thing hung in the night sky; it might have been a puff of smoke, framed against the stars.

‘Why’s it up
there
?’ I whispered. Flo was just ahead, humming jauntily to herself.

‘It’s the old level of the wharf. Where she stood before jumping in. Hear anything?’

‘Hard to tell. Could be a woman sighing. Could be the wind. What about you?’

‘No death-glows. We wouldn’t expect to see them, if they died in fresh water. But I
do
feel’ – Lockwood breathed deep to steady himself – ‘a strong weight pressing down on me. You get it? Such grief . . .’

‘Yeah, I’ve got it. Powerful malaise for a Shade.’

He stopped short. ‘Hold on. Did you see it move, Lucy? I thought I saw it quiver there.’

‘No. No, I missed that. Ugh,
look
at Flo! Where’s her self-respect?’

The relic-girl had reached the base of the post; setting the lantern down, she squatted on her haunches, and began scooping up gouts of mud and pebbles with her long curved knife.

Lockwood motioned me back a little way. Keeping his eyes fixed on the shape hanging directly above, he stationed himself behind Flo’s crouching form.

Now that we were close, the malaise had intensified. A fearsome melancholy stole over me. I felt my shoulders droop, my knees begin to buckle. Tears pricked at my eyes, a vile hopelessness swirled in my gut. I shook it off – it was a false emotion. I opened a belt pouch and took out some gum, chewing furiously to distract myself. One time, long ago, this had been real, one person’s sorrow turned to insanity or despair. Now it was just an echo – a blank and mindless force, expending itself on anyone who came near.

Not that Flo Bones seemed particularly affected. She was digging at a furious rate, casting aside great lumps of slime; periodically she stopped to peer at some fragment she’d unearthed, before tossing it away.

A ripple of sound against my eardrums, a quiver in the air. The sighing I could hear grew louder. Up by the post-top, the patch of whiteness deepened, as if substance had been drawn into it.

Lockwood had noticed this too. ‘We’ve got movement above us, Flo.’

The relic-girl’s bottom was high; her head practically in the hole. She didn’t look up. ‘Good. Means I’m getting warm.’

The pressure in the air grew stronger. All trace of the river breeze was gone. The weight in my heart was painful, wedged there like a stone. Gum snapped in my mouth; I listened to the knife scratching in the foul wet ground, watched the hanging whiteness. Even out of the corner of my eye it stayed stubbornly unformed, though for the first time I thought I saw a smaller discolouration beside it: the faint shape of a child.

A shudder ran through the larger cloud. My eye jerked to it. Lockwood took a slow step further away.

‘Getting warm,’ Flo said again. ‘I can feel it.’

‘It’s moving, Flo. We’ve got signs of agitation . . .’

‘Getting warm . . .’

A screech of sound, a sudden crack of air. I jerked back sharply, swallowing my ball of gum. The white shape dropped straight down beside the post, directly towards Flo’s head. Lockwood darted inwards, slicing his rapier across its path. The shape jerked up, avoiding the slashing silver-coated blade; I had the briefest sensation of wide, billowing skirts and a coil of smoke-like hair, as it somersaulted silently over our heads and came to a halt a few feet from me, hovering just above the ground.

Rage had given the apparition solid form. A tall, thin woman in an old-fashioned dress – tight up top, with a spreading crinoline skirt. She wore a pale bonnet, with long strands of dark hair half obscuring her face, and she had a necklace of spring flowers at her throat. Curls of other-light spun about her like river weed flexing in a current. At her side a tiny figure huddled close against her skirts. They were holding hands.

I stepped back, dry-throated, trying to recall the stance I’d used with Esmeralda in the rapier room. This wasn’t a Shade, but a Cold Maiden – a female ghost that persists because of ancient loss. Most Cold Maidens are melancholy, passive things that don’t put up much of a fight when you’re hunting for their Source. But not this one.

With a rush, she swept towards me. Her hair blew back; her face was a bone-white horror, a frozen, black-eyed mask of scowling madness. I whirled the sword in a desperate defence. For a moment I seemed surrounded by palely clawing hands; a shrieking beat upon my ears. But the ward-knot held firm: the rapier’s blade protected me. And all at once the air was clear, and far across the mud two faint translucent shapes were streaming away – a tiny child, a weeping woman in a trailing dress.

‘Back to the post, Lucy,’ Lockwood called. ‘You take one side; I’ll take the other. Flo! Talk to us! How’s it going down there?’

‘And if you say “getting warm” again,’ I snarled as I drew close, ‘I’ll bury you in the hole myself.’

‘Warm
er
,’ Flo said promptly. ‘Warm
ish
. You might say almost hot. I got a few little pieces up for consideration here. Which, though? What’s the Source?’

