Lockwood (43 page)

‘
Watch out, Lucy . . .
’

That was the skull’s whisper, echoing faintly from the passage. I froze – then began reaching for my belt. Even as I did so, someone stepped from the darkness behind me. A sharp point pricked the back of my neck. The skull gave a chuckle. ‘
Oops. Maybe I left it a little late to warn you there
.’

‘Please don’t do anything annoying, Miss Carlyle.’ It was Albert Joplin’s bleating voice. ‘You feel the knife? Very well. Take off your belt and rapier.’

I stood frozen, rigid with panic. The knife-tip prodded me gently.

‘Quickly, now. I get jumpy when I’m cross. My hand slips. Do as I say.’

No choice . . . I unclipped the belt, and let it and my rapier drop to the floor.

‘Now walk back across to Kipps. Don’t try anything. I will be right behind you.’

Slowly, stiffly, I obeyed. In its circle, the hooded phantom moved closer to the iron. I saw the grinning mouth, its snaggle-teeth; its hungry eagerness crackled through the room.

Kipps was gazing bleakly at me from the chair. ‘Yes, this is just about the efficiency I’d expect from Lockwood and Co.,’ he said. ‘What next? Lockwood comes in, trips over and impales himself on his sword?’

Albert Joplin said, ‘Stand beside Kipps, put your hands against the back of the chair. Wrists together. Now, I have one more piece of cord, which— No – you do what you’re told!’ I’d tried to turn; the knife jabbed me, making me cry out in pain. ‘That’s better,’ Joplin said. With a series of quick movements, he bound my hands to the chair. I stood beside Kipps, neck stinging, as Joplin walked away.

He looked as crumpled as ever, his jacket laced with grave-dust, his hair a storm-tossed crow’s-nest. He still moved in the same stooped manner, shoulders hunched inwards, spindly-legged and pigeon-toed. He was circling back to George. There was a short, stubby knife in one hand; in the other, a notebook. A biro was tucked behind one ear. He hummed softly to himself as he went. When he glanced back, I saw that his nose was red and swollen-looking, and he had a bruise on his chin.

But it was his eyes that really shocked me. They were dark and sunken, the pupils very wide. He seemed to be staring intently at something far away. His head was cocked, as if listening.

In its circle, the Bickerstaff ghost swayed from side to side.

‘Yes, yes . . . in a moment.’ Joplin talked absently, as if to himself. When he got to George, he bent down and squinted towards the shrouded mirror, perhaps comparing heights. What he saw seemed to satisfy him. He straightened, and slapped George sharply twice around the face. George gave a croak, and stared wildly all around.

‘That’s it, my boy. Time to wake up.’ Joplin patted his shoulder. Taking his biro from his ear, he made a mark in his notebook. ‘We must make haste with our experiment, as agreed.’

Quill Kipps uttered an oath. ‘Agreement, my foot,’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know what Cubbins thought he was up to coming here in the first place, but they had some kind of argument in the church upstairs. One minute they were talking; then, all at once, they were coming to blows.’ He shook his head. ‘It was pathetic. The worst fight ever. They knocked each other’s glasses off, and spent half the time crawling around trying to find them. I’m surprised they didn’t pull each other’s hair.’

‘And you didn’t go to help George?’ I said icily. I pulled at my cords. No, they were tight; I could scarcely move my hands.

‘To my lasting regret,’ Kipps said, ‘I did. I’m sorry to say Joplin put that knife to Cubbins’s throat and forced me to throw down my rapier. When we got down to the catacombs, Cubbins tried to escape, and was knocked out for his trouble. Joplin’s been setting up this ridiculous contraption for the last half-hour. He’s out of his mind.’

‘Yes, he is. More than you know.’

One glance at the mirror, and George had been affected; one brief moment of exposure to Bickerstaff’s ghost, and its influence had remained. But how long had
Joplin
been exposed to it since then – how many nights had he been near the body in the chapel, with the ghost’s silent, baleful energies directed upon him? He probably couldn’t even
see
the phantom clearly. He probably didn’t know what it was doing to him.

‘Mr Joplin,’ I called. Knife in hand, the little archivist was waiting beside George, who was slowly rousing groggily. ‘You’re not thinking straight. This experiment will never work—’

Joplin adjusted his spectacles. ‘No, no. Don’t worry. We won’t be disturbed. The entrance stairs are locked, and I’ve shut off the catafalque mechanism from below. No one can get down, unless they want to jump twenty feet into a pitch-black hole. And who would be prepared to do that?’

