We zigzagged down to Oxford Street, where the flea market iron and silver stores, palm readers, and fortune-telling booths stretched for miles in both directions; crossed over at Oxford Circus; and started down Regent Street. The Archives were not far away.

“I know why you’ve come along,” George said suddenly. “Don’t think I don’t.”

I’d been having dark thoughts about waffles, and the unexpected statement made my stomach lurch. “Does there have to be a reason?”

“Well, I’m guessing it’s not the thrill of my company that brings you here.” He glanced at me. “Is it?”

“I love being with you, George. I can scarcely keep away.”

“Exactly. No, you’ve made it pretty obvious,” he said, “what’s on your mind. You need to be careful, though. Lockwood isn’t pleased.”

We stepped in unison over one of the runnels of flowing water that protected the clothes stores on Regent Street. It was one of the safest areas of the city, and the streets were busier now. “Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said, “but I don’t think he’s got any right to object. It’s his fault. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Well, nor did Lockwood.”

“Of course he did. He hired her, didn’t he?”

George gazed at me, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. “I’m talking about your fascination with this ghost, this Little Tom. What were you talking about?”

“Oh, yes. Yes. The same. That’s why I’m here with you. I want to know the story.”

“Right…” We walked another few yards in silence. Up ahead was the Rotwell Building, a shimmering hulk of plastic and glass. Above the entrance, on a pole, the agency’s red lion symbol stood rampant. “So how’re you finding Holly?” George asked.

“I’m…adjusting,” I said. “Slowly. You’re obviously over the moon.”

“Well, she’s making us more efficient, which has to be good. Not that I’m sure about everything she does. I caught her trying to get rid of our Thinking Cloth the other day. Said its scribbles made the kitchen look like the inside of someone’s head. Well, it—but that’s the point.”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I find hard. All her fussy rules and regulations. And then there’s the way she looks….There’s a word for it.”

“Yeah,” George said, with feeling. “Glossy. Or were you thinking lustrous?”

“Um, no…that wasn’t quite it. I meant, sort of more…overmaintained.”

He pushed his spectacles up his nose and glanced at me. “She knows what a comb is, I suppose.”

“Are you looking at my hair? What are you saying?”

“Nothing! I’m not saying anything. Absolutely not. Oh…” George’s wriggling awkwardness froze suddenly into something deeper, an expression of numb discomfort. “Heads down, Luce….Don’t look now.”

Directly ahead of us, outside the Rotwell building, stood Quill Kipps. With him were his two close associates, Kate Godwin and Bobby Vernon.

In the daylight Kipps looked slighter than usual. As ever he was flamboyantly dressed, but his face was gray, and there was a haze of ginger stubble on his chin. He wore a black armband tight upon his sleeve, and carried a thick sheaf of documents under one arm. He’d already spotted us. This was a blow. If we’d had the chance, we’d have crossed the street or something.

We drew level with them. Vernon was remarkably small and scrawny; it was as if someone had shaved bits off normal-sized agents and created him from the scrapings. Godwin, a Listener like me, was as chilly as ground-frost, and probably about as hard underfoot. They nodded at us. We nodded at them. There was a pause, as if everyone were going through the usual round of hostilities and cheap comments, only silently, to save time.

“We’re sorry to hear about Ned Shaw,” I said finally.

Kipps stared at me. “Are you? You never liked him.”

“No. Still, that doesn’t mean we wanted him dead.”

His narrow shoulders shrugged skyward beneath his trim silver jacket. “No? Maybe. I couldn’t say.” Kipps often seemed engulfed in bitterness when he spoke with us. Today his hostility seemed less automatic and less personal, yet more deeply felt. I didn’t answer. George opened his mouth to speak and then thought better of it. Kate Godwin checked her watch, stared off down the street like she was waiting for someone.

“How did it happen?” I said finally.

“Typical DEPRAC foul-up,” Bobby Vernon said.

Kipps rubbed the back of his neck with a pale hand. He sighed. “It was a building on Walpole Street. Open floor-plan office. We were working our way through it, taking psychic readings. Some of Tendy’s group were up on the floor above. Bloody idiots disturbed a Specter, drove it down the central stairway to our level. Came straight through a wall where Shaw was and clasped him around the head before any of us could move.”

Kate Godwin nodded. “He didn’t have a chance.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, well. It’ll happen again,” Kipps said. “Not to us, maybe, but to someone.” His eyes were always red-rimmed; I thought they seemed redder than normal. “We’re out again tonight on a three-line whip. Barnes has us all performing like so many dancing bears. The Chelsea outbreak’s crazy. There’s no system to it—or if there is, I can’t see it.”

