Jonathan Stroud - Lockwood & Co - The Whispering Skull

Even so, its wickedness filled the room. I could sense the dark intensity of its desire. Right now, its attention was concentrated on the mirror – and on George. It wasn’t aware of me. But that would change the instant I stepped into the chamber. The thought made me feel ill.

Yet I had to act, and do it fast. Joplin was nowhere to be seen. Now was the time to rescue George, and for that I needed to be light of foot. Crouching in the darkness, as soundlessly as possible, I began to pull the rucksack off my back.

‘ You can see he’s trying to recreate the original experiments ,’ the skull was saying. ‘ Got the mirror set up nicely on its stand. There are the seven spirits, still as feeble as ever. Always moaning, never actually doing anything. And he’s even got the master standing by. It’s almost like the old days back again. Hold on – why are you putting me down? ’

I shoved the rucksack into a vacant shelf. ‘You’re too heavy,’ I whispered. ‘You stay here.’

‘ No! ’ The skull spoke urgently. ‘ I must be part of this. I wish to see the master! Take me to him! ’

‘Sorry, you’re staying put.’ I loosened the top of the rucksack, and pulled the fabric down a little, revealing the top few inches of the jar. The plasm had flared bright green; I glimpsed the distorted face, whirling round and round. ‘If I need you,’ I said, ‘I’ll come and get you – and you’d better help when asked, or you’ll stay here permanently.’

‘ Curse you, Lucy! ’ the skull hissed. ‘ Why don’t you obey me? ’ It gave a sudden shout. ‘ Master! It’s me! Welcome back! ’

Over in the corner, the cowled figure stood silent. It did not respond.

‘ Master . . . ’ The plaintive whisper was filled with fear and yearning. ‘ Over here! It’s me! ’

The figure didn’t stir. All its intentness was on the bone glass, and on George.

‘ Yes ,’ the skull said irritably. ‘ Well, he’s not what he was .’

Of course he wasn’t. Like most Type One and Type Two Visitors, the ghost of Edmund Bickerstaff was locked into a fixed pattern of behaviour, obsessively repeating what had gone before. Its consciousness was paper-thin, a fragment of what it had been. But I didn’t have time to point this out to the skull. Stealing forward on noiseless feet, I emerged into the chamber, scanning all around. Shadowy aisles of brick and concrete stretched away on every side. Everything was silent; I could not see Joplin.

As soon as I broke cover, Quill Kipps noticed me. He gave a start of surprise, then began frantically beckoning me with little jerks of his head. The grimaces he made were quite ridiculous; on another occasion I could have watched for hours. Instead I ignored him altogether, and tiptoed over to George.

Close up, his face looked puffy; one cheek was bruised. He didn’t move when I touched him.

‘George!’ I whispered. ‘ George! ’

‘Don’t bother! He’s out cold!’ Kipps’s whisper was desperate. His head was waggling overtime. ‘Come here and set me free!’

I crossed over in a couple of strides, trying not to look at the phantom looming just beyond the strip of chains. Stubby tentacles of plasm flexed and probed against the margins of the circle. The cowled head twisted, and I felt a sudden heaviness, a cold weight on my spirits. It saw me. It knew I was there.

I shrugged the feeling off. ‘Kipps, are you all right?’

He rolled his eyes. ‘What, me? Tied up by a madman and left in a haunted catacomb in the company of Cubbins? Oh, I’m just peachy. Can’t you tell?’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ I said beaming.

‘I was being sarcastic.’

My beam turned to a scowl. ‘Yeah, so was I.’ I ducked behind him, readying my sword. To my dismay, his hands were tied with chains, and secured with a padlock. I couldn’t cut him free.

‘You’re chained up,’ I whispered. ‘I need the key.’

Kipps groaned. ‘That glazed-eyed fool will have it.’

‘Joplin? Where is he?’

‘Gone off somewhere. He heard a noise, went to investigate. He’ll be