There was one person I knew who might. But he was busy up above, and I couldn’t rely on him. ‘That’s not what I mean,’ I said. ‘The mirror is deadly, and Bickerstaff’s phantom is influencing you. We need to stop this now!’

Joplin cocked his head on one side; he was gazing towards the circle where the ghost stood. It was as if he hadn’t heard. ‘This is a remarkable opportunity,’ he said thickly. ‘My heart’s desire. This mirror is a window on another world. There are marvels there! And George will have the honour of seeing them! It just remains for me to get the pole . . .’

With his shuffling, round-shouldered gait, he pootled over to the table. My head reeled: he was using almost the same words as Bickerstaff had, when he forced Wilberforce to look into the mirror all those years before.

Behind its chains, the hooded phantom watched Joplin go.

‘Lucy . . .’ George called. ‘Is that you?’

‘George! Are you all right?’

Well, he didn’t
look
so hot, all puffy faced, and red about the eyes. His glasses were still wonky, and he wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘Surprisingly comfortable, Luce. Chair’s a bit hard. I could do with a cushion.’

‘I’m so angry with you, I could burst.’

‘I know. I’m really sorry.’

‘What did you think you were doing?’

He sighed, rocking forwards in the chair. ‘It just seemed . . . I can’t explain it, Luce. When I left Flo, when I got the mirror in my hands, I just felt this desire . . . I
had
to look at it again. Part of me knew it was wrong, I knew I had to wait for you – but somehow all that seemed unimportant. I might even have taken the thing out of the bag right away, only I wanted to show Joplin. And when he came, he said we should do it properly . . .’ He shook his head. ‘I went along with it, but when we got to the chapel, and I saw the empty coffin . . . all at once, it was like my eyes had cleared. I realized I was doing something mad. Then I tried to get away, but Joplin wouldn’t let me.’

‘Quite right too.’ Joplin was back. He carried a long pole, with a hook fixed to the end. ‘I showed you the error of your ways. I must say, you’ve disappointed me, Cubbins. You had such promise. Still, at least we sorted out our little disagreement, man to man.’ He fingered his swollen nose.

‘Man to man, my eye,’ Kipps snorted. ‘It was like seeing two schoolgirls squabbling over a scented pencil. You should have heard the squeals.’

‘Now, hush,’ Joplin said. ‘We have things to do.’ He flinched; a worried look crossed his face, as if someone had spoken sharply to him. ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’m doing my best.’

‘But Mr Joplin,’ I cried. ‘It’s a death sentence to look in the mirror! It doesn’t show you marvels. If you’d read Mary Dulac’s “Confessions” you’d understand exactly what I’m talking about. The guy Wilberforce dropped dead as soon as—’

‘Oh, you’ve read them too?’ For a moment his blank look vanished, and he looked keenly interested. ‘You
did
find another copy? Well done! You must tell me how. But of course
I’ve
read “The Confessions”! Who do you think stole it from Chertsey Library in the first place? I have it on my table there. It was very interesting, though it was Bickerstaff’s notes that Cubbins kindly showed me that were the icing on the cake.’ He gestured at the mirror in its circle. ‘I couldn’t have reconstructed the layout otherwise.’

I tugged at the ropes around my wrists. The knots chafed me. To my right, I could sense Kipps doing the same. ‘I thought those notes were in medieval Italian,’ I said.

Joplin gave a complacent smile. ‘Indeed. And I’m fluent in it. It was quite amusing watching George here puzzle over it while I quietly copied the whole thing.’

George kicked out at Joplin and missed. ‘You betrayed me! I trusted you!’

Joplin chuckled; he gave George an indulgent pat on the shoulder. ‘Take a tip: it’s always wise to keep your cards close to your chest. Secrecy is crucial! No, Miss Carlyle, I’m well aware of the risks of looking in the mirror, which is why my good friend George is going to do it for me –
now
.’

So saying, Joplin turned to the iron circle in the centre of the room. Reaching in with the pole – and oblivious to the seven faint figures that hovered there – he flipped the cloth away from the top of the stand.

‘George!’ I shouted. ‘Don’t look!’

From where I stood I couldn’t see the surface of the mirror. I only saw the roughened back of the glass, and the tightly woven rim of bone. But the buzzing noise was louder, and even the seven spirits in the circle shrank away, as if afraid. Behind its chains, the Bickerstaff ghost rose still taller. I sensed its eagerness; I heard its cold hypnotic voice in my mind. ‘
Look . . .
’ it said. ‘
Look . . .
’ This is what it had desired in life; in death, through Joplin, it desired the same.

