“What happened?” I said. “I don’t remember that black eye.”

He dumped his bag down on the floor. “Only just been given it, as it happens,” he said. “Flo and I found your room of skeletons, Luce—and boy, is it fascinating. I’ve been taking all sorts of measurements and notes down there. I’d still be doing it, in fact, but I hadn’t been at it more than an hour when a gang of Rotwell agents showed up along the tunnel and started cordoning everything off. They told me to get lost. Of course, I told them to get knotted. We shared some stirring words, during which I made a few telling points about their behavior, not to mention their clothes sense, facial asymmetry, and parentage.” He chuckled. “I was quite eloquent, actually, so much so that one of them tried to brain me with a femur he’d picked up off the pile of bones. So I lobbed a lumbar vertebra at him, and then Flo got going with the muck prong she keeps under her petticoats, and after that things got quite exciting for a while before we were finally escorted off the premises. But it doesn’t matter. I had time to draw a little diagram of the room before I went. I’ll show you later. Right now, I need a bath to cleanse my sweaty bits.” He peered over the top of his glasses. “Speaking of which, isn’t that my towel, Holly, you’re wearing ’round your hair…?”

It turned out later that the Rotwell operatives, working officially under DEPRAC command, had introduced a team of crack agents with the latest salt-guns, the ones connected to canisters of compressed spray strapped onto their backs. They spent three days cleansing the vaults of the King’s Prison and clearing out the mass of skeletons. I’d hoped the remains could be treated with respect and given a proper burial, but that wasn’t how DEPRAC worked. The bones were taken to the Clerkenwell furnaces and burned without further ceremony.

Careful observations were made in Aickmere Brothers for several weeks afterward, but no Visitors were seen there again.

As for the wider effects on the district of Chelsea, Lockwood’s claim that we had scotched the outbreak was put to the test the very next night. As darkness fell, agency teams tentatively entered the Containment Zone as usual, with Penelope Fittes, Steve Rotwell, and a group of top DEPRAC psychics observing from the watchtower on Sloane Square. A light drizzle hung in the air. The agents walked along the King’s Road and dispersed into the surrounding streets. Time passed while the dignitaries drank tea beneath their umbrellas and looked at copies of George’s maps, which Lockwood, who was present, had given them. In due course the agents returned and made their report. Ghostly activity had not ceased, but it seemed markedly less frenzied than on previous nights. Several Visitors that had previously been observed were no longer there; others seemed pale shadows of their former selves, slower and less formidable, and far easier to corral with iron and salt-bombs. In short, it was the first noticeable improvement in Chelsea for several months, and the agents were hopeful that it was the start of the turning of the tide.

Lockwood hung around long enough to receive congratulations from Ms. Fittes, give Mr. Rotwell a cordial bow, and wink at Inspector Barnes. Then he departed. Before he was out of earshot, he could hear Barnes once again becoming the focus of incessant questions.

One way and another, in fact, things were looking good for Lockwood & Co. And I would certainly have shared the general happy exhaustion—would have been more than satisfied with the endless phone calls, and the flurry of reporters now knocking on our doors—if I hadn’t still been haunted. Not by an actual ghost, but by the memory of one. Its face remained before me. Its words echoed in my ears. When I sat with the others, and still more when I lay on my own in the quiet of my room, I could not escape the vision of the other Lockwood. I could not rid myself of the hollow boy.

CHELSEA OUTBREAK ENDS!

MASS TOMB DISCOVERED UNDER FAMED DEPARTMENT STORE

TRIUMPH FOR COMBINED AGENCY TEAM

FIRST INTERVIEW WITH A. J. LOCKWOOD AND Q. F. KIPPS INSIDE

People across London can sleep more easily in their beds tonight following the discovery of a previously unknown mass grave beneath Aickmere Brothers, the noted department store on the King’s Road. The sealing, removal, and destruction of this unprecedented Cluster Source signals at last the end of the so-called Chelsea outbreak, which conventional DEPRAC teams have long been unable to suppress. Effects have been immediate: in the past few days, recorded disturbances in the district have fallen by 46%, with further decreases expected in the next few days.

Today’s Times of London reveals the full story of how, following three months of terror for the hard-pressed population, a special joint task force, comprising operatives from the Fittes and Lockwood agencies, discovered the ruins of the medieval King’s Prison buried below the Aickmere Brothers building. In a special interview, team leader Anthony Lockwood, Esq., and his close associate, Quill Kipps of the Fittes Agency, discuss how they masterminded their exploration of the necropolis, and the methods used for combating the ferocious Poltergeist that guarded the entrance to the subterranean world.

