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He wore that slight half-smile he reserved for dangerous situations: the kind of smile that suggests complete command. His
I looked at him. “Is that the one where we run away?” “Not at all. It’s the one where we beat a dignified emergency retreat.” “You’re thinking of Plan G, Luce,” George grunted. “They’re similar.”
Being diplomatic, I’d say Kipps was a slightly built young man in his early twenties, with close-cut reddish hair and a narrow, freckled face. Being undiplomatic (but more precise), I’d say he’s a pint-sized, pug-nosed, carrot-topped inadequate with a chip the size of Big Ben on his weedy shoulder. A sneer on legs. A malevolent buffoon.
Lockwood shook his head. “No, I’d always be tripping over him, or losing him down the back of the sofa.
“I had to speak out,” George said. “Sorry. It was either that or punch him, and I’ve got sensitive hands.”
It was dangerous and evil, and had the potential to change my life forever. It was a skull.
Failure hadn’t discouraged him. If anything, it had increased his passion.
George gave a skeptical snort. “Oh, come on. You love all that mystery about him. Just like you love that pensive, far-off look he does sometimes, as if he’s brooding about important matters, or contemplating a tricky bowel movement. Don’t try to deny it. I know.”
“Maybe…” George muttered. “But if I was eaten by rats, I know I’d be fairly upset.”
This was classic Lockwood. Friendly, considerate, empathetic. My personal impulse would have been to slap the girl soundly around the face and boot her moaning backside out into the night. Which is why he’s the leader, and I’m not. Also why I have no female friends.
“Feeling rough?” someone said softly.
“Because you sure as hell look it.” It was the lowest, throatiest of whispers; alien, but familiar. I’d heard it once before.
“Oh, don’t bring them into it.” The whispering voice sounded pained. “Let’s keep it intimate, you and me.”
George groaned audibly. “We’ve had near-death experiences,” he muttered, “we’ve had domestic fights, we’ve had a pitiful amount of sleep. But this is going to drive me over the edge. If I leap on the table and start shrieking, don’t try to stop me. Just let me howl.”
“If you’re firing them, I know of two vacancies,” George added. “Toilet attendants needed
at Marylebone Station. Could wear those same jackets, and all.”
One long, bony arm splayed out at an unnatural angle, as if snapped at the elbow; the other lay palm up, as if reaching for something that had left. Fronds of white hair stretched like the legs of drowned spiders around the naked skull. “Nasty,” George said. “Don’t look at that face, Kat.” The blond girl scowled across at us. “I’m used to such things.” “Yes, you work with Kipps here, don’t you? I suppose you are.”
“You’re hiring us?” George blinked at the inspector. “Just how desperate can you be?”
“You only have to look at people sometimes to arouse their savage rage. Now listen—we need to work fast. Going back to Portland Row has put us seriously behind.”
“Why did none of us trip him?” George muttered. “It would have been so sweet.”
Shaw smiled briefly; he looked out into the haze of the cemetery. He seemed to be thinking of something peaceful and far away. Then he turned and punched Lockwood hard in the side of the face—or tried to, because Lockwood swayed back and dodged the blow. Shaw’s momentum carried him forward; Lockwood took hold of his flailing arm and twisted it sharply to the side and back. At the same time he stuck his boot behind one of Shaw’s ankles.
“Our no-provocation rule is surprisingly flexible,” George remarked. “Can I give him a kick too?”
Out on hunt! Developments! Be here later. G Nearby was a series of obscure scribblings: 150 ˚F 15 mins No response 200 ˚F 15 mins No 250 ˚F 15 mins No 300 ˚F 6 mins Plasm stirs. Face forms 12 mins Mouth moves. Expressions (rude)
My first impression was of a big man made short by some quirk of genetics, or by an elevator falling on him, or both.
George gave a sudden curse. “Barnes! The ghost-jar! I told Barnes I’d gotten rid of it.” “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Go shut the oven door then, quickly. We haven’t got much time.”
Let’s just freeze-frame that scene a moment: me, standing by the oven, staring at the jar. The ghost grinning back at me. Lockwood staring, George staring. Four sets of goggle-eyes, four mouths hanging open. Okay, the face in the jar is still the most disgusting, but for a second it was almost a tie. It was also precisely what I’d been hoping for all those long, frustrating months: my moment of vindication.
I was unique, my gift was something to be prized, and it would make all our fortunes if we played our cards right. Lockwood was no less thrilled; he made us all a round of bacon sandwiches (an event almost as rare as chatting with Type Threes) and, while we ate them, talked about how we might proceed.
“This is cozy,” George said. “Nice cologne, Kipps. I’m being genuine there.”
done. Burglary’s more fun than socializing, I always say. The door’ll probably be locked, anyhow.”
“Don’t be frightened.” From the backpack, a wicked whispering brushed my ear. “You’re not alone. You’ve still got me.”
“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.”
“How dare you?” he cried. “That was invaluable! That was mine!” Darting forward, he rummaged on the tabletop and drew out an enormous flintlock pistol, rusted, cumbersome, with hammers raised. He pointed the gun at me. A polite cough sounded beside us. I looked up; Joplin turned. Anthony Lockwood stood there. He was covered in grave dust, and there were cobwebs on his collar and in his hair. His trousers were torn at the knees, his fingers bleeding. He’d looked neater in his time, but I can’t say he’d ever looked better to me. He held his rapier casually in one hand.
“Hey,” Kipps’s voice echoed across the room. “After you’ve had your little rest, could someone please untie me?”
“Exactly.” He tucked his empty frames neatly in his pocket. “At that distance, I’m totally blind. I couldn’t see a thing.”
“To keep things brief, I’ve decided secrets cause nothing but trouble. There’s a darn sight too many of them, and they make things worse, not better. So, I’ve come to a decision. I want to show you both something.”