George had screwed his eyes tight closed.

Joplin had been careful to stand with his back to the tripod. His hunched shoulders were rigid with fear, his pale face tight with tension. ‘Open your eyes, Mr Cubbins,’ he said. ‘You know you want to.’

And George did. Part of him – the part that had been snared by the mirror days before – desperately wanted to look. I could see him shaking, struggling with himself to resist. He had his head turned away; he was biting on his lip.

I wrenched at my bonds. ‘Ignore him, George!’

‘
Look . . . Look . . .
’

‘Mr Cubbins . . .’ Joplin had taken out his pen and pad in readiness to record what happened. He tapped the biro irritably against his teeth. He looked peeved; under the cloak of madness, he was still a fussy little academic, anxious to carry out an experiment that interested him. He might have been observing the behaviour of fruit flies or the mating rituals of worms. ‘Mr Cubbins, you will do as I ask! Otherwise . . .’ I felt a wave of malice radiate from the cowled figure in the circle. Joplin flinched again, and nodded. ‘Otherwise,’ he said harshly, ‘I will take this knife and cut the throats of your friends.’

Silence in the catacombs.

‘
Ooh
.’ That was the skull’s voice, faint from down the passage. ‘
Good options! This is a win-win situation for me.
’

George sat bolt upright in the chair. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK, I’ll do it.’

‘No, George,’ I said. ‘You’re absolutely not to.’

‘Well, he
could
take a little peek,’ Kipps said.

‘Don’t give in to it!’ I cried. ‘He’s bluffing!’

‘Bluffing?’ Joplin inspected the point of his knife. ‘You know, I believe poor Jack Carver thought the exact same thing . . .’

‘It’s no good, Luce,’ George said dully. It was as if the malaise was back – there was profound weariness in his voice. ‘I’m going to have to do it. I can’t help myself anyhow. I’ve
got
to look. The mirror’s tugging at me – I can’t resist.’

He’d opened his eyes. His head was lowered; he stared down at his chest.

‘No!’ I tugged at my wrists, so that Kipps’s chair rattled on the dirt-brick floor. Tears filled my eyes. ‘If you do this, George Cubbins, I’m going to be
so
mad.’

‘It’s all right, Luce,’ he said. He smiled sadly. ‘All this mess is my own fault. And after all, it’s what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it? To uncover mysteries – to do something no one else has ever done.’

‘Well spoken!’ Joplin said. ‘I’m proud of you, young man. Now, I stand ready to record your words. Don’t stop to think – speak fast and clear! Tell me what you see.’

Another echo from the past. Bickerstaff’s words to Wilberforce, 130 years before. It might almost have been the same person talking. Perhaps it was – how much was Bickerstaff, how much was Joplin?

‘Please, George . . .’

Kipps groaned. ‘She’s right, Cubbins! Don’t give the madman the satisfaction.’

Joplin stamped his foot. ‘Will everyone please be silent!’

‘Lucy . . .’ George said suddenly. ‘About all this . . . I know I was weak, and what I did was wrong. I’m sorry for it. Tell Lockwood for me, OK?’

With that, he lifted his head and looked into the mirror.

‘George . . .!’

‘
Look . . .
’ the hooded shape above me murmured. ‘
I give you your heart’s desire
.’

George looked. He stared straight through his little round spectacles into the glass. There was nothing I could do to stop him.

Joplin swallowed eagerly. His biro hung quivering above the page. ‘So, tell me, Cubbins. What is it that you see?’

‘George?’

‘Speak, boy!’

‘
Your heart’s desire . . .
’

George’s face had tightened, the eyes grown wide. A terrible happiness shone from him. ‘I see things . . . beautiful things . . .’

‘Yes?
Yes?
Go on—’

But George’s muscles had suddenly grown slack. The skin slumped, his mouth slowly opened like a drawbridge lowered on a chain. The fierce joy that had spread across his face remained, but all the intelligence in it, all the sparky life and stubbornness, began to slip away.

I jerked forward, wrenching at my bonds. ‘George!’ I shrieked. ‘Look at me now!’

‘Talk!’ Joplin shouted. ‘Quick!’

It was no good. As I watched in horror, George’s jaw sagged wide. He let out a long, harsh, rattling sigh. His eyelids drooped; his body shuddered once, twice, and fell still. His head twitched, then slid slowly sideways. It came to rest. His mouth hung open; his eyes stared out at nothing. A few threads of pale hair drooped loose across his waxy brow.