The Empty Grave Page 7

  “Lucy and I can both handle ourselves very well,” Holly said.

  “So,” Lockwood said, “it was a close shave for Charley. And now we get to poor Sid Morrison.”

  The impresario’s shoulders dropped; he studied his hands. “Sid was our magician’s apprentice. Late yesterday afternoon he was on the stage, setting up equipment for today’s show. One of our girls, name of Tracey, was down in the auditorium, sweeping the floor. All at once she felt cold. She looked up and saw that Sid wasn’t alone. There was a woman with him. The woman was sort of facing Tracey, but she couldn’t make her out—it was like she stood in shadow, even though the lights of the theater were on. As she watched, the woman glided back into the dark of the wings. She didn’t walk or turn, but just sort of flowed backward, Tracey said, and Sid walked after her. Not running, but not hesitating neither. He disappeared between the side curtains.”

  “Did Tracey call out or try to stop him?” I asked.

  “She says she wanted to speak, but for some reason couldn’t. As soon as Sid was gone, she found she could move again. She ran to the steps at the side of the stage and headed between the curtains. It ain’t pretty, this next bit.”

  “Oh, do go on,” Holly said. “Do you know how many ghosts we’ve dealt with? Please.”

  Mr. Tufnell accepted the reprimand without complaint. His voice was soft, his earlier ebullience gone. “Tracey went into the wings, and there she saw the woman and Sid again. It was like they were embracing—at least, the woman had thin arms around him, and her face was in his neck. The horrible thing is that Sid’s a big lad, but it was like he was all limp and boneless, and the woman was holding him up. And sure enough, when she let go—her arms sort of passing through his body—he just collapsed on the floor all shapeless, like a pile of dirty rags. He was quite dead, and when Tracey turned him over, he had a terrible smile on his cold, white face.”

  Lockwood tapped his fingers on his knee. “What about the ghost woman?”

  “Vanished before poor Sid hit the floor.”

  “You’ve been slow in coming to us, Mr. Tufnell. Too slow. When Charley had his narrow escape—”

  “I know.” Mr. Tufnell inspected his hands like they had somehow disappointed him. “I know. It’s just—if this got out…who would come to see us? The show would fold.”

  “Better that than further deaths,” Holly said, scowling.

  “What sort of boy is Charley?” George asked, after a silence. “When he’s himself, I mean.”

  “Quiet. Not what you’d call healthy. Has a lung condition that prevents him from doing full work. Most people wouldn’t give him a job. Me, I’m generous. I keep him busy.”

  “Was Sid sickly too?”

  “Not at all. Strapping. Prime of life. He was a prestidigitator.”

  A silence. Lockwood nodded. “Ah, yes. Was he? Interesting. Good for him.”

  “You don’t know what that means, do you?”

  “Not the foggiest clue.”

  “Means he was a conjurer, clever with his hands. Strictly speaking, Sid was only an apprentice, but he was hot stuff at the close-up work. He’d go among the crowds, making eggs appear out of ladies’ ears, ripping up twenty-pound notes and pulling them whole from gents’ sleeves. Smooth, quick, plenty of nice patter. Lubricated the crowd, like. That’s what he was good at—least he was, until he fell in love with one of our Russian trapeze artists.”

  “Why, what was the problem there?”

  “She didn’t return his feelings. I tried to persuade her to humor him, that it was in the best interests of the company, but she was having none of it. Sid was lovelorn. Spent weeks moping under the window of her caravan. Stopped sleeping. Stopped eating. He was wasting away. His skills suffered, too; he broke the eggs, dropped coins, sent cards spinning every which way. Hopeless. I’d have fired him if he hadn’t died.”

  “Well, he saved you some trouble there, anyway,” Lockwood said. He tapped his fingers again. “This Russian trapeze artist—what’s her name?”

  “Carole Blears.”

  “She doesn’t sound very Russian.”

  “White Russian on her maternal grandmother’s side. Or so she says. If she’s got thighs that can swing a grown man ten feet through the air, that’s good enough for me. Now, this here cake’s been a treat, I can tell you. If no one else is going to join me, I’ll happily take the last slice.” Ignoring a croak of protest from George, Mr. Tufnell did so. He settled back into his seat. “So, can you help me?” he asked. “This ghost’s killing Charley here, not to mention giving me ulcers and scaring my customers away.”