“We knew it would be dangerous,” Mr. Kipps says, “but with precise preparation and dedicated teamwork, we got there in the end.” For his part, Mr. Lockwood explains that the Poltergeist was not the only Visitor encountered in the tunnels below Chelsea. “More than thirty skeletons were discovered in the central chamber,” he says, “and at times dozens of spirits surrounded us. But were we daunted? No! We’ve shown that, with courage and determination, even the most terrifying Visitor can be faced and overcome.”

Praise for the team has come from the highest quarters. In a rare statement, Fittes Agency chairman, Ms. Penelope Fittes, said: “I’m so proud of my employees. Too often in the past, rivalry between agencies has hampered investigations. I hope this operation is a symbol of the future. When extraordinary companies cooperate, extraordinary results can be achieved.”

Full Lockwood/Kipps Interview: see pages 2–3

King’s Prison “Room of Skeletons” foldable 3-D paper model: see pages 38–39

Aickmere Brothers Fire Sale: Free £10 Voucher Inside! See page 40

And after it all ended, did we return to our old ways of doing things? Were we ever quite the same? Did we go back to going on missions together, just Lockwood, George, and I—simple missions, like dodging ectoplasmic tentacles in attics—before heading home for tea?

There was a feast arranged at Portland Row one afternoon, a few days after events in Chelsea had come to their conclusion. Holly had done most of the organizing, so bowls of olives, salads, whole-wheat ciabatta bread, and plates of interestingly limp cold cuts were very much in evidence. Fortunately, at the last minute George made an emergency run to the shops, returning with a supply of cheap sausage rolls, fizzy drinks, and smoky bacon-flavored chips; also a chocolate fudge cake of surpassing size, which he hoisted proudly into the center of the kitchen table.

Holly and George had had a running argument about that table, Holly insisting that our Thinking Cloth, with its mural of scribbles, notes, and grotesque cartoons, looked like the wall of a public lavatory, and would put her off her hummus dips. She wanted it discarded for the occasion and replaced with a crisp white alternative. George refused. Ever since breakfast, he had been working on a diagram on one corner of the cloth, and he didn’t want it moved. In the end, through sheer bespectacled stubbornness, he got his way.

By midafternoon, the kitchen was ready. Every surface groaned with delicacies; the kettle was on; Holly had thrown all the wrappers away. The skull in the jar, which had been making atrocious pop-eyed faces at Holly whenever she turned toward it, causing her to spill two bowls of cashew nuts and one of taramasalata, had been removed upstairs in disgrace. Now in came Lockwood, fresh from numerous phone calls in the office, and we all sat down to dine.

He was in good form that day, Lockwood, vibrant with positive energies. I remember him sitting at the head of the table, creating a towering sandwich stuffed with sausage rolls and smoky bacon chips (much to Holly’s horror—to appease her, he balanced a minuscule leaf of parsley on the top) as he spoke about the potential new clients the agency now had. Like the rest of us, his recent injuries were still in evidence—the cut on his forehead, his grazed cheek, his bruises, the weariness stamped beneath his eyes—yet somehow all they did was serve to highlight his vigor and vitality.

George was happy too, making last-minute tweaks to the complicated diagram on the cloth before him, while at the same time demolishing plateloads of miniature Scotch eggs. He made a spirited early play to sample the chocolate fudge cake, too, but Lockwood decreed that this should be left to the end.

As for Holly, she was back in her smooth and flawless groove once more, smiling benignly at the goings-on while remaining slightly detached from it all. At George’s behest, she unbent enough to try a single small Scotch egg; mainly, though, she stuck to sparkling spring water and a walnut, raisin, and goat cheese salad. In a funny sort of way I was pleased she kept her standards up. It was somehow reassuring.

Me? Yes, I was there. I ate and drank and joined in with the others, though inwardly I was far away. After a while we looked (again) at the day’s newspapers, which Holly had left folded beside Lockwood’s plate.

“Every time I see this coverage,” Lockwood said, “I can’t believe our luck. When you combine this with what happened on the Strand, we’ve dominated the papers for more than a week.”

Holly nodded. “The phone’s been ringing nonstop,” she said. “Everyone wants Lockwood and Co. You’re going to have to make some decisions about expanding.”