“Got to be a system,” George said. “Something’s stirring up the ghosts in that area. There’ll be a pattern, if you know where to look.”

Kipps grimaced. “You think so? The best minds in DEPRAC have failed to find it so far, Cubbins. I’ve just been at a meeting here, and no one’s got a clue. The most they’ve come up with is to suggest holding a special agency parade to reassure the public that nothing’s wrong. Can you believe it? We’ve got thousands of people evacuated, ghosts rampant, rioting in London—and they’re planning a carnival. The world’s gone mad.” He scowled at us as if it had been our suggestion, and flourished the sheaf of papers. “Oh, and see this? Copy of all the case reports the different teams have filed in the last week. Apparitions, Glimmers, chill spots—you name it. Hundreds of incidents, and no pattern whatsoever. All team leaders are supposed to read it now, and come up with our own suggestions. As if I’ll have time for that! I’ve got a funeral to go to.” He slapped the papers disgustedly against his fist. “I might as well lob this in the trash.”

We stood there awkwardly. I didn’t know what to say.

“You can give it to me, if you like,” George said. “I’d be interested.”

“Give it to you?” Kipps’s brief laugh had no humor in it. “Why should I do that? You hate me.”

George snorted. “What, you want me to blow you a kiss? Who cares whether I like you or not? People are dying here. I might be able to do something with it, do us all a favor. If you want to read it yourself, fine. Otherwise give it here. Just don’t put it in the stupid bin.” He stamped his foot, red in the face and glaring.

Kipps and his companions blinked at him, slightly taken aback. I was a bit, too. Kipps looked at me; then, shrugging, tossed the papers across to George. “Like I say, I don’t want them. I’ve got other things to do. We may see you at the carnival—if Lockwood and Co.’s invited, which I strongly doubt.” He gave a cursory wave, and with that, the three Fittes agents sloped off into the crowd.

If the National Newspaper Archives building were ever haunted, it would be a devil of a job to sort it. Spreading over six vast floors, each honeycombed with eight-foot-high shelves and book stacks, it’s bigger than any factory and more complex and labyrinthine than the oldest Tudor house. Plus, you’d be constantly tripping over all the scholars crouched in gloomy recesses, staring at old documents, trying to understand the history of the Problem. History was what the Archives were about; you could smell it in the air, taste it on your breath. After half an hour of leafing through century-old magazines, you felt it fused to your fingertips, too.

George liked it; he knew his way around. He took me to the Periodicals section on the fourth level and showed me the Catalogue—a series of giant leather-bound books that summarized the contents of the floor. For events of recent decades, there was an Index, too, which cross-referenced stories contained in all the magazines. For old stuff, though, you had to locate the periodical you wanted, choose the relevant date, and sift through the endless yellowed pages yourself, looking for your story.

Armed with a list of magazines from George, I weighed in, finding copies of the Cornhill Journal and Mayfair News from summer 1883, and taking them to the reading tables perched above the central atrium. I began to browse, looking for any mention of the horrors of Hanover Square.

Soon I had the smell of stale ink in my nostrils. My eyes ached from poring over minute print. Worse, my mind ached from all the half-glimpsed irrelevant details. Victorian controversies. Forgotten society ladies. Essays on faith and empire by hairy, self-confident men. This was stuff that would have been dull when it was published, let alone more than a century later. It was ancient history. How could George enjoy doing this?

Ancient history…That was exactly what Lockwood had once said about his sister, who’d died only six years ago. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how present she was, influencing his every action. I remembered his coldness the night before; his dismissal of my empathy for the little ghost. And of course Holly Munro had backed him up today: she wanted the thing destroyed, no questions asked. I’d only seen her for five minutes, but she’d been irritating that morning.

I continued reading, moving among the shelves, steadily working through George’s list. My mind wandered. Whenever I passed the Catalogue and Index, I thought about the events, six years before, in Portland Row.

Once, when I returned to the tables, I discovered George there, surrounded by magazines, copying lines into his notebook. “Found out about our ghost?” I asked.

“Nope. Not a sausage on that yet. I’m taking a break, checking out something else.” He yawned and stretched. “Don’t know if you remember, but when Miss Wintergarden came to see us, she was wearing a little silver brooch.”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I was meaning to ask you about that. Was it the same as—?”

