Jonathan Stroud - Lockwood & Co - The Whispering Skull

We took the main avenue between rows of spreading limes. Dim triangles of moonlight cut between the trees, frosting the black grass. Our boots crunched on gravel; the chains in our bags chinked faintly as we marched along.

‘Should be fairly straightforward,’ Lockwood said, breaking our silence. ‘We stand by while they dig down to the coffin. When that’s done, we open it up, seal Dr Bickerstaff’s bones with a bit of silver, and head on our way. Easy.’

I made a sceptical noise. ‘Coffin opening’s never that simple,’ I said. ‘Something always goes wrong.’

‘Oh, not always .’

‘Name a single one that went well.’

‘I agree with Lucy,’ George said. ‘You’re assuming Edmund Bickerstaff won’t cause trouble. I bet he does.’

‘You’re both such worriers,’ Lockwood exclaimed. ‘Look on the bright side. We know the exact position of the Source tonight, plus we don’t have Kipps to fret about, do we? I think it’s going to be an excellent evening. As for Bickerstaff, just because he had an unfortunate end doesn’t mean he’ll necessarily be an aggressive spirit now.’

‘Maybe . . .’ George muttered. ‘But if I was eaten by rats I know I’d be fairly upset.’

After five minutes’ walk we saw the heavy white roof of a building rise among the trees like a whale breaching a dark sea. This was the Anglican chapel in the centre of the cemetery. At the front, four great pillars supported a Grecian portico. A broad flight of steps led to its double doors. They were open; electric light shone warmly from within. Below, half lit by giant hydraulic floodlights, sat two prefabricated work cabins. There were mechanical excavators, small dump-trucks, skips of earth. Twists of lavender smoke rose from buckets of coal burning at the edges of the camp.

Evidently we had reached the operations centre for Sweet Dreams Excavations and Clearance. A number of figures stood at the top of the chapel stairs, silhouetted against the open doors. We heard raised voices; fear crackled like static in the air.

Lockwood, George and I dropped our bags on the ground beside one of the smoking buckets. We climbed the steps, hands resting on our sword hilts. The crowd’s noise quietened; people moved aside, silently regarding us as we drew near.

At the top of the steps the angular, trilbied figure of Mr Saunders broke free of the throng and bustled over to make us welcome. ‘Just in time!’ he cried. ‘There’s been a small incident and these fools are refusing to stay! I keep telling them we’ve top agents arriving – but no, they want paying off. You’re not getting a penny!’ he roared over his shoulder. ‘Risk’s what I employ you for!’

‘Not after what they’ve seen,’ a big man said. He was aggressively stubbled, with skeleton tattoos on his neck and arm, and a chunky iron necklace hung over his shirt. Several other burly workmen stood in the crowd, along with a few frightened night-watch kids, clutching their watch-sticks to them like comforters. I also noted a posse of teenage girls, whose shapelessly floaty dresses, black eyeliner, outsize bangles and lank armpit-length hair marked them out as Sensitives. Sensitives do psychic work, but refuse to ever actually fight ghosts for reasons of pacifist principle. They’re generally as drippy as a summer cold and as irritating as nettle rash. We don’t normally get on.

Saunders glared at the man who’d spoken. ‘You should be ashamed, Norris. What next, jumping at Shades and Glimmers?’

‘ This thing’s no Shade,’ Norris said.

‘Bring us some proper agents!’ someone shouted. ‘Not these fly-by-nights! Look at them – they don’t even have nice uniforms!’

With a clatter of bangles, the floatiest and wettest-looking of the Sensitives stepped forward. ‘Mr Saunders! Miranda, Tricia and I refuse to work in any sector near that grave until it’s been made safe! I wish to make that clear.’

There was a general chorus of agreement; several of the men shouted insults, while Saunders struggled to be heard. The crowd pressed inwards threateningly.

Lockwood raised a friendly hand. ‘Hello, everyone,’ he said. He flashed them all his widest smile; the hubbub was stilled. ‘I’m Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Company. You may have heard of us. Combe Carey Hall? Mrs Barrett’s tomb? That’s us. We’re here to help you tonight, and I’d very much like to hear what problems you’ve experienced. You, miss’ – he turned his smile upon the Sensitive – ‘you’ve clearly had a terrible experience. Are you able to tell me about it?’

This was classic Lockwood. Friendly, considerate, empathetic. My personal impulse would have been to slap the girl soundly round 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.

True to type, she batted big, moist eyes in his direction. ‘I felt like . . . like something was rushing up beneath me,’ she breathed. ‘It was about to . . . to clasp me and swallow me. Such baleful energy! Such malice! I’m never going near that place again!’

‘That’s nothing!’ one of the other girls cried. ‘Claire only felt it. I saw it, just as dusk was falling! I swear it turned its hood and looked at me! A moment’s glimpse was all it took. Ah, it made me swoon!’

‘A hood?’ Lockwood began. ‘So can you tell me what it looked like—?’

But the girl’s squeaks had reignited the passions of the throng; everyone began talking now, clutching at us. They pressed forward, pushing us against the door. We were the centre of a ring of frightened spot-lit faces. Beyond the chapel steps, the last red light drained away across the endless ranks of headstones.

Saunders gave a bellow of renewed rage. ‘All right, you cowards! Joplin can put you on another sector tonight! Far away from that grave! Satisfied? Now get out of our way – go on, shift!’ Grasping Lockwood by the arm, he shouldered his way inside the building. George and I followed, bumped and buffeted, squeezing through the closing doors. ‘And no severance pay!’ Saunders yelled through the crack. ‘You all still work for me!’ The doors slammed shut, silencing the clamour of the crowd.

‘What a palaver,’ Saunders growled. ‘It’s my mistake for trying to speed things up. I got the excavators to begin work digging around the Bickerstaff grave an hour ago. Thought it would help you out. Then all hell broke loose, and it wasn’t even dark.’ He took his hat off and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. ‘Perhaps we’ll get a moment’s peace in here.’

The chapel was a small, plainly decorated space with walls of whitewashed plaster. There was a smell of damp; and also a persistent underlying chill, which three glowing gas heaters ranged across the flagstone floor did little to remove. Two cheap-looking desks, each piled high with a mess of papers, sat near the heaters. Along one wall a dusty altar stood behind a wooden rail, with a small closed door beside it, and a wooden pulpit close at hand. Above our heads rose a scalloped plaster dome.

The most curious object in the room was a great block of black stone, the size and shape of a closed sarcophagus; it rested on a rectangular metal plate set into the floor below the altar rail. I studied it with interest.

‘Yes, that’s a catafalque, girlie,’ Saunders said. ‘An old Victorian lift for transporting coffins to the catacombs below. Uses a hydraulic mechanism. Still works, according to Joplin; they were using it until the Problem got too bad. Where is Joplin, anyhow? Damned fool’s never at his desk. He’s always wandering off when you want him.’

‘This “small incident” at the Bickerstaff grave . . .’ Lockwood prompted. ‘Please tell us what’s happened.’