  Lockwood was gazing at the ceiling. “Mr. Tufnell—how long has this trouble been going on?”

  “The ghost, or the ulcers?”

  “The ghost.”

  “Two weeks, maybe three.”

  “I see. And who has actually witnessed the ghost, aside from Charley Budd here, Sid, and the two women you mentioned?”

  “Some of the usherettes, Vanessa the makeup artist; I think an ice-cream girl.”

  “And they all survived?”

  “They live with the horror to this day. Vanessa’s hair turned white.”

  “So in other words, La Belle Dame’s victims are all male?” Holly asked.

  Mr. Tufnell nodded. “Not one of them could resist her charms. In death as in life. You and this lad here would need to beware, Mr. Lockwood.”

  Lockwood chuckled. “Oh, I think George and I could handle whatever La Belle Dame might throw at us. Wouldn’t you say so, George? Very well, Mr. Tufnell, we’ll look into this for you. Give us twenty-four hours to research the case. If you think Charley can last that long?”

  Our visitor looked at the chained boy, motionless and blank-eyed at his side. “I would hope so, Mr. Lockwood….But for pity’s sake, don’t delay too long.”

  I was glad to see our clients go. I disliked one, and pitied the other. In short, their presence disturbed me. I led them to the door.

  As I opened it and stood aside to let them pass, Mr. Tufnell bowed to me. In doing so, he let the chain go loose in his hand. At once, Charley Budd pulled sharply to the side, tearing the chain free. He fell against the opposite wall, beside the big chipped plant pot with its umbrellas and rapiers. Hands still bound together, he grasped the hilt of Lockwood’s second-best sword and wrenched it up, out of the pot, so that the blade shone in the morning light. Then he thrust it down and inward, seeking to drive the tip deep into his stomach. His arms were too short, the blade too long. It stabbed into the leather of his belt and caught there.

  While he struggled to free it, I was on him, grappling for the blade. Mr. Tufnell caught his arm, pulling at the chain. The youth fought back frenziedly, desperately, with frightening strength. We collided with the coatrack, then the entry table. He made no sound. For several silent seconds, we wrestled back and forth, his pale face next to mine, our eyes locked together. Then Mr. Tufnell clouted him hard on the side of the head and I pulled the rapier away.

  Like a switch had been flicked, Charley Budd was placid again. His face was calm and expressionless; he allowed himself to be led out of the door and into the sun.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mr. Tufnell said, turning at the gate. “You see now how finding the ghost really is his only chance? Please do everything you can to help us.”

  With that he raised his battered felt hat, tugged at the chain, and led the boy away along the road.

  If we had been largely unmoved by Mr. Tufnell—his combination of sleazy theatrical bombast and slippery evasion wasn’t wildly attractive—the evident plight of Charley Budd affected us all. According to Lockwood, who knew such things, it was a rare example of psychic enchainment, in which the victim’s mind was snared.

  “It’s like ghost-lock,” he said. “But it’s not the body that’s been trapped this time, it’s the intelligence. The will to live just seeps away, and the victim is pulled toward death. Tufnell’s right—destroying the ghost is probably the only way to sever the
connection.”

  “Poor boy.” Holly was tidying up the mess left in the hall. “How awful to want to do that to himself.”

  “And did you see his blank, expressionless face?” George added. “Eerie.”

  “His eyes were empty,” I said. “When I fought him, there was nothing there.”

  “Well, it’s clearly a formidable spirit that’s snared him,” Lockwood said, “and there’s no way I’m facing it until we’re properly prepared. Can you look into the story when you’re at the Archives, George? I’ll order more equipment for tomorrow; we left half our stuff in the mausoleum.”

  “Lots to do,” George said. “Marissa, the Problem, and La Belle Dame Sans Merci. I’d better get going. Before I do, I wanted to show you the stuff I found in your parents’ crates, Lockwood. Mind if I quickly do that now?”