“I need some advice about that.” Lockwood took a spear of cucumber and stuck it thoughtfully in the dip. “Actually, I’m seeing Penelope Fittes next week. She wants me to come in for an informal breakfast meeting. More of a thanks for the carnival thing than anything, I suppose, but still…I could ask her.” He grinned. “Did you read the bit where she called us a ‘top agency’?”

“And what about Inspector Barnes’s quote?” George added. “What was it again? ‘A group of talented young agents that I’m proud to oversee.’ Can you believe his nerve?”

Lockwood crunched the cucumber. “As always, Barnes follows his own agenda.”

“He’s not the only one.” George gave the paper a prod. “I’m not sure I approve of Kipps getting equal billing with you here.”

“Oh, that’s just to keep him sweet. To be honest, we do owe him for supporting us, and it’s paid off for him now. Did you hear he’s been promoted? Section leader or something, wasn’t it, Luce? You’re the one who told me.”

“Yeah, Fittes Division Leader,” I said.

“That’s it. Awarded by Penelope Fittes herself. Still, that didn’t prevent Kipps from having a massive fight with me about the way we handled the Room of Bones at the end. He was furious that the Rotwell team got there before anyone from his agency.”

“Well, you didn’t tell them to go in, did you?” George said.

“No. I don’t know who did, actually. I suppose it must have been Barnes….” All at once, Lockwood fixed me with his dark eyes. “Are you all right, Lucy?” he asked.

“Yes! Yes….” He’d startled me; I’d been drifting. Just for a moment the living Lockwood, sitting at the table, cutting himself a piece of Holly’s trendy delicatessen cheese, had been lost, hidden beneath the gory, white-faced apparition of the underground room….

I blinked the mirage away. It was fake! I knew it was. I knew it was a lie. I’d seen Lockwood himself slice the Fetch in two just as cleanly as he did that cheese.

But try as I might, I couldn’t shake my mind clear.

I show you the future. This is your doing.

“Have a piece of Parma ham, Lucy,” Holly said. “Lockwood likes it. It’ll really put the blood back in your cheeks.”

“Er, yeah, sure—thanks.”

Holly and me? We’d adopted a mutual policy of careful toleration. Over the last few days, for want of anything better, we’d kind of muddled by. Don’t get me wrong—we still riled each other. Her new habit of sweeping up crumbs around my plate while I was eating, for example—that got my goat. Meanwhile, she was less than thrilled by my (justifiable) habit of rolling my eyes and gasping aloud whenever she did something especially finicky, precious, or controlling. But things didn’t threaten to ignite the way they once had. Perhaps it was because we’d already said everything there was to say, that awful night at Aickmere’s. Or perhaps it was simply because we no longer had the energy to be furious anymore.

“Speaking of the Room of Bones,” George said, as he moved his plate of ciabatta crusts to one side, “I’d like to show you something, courtesy of the noble Thinking Cloth.” In front of him was his diagram, multicolored and carefully inscribed. Imagine a square with a circle inside it, and inside that circle nine precisely arranged dots. Right in the middle of that, another small circle, crosshatched in black, with several thin, spidery pencil lines radiating from opposite sides of it like broken bicycle spokes. On one side of the circle stretched a long red stain.

George smoothed out the cloth. “This is my plan of the room,” he said, “taken from the measurements Flo and I noted down the other day. Lucy and Lockwood were absolutely right. Someone else was here, and they were doing something very specific. Look how the skeletons were pushed back to form a kind of perfect circle around the edges. I know they weren’t originally like that, because I found bone fragments in the center of the room. Someone carefully arranged them that way. They then rigged up nine candles in a ring: the wax marks show how these were positioned. After that, something happened in the middle of the room, right here.” He pointed to the crosshatched circle. “It’s an ectoplasm burn. I studied it particularly closely. The stones there were still very cold. The burn reminds me of others we’ve seen, where something otherworldly came through.”

He didn’t mention it, none of us did: but there was an example of a burn like that in our very house, on the mattress in the abandoned room upstairs.

“Interesting,” Lockwood breathed. “And what’s this sinister red stain?”

“That’s some jam from breakfast this morning.” George pushed his glasses up his nose. “But check these out.” He pointed to the pencil marks radiating from the center. “The lines mark the position of a number of odd scrapes and scuff marks on the floor. They’re very odd.”