I looked out across the Southwark Reaches, where the Visitors sped, lit by their own faint glow. Now, without breaking pace, they arced round, came racing back.

‘Whichever it is, they
really
don’t want you to take it,’ I said. ‘Please hurry up, Flo.’

Flo squatted by the hole, cupping a set of tiny objects in her hands. ‘Is it these bones? If so, this one or that? Or not the bones at all? This little thing, this funny metal horse?’

‘Tell you what,’ Lockwood said. ‘How about you take the lot?’ The glowing shapes were getting nearer, nearer, flying above the stones.

‘I don’t want to take
any
old rubbish,’ Flo Bones said, in an aggrieved voice. ‘I’ve got standards. My customers have expectations.’

The shapes were tilted forward in their hate and fury. Again I saw the woman’s face – the thin dark mouth, the gaping eyes.

‘
Flo . . .
’

‘Oh,
very
well.’

She took up the sack, tore it open, and a sweet and cleansing scent burst forth. Flo shoved the fragments inside. At once the glowing forms blinked out; a rush of wind burst harmlessly against us. The corners of Lockwood’s coat flicked back, and softly subsided. The night was dark. When I looked up at the top of the post, I saw nothing but stars.

Flo pulled the strings tight. I sank down on the sand, and rested my sword across my knee.

‘In the bag . . .’ Lockwood said. He was leaning against the post. ‘Is it . . .?’

‘Lavender. Yeah. Stuffed with it. Stronger than silver, lavender is, while the fragrance lasts. It’ll keep
them
quiet for a bit.’ She grinned at me. ‘Anything happen just now? I was busy, couldn’t take a look-see.’

‘You
knew
they would attack,’ I said, ‘didn’t you? You’d had a go at this before.’

Flo Bones took off her hat and scratched at her matted blonde scalp. ‘Seems you’re not as dumb as you look . . . Well,’ she said. ‘I guess that’s that.’

‘Not quite,’ Lockwood said grimly. ‘That’s our side of the bargain. Now we get to
yours
.’

Few London eating establishments are open during the night, and fewest of all in the dark hours before the dawn. Still, certain places
do
exist for agents or night-watch kids to break their fast, and it seemed relic-men had their favoured venues too. The Hare and Horsewhip – an inn situated in the dingiest back alley in Southwark – was Flo’s first choice and we proceeded there at speed.

We soon discovered, however, that it was not a place for us that night. Three silver-grey vans, painted with the rearing unicorn, had parked at dramatic angles outside the inn. A score of adult Fittes agents, accompanied by armed police and DEPRAC dog-handlers, were bundling people out of the pub and into the vans. Scuffles had broken out. Some men tried to flee; they were pursued by dogs, seized and dragged to the ground. From where we skulked at the far end of the street, we could just make out Kipps, Ned Shaw and Kat Godwin, standing aloof beside the door.

Lockwood drew us back into the dark. ‘They’re rounding up the relic-men,’ he murmured. ‘Kipps is spreading his net wide.’

‘Think he knows about Jack Carver?’ I said. ‘The kid wouldn’t have told him, surely.’

‘Someone else might know the connection between Carver and Neddles . . . Well, we can’t do much about it. Anywhere else we can go, Flo?’

The relic-girl had been unusually silent. ‘Yeah,’ she said softly. ‘Not far.’

Her second choice turned out to be a café close to Limehouse Station, a small-hours joint catering mainly for off-shift night-watch kids. The doors and windows were laced with iron grilles, and overhung by battered ghost-lamps. Inside, a row of plastic tubs displayed the sweets and toffees favoured by the youngest clients. A corkboard near the door was pinned with ads, job offers, Lost and Found notices and other scraps of paper. A few stained magazines and comic books were scattered on the Formica table tops; five grey-faced children sat at separate tables, eating, drinking, staring into space. Their watch-sticks waited in the weapon racks beside the door.

Lockwood and I ordered scrambled egg, kippers and tea. Flo wanted coffee, and jam on toast. We found a table in the corner and got down to business.

Under the café’s strong light, Flo looked even grubbier. She accepted her coffee, black, and proceeded to fill it, slowly, methodically, with eight spoonfuls of sugar.

‘So, Flo,’ Lockwood said as the goo was stirred, ‘Jack Carver. Tell us all.’

She nodded, sniffed, took the mug in dirty fingers. ‘Yes, I know Carver.’

‘Excellent. So you know where he lives?’

She shook her head shortly. ‘No.’

‘Where he hangs out?’

‘No.’

‘The people he associates with?’

‘No. Aside from Duane Neddles, and you say he’s dead.’

‘His hobbies, the kinds of thing he does in his spare time?’