  We followed him upstairs to the second floor. It was a place where the representatives of DEPRAC, checking on our activities in the basement office, never thought to venture. Which was lucky for us, because it contained a dark and terrible wonderland, filled with things that threatened one’s health and sanity, and I’m not just talking about George’s bedroom. There was another room that had once belonged to Lockwood’s sister, Jessica—the room she’d died in. Here her death-glow still hovered, dramatically but harmlessly, above the stripped bed, and stacks of crates lined the walls, each stamped with faded export permits from foreign lands. And set out on the one clear area of floor, surrounded by a circle of iron chains, were selected items from those crates: items strange, dangerous, and forbidden.

  There were masks, fashioned in the shapes of wild animals and monstrous spirits. There were two newly discovered cloaks, one covered in feathers and one in molting fur. There were peculiar constructions of bone, beads, and animal gut, which Lockwood said were Javanese ghost-catchers. And there were pots, sealed with lead and wax. These in particular we treated with extreme caution. It was in the breaking of one of these that Jessica Lockwood had lost her life seven years before.

  It was quite a haul. The sign-waving ghost-cultists who paraded through Trafalgar Square most days would have fallen on their knees before the items on display. Fittes researchers would have sold their grandmothers to have seen them. Rich collectors would have fought each other for them tooth and nail, while relic-men would have cut our throats for them while we slept. Inspector Barnes of DEPRAC would simply have arrested us and confiscated the lot. So we took care to ensure that the collection remained secret, known to nobody except us, Kipps, and Flo.

  We stood at the door, looking in. George indicated a row of dusty green glass bottles set out inside the chains. “These are what I found yesterday,” he said. “Spirit bottles. Places to trap annoying or unwelcome ancestors. The old shaman would pop a Source inside—it was generally a bit of bone—seal it up, and—presto!—the ghost’s contained. The interior’s lined with iron, of course, to keep them from getting out.”

  Lockwood nodded. “Same sort of thing as the skull’s jar, then?”

  “Pretty much,” George said, “only these are superior in a way, because you don’t get the horrid visuals. You know, I’m beginning to think that everything your parents brought back has some kind of psychic significance, Lockwood. Even the stuff hanging up downstairs. They were very good researchers. I think I would have liked them.”

  “I’m sure you would have.”

  I was watching Lockwood’s face. As always when his family was mentioned, he remained outwardly calm. But his eyes lost focus for a moment; he was staring out at nothing, or perhaps into the past.

  Celia and Donald Lockwood had been researchers into the folklore of ghosts, and their specialty had been the beliefs of far-off countries. Not only had they traveled to exotic locales, they had also shipped home many items of interest in giant crates. Some of this material had ended up decorating the walls of 35 Portland Row, but much of it was still in boxes, having arrived in Britain after the Lockwoods’ unexpected deaths.

  When we had begun unpacking these boxes, we had at once unearthed two marvelous feathered cloaks, or spirit-capes, that had been worn by Indonesian shamans while conversing with their ancestors. Lockwood and I had discovered that the protective properties of these capes were not mere legend. They had shielded us when we walked the icy paths of the Other Side. Without them, we would certainly have died. One of these original capes was lost; the other remained with us, hidden in the storeroom in our basement, next to our supplies of Coke and beans and chips.

  “The thing is,” George went on, “half these bottles are cracked. We need to be very careful with them for obvious reasons.” He glanced at Lockwood. “If you want, we could take them to the furnaces. Might be the safest thing to do.”

  “No…” Lockwood said. “They may come in handy. If they’re kept inside the chains, they should be safe enough.”

  “Well, don’t sneeze near them,” George said. “That’s my advice. When you take all these objects together, it’s a cluster of spirits we’ve got right here. Imagine if they all got out.”

  “Yes, imagine…” Lockwood’s glance lingered on his sister’s death-glow, hovering above the bed as it had for so many years. Then he turned off the light and closed the door.