“It was. An ancient Grecian harp or lyre. The precise same symbol we saw on Fairfax’s goggles, and on that box that Penelope Fittes was holding, you know, when we spied on her in her library.”

I nodded. Combe Carey Hall…the Black Library of Fittes House….Months separated the two incidents, but as I’d almost died on both those nights, I didn’t have any problem recalling them. The odd little harp symbol had puzzled us ever since, the few times we remembered it. It represented…what had Wintergarden called it? “Was it the Orpheus Club?” I said.

“Orpheus Society. I’ve just been looking it up.” George adjusted his glasses as he tried to decipher his own spidery handwriting. “It’s listed in Debrett’s Almanac of Registered British Groups, Clubs, and Other Organizations as a ‘theoretical society for prominent citizens to research the Problem and the nature of the Other Side.’ They make it sound like a talking shop for posh bigwigs, but we know there’s more to it than that. It’s got a registered address in St. James. Not a clue what it is, but we should check it out sometime.” He eyed my latest pile of tomes. “How are you getting on?”

“Nothing so far. How recent does the Index go, by the way? Last few years?”

“They keep it up to date as far as they can, yes. Why?”

“No reason.”

Some while later, with George elsewhere, I strolled over to the Index shelf.

I found the volume I wanted. The one for six years ago. A list of subjects contained in the magazines and newspapers of that year: events, hauntings, features, names.

On impulse I flipped to the Ls.

There wouldn’t be anything. I knew that. I wasn’t doing any harm.

But when my inky finger ran down the column, there it was:

Lockwood, J.

I felt as cold as when I’d entered the sister’s room. The name, apparently, was mentioned in the Marylebone Herald, the monthly paper for our area of London. It gave the date, and the catalogue number for the bound edition.

It was the work of a moment to locate the relevant file. I went to a remote alcove and sat there with the folder on my knee.

The death of Miss Jessica Lockwood (15), daughter of late psychic researchers Celia and Donald Lockwood, has been reported by St. Pancras Coroners. In the latest tragic incident to hit the family, she was ghost-touched in an accident at her home in Marylebone, last Thursday night. Her younger brother was unable to stop the attack, and she was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital. Funeral arrangements will be announced. The family requests that no flowers be sent.

That was it, just the scantiest mention, but it contained enough to keep me sitting there, unmoving. Many things to think about, and one most of all. The way I remembered it, when we’d talked about his sister, Lockwood had definitely implied that he hadn’t been around when the accident took place.

This article implied that he had.

The day got worse. Of course it did. By early afternoon, George and I had still found nothing (at least nothing, in my case, that we’d officially gone to find). It was time to get home to the office, but George wanted to do a final check on some obscure journals that were housed in another building, a few blocks from the main Archives. He said he’d follow later, so I tramped back alone to Portland Row. And when I entered the hall, the first thing I saw was Holly Munro, all outfitted in an agent’s work belt and rapier. She had a cool leather coat on, and black leather fingerless gloves; also a wool sweater I’d never seen before.

She saw me staring. “This sweater? I know. It’s not very flattering. It’s one of Lockwood’s old ones. He says it shrank in the wash. Still smells of him, though.”

Lockwood peered out of the living room, carrying a workbag in either hand. “Holly’s joining us tonight,” he said. “Where’s George?”

“He’s still looking. But—”

“We can’t wait for him. We’ll only have an hour or two before dark, at this rate. He can meet us at the house. I’ve got your bag here, Lucy. We need to get going, so now’s the time if you need to pee or anything.” He disappeared.

Holly and I stood facing each other down the hall. She had that little smile on, the default one that might mean anything or nothing. I could hear Lockwood rummaging somewhere in the next room, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.

“I don’t actually need to pee,” I said.

“No.” We stood there. Where had she gotten the gloves from? They looked suspiciously like the spare ones that I kept in my weapons locker. I recognized the sword for sure: it was one of the old blades we used for practice in the rapier room.

I took a breath. “So why—”

“Lockwood had—”

We’d both spoken at the same time. Now we both stopped—me the most decisively; after a pause, Holly resumed. “Lockwood had a difficult interview with Miss Wintergarden,” she said. “She’s demanding instant results. A most exacting lady. He says we need as many pairs of eyes as possible this afternoon, to try to find the Source before nightfall. I offered to come along, and he’s found me a few things to make sure I’m protected and kept warm. I hope you don’t mind this, Lucy.”