  We didn’t have any jobs scheduled for that evening. This was a good thing, as we needed to get ready for the La Belle Dame case the next day. During the afternoon Holly and I completed paperwork for our recent cases. Lockwood rang Mullet’s and ordered more rapiers and chains. He seemed quieter and more subdued than usual; I thought our visit to Jessica’s room had perhaps affected him. George was off at the Archives and didn’t return. At dinnertime I fixed a hurried meal, reheating one of George’s old stews from the freezer, and we ate it in the office.

  I was tidying up in the kitchen when Lockwood peered around the door. George was still out and Holly had gone home. It was just Lockwood and me at Portland Row.

  “I was just stepping out, Lucy. I wondered if you’d like to come along.”

  “On a case?”

  “Of a kind.”

  “You want to go now?”

  “If you’re not doing anything important.”

  I so wasn’t. In seconds I’d joined him at the door. “You want me to get my equipment bag?” I said. “I can run downstairs….”

  “It’s okay. Your rapier should be fine. I’ll take my secondhand one.”

  So it wasn’t a tough ghost, then. We set off up Portland Row. “Are we going far?”

  “No. Not far.”

  We walked east a couple of blocks in the gathering dusk, then turned north toward the Marylebone Road. I wondered if we were going to hail a cab at the depot there, but before we reached the intersection, Lockwood halted beside the rusted girdle of iron paneling that surrounded the Marylebone Cemetery.

  “Here?” I said. It was a small abandoned cemetery, heavily salted, and well encased in iron.

  “Yes.”

  “I hadn’t heard about trouble here.”

  He smiled slightly. “If you put your boot in the ivy just beside you, you’ll find a post you can stand on. Then you can grab hold of the top of the panels and swing yourself up. There’s a brick wall behind the iron. Look, I’ll show you.”

  In moments he was standing, crouched and catlike, just beyond the top of the paneling. “Think you can do that? If you reach out, I can help pull you over.”

  My only reply was a snort. And I may not have been quite as nimble, and my scrambling might have been accompanied by a tad more swearing, but I was soon beside him, ten feet above the sidewalk, looking down into the dark green amphitheater of the overgrown cemetery.

  We were standing on top of the cemetery’s original stone wall, concealed from outside by the iron panels. Away to our right burned the dull lights of the Marylebone Road. Below us, silence and shadow held sway. It was an old-style inner-city graveyard, where space had been at a premium. The headstones were set almost on top of each other, and were largely submerged beneath a th
icket of brambles, with the tallest urns and angels cresting the foliage like boats on a turbulent green sea. Fingers of ivy clung to the inside of the boundary wall. Here and there, old yews emerged like melting candles, joined to the thicket below by strings of ivy and trailing vines. The ground was choked. The cemetery had evidently been abandoned for some time.

  It was a melancholy patch of ground, not particularly threatening. Equally, it was not an easy place in which to swing a sword. “What kind of Visitor is it?” I asked.

  A cool wind was coming along between the houses, and Lockwood’s coat fluttered at his back as we stood together on the wall. He didn’t seem to have heard me. “Getting down’s easy enough,” he said softly. “The wall’s crumbling here. It’s almost like a staircase, as long as you don’t slip. Shall we go?”

  “Lockwood,” I asked, easing myself after him, “how do you know about all this?”

  “I’ve been here before,” he said. “And now,” he added, as I landed in a strip of grass with waist-high brambles all around, “we take this little path.” He pointed to what looked like an animal trail running off between the stones.

  I let him lead the way, keeping my head low to avoid the thorns arching above. The track wound among the gravestones and soon opened out into a small cleared space where the foliage had been crushed underfoot and the ivy chopped back with a sword.

  Two headstones stood in the center of the space. One of the last rays of sunlight was shining on them. They were made of gray stone: modern, sharp-edged, and unsullied by wind or rain. Neither was ornate, but the one on the left was larger. It was crowned by a carving of a beautiful, sad-faced woman in a hooded cape. On the plinth below, in strong clear letters, was written:

  CELIA LOCKWOOD

  DONALD LOCKWOOD

  KNOWLEDGE SETS US FREE

  The second stone was just a simple slab, inscribed with only two words:

  JESSICA LOCKWOOD

  I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. My heart was too full, my head awhirl. I gazed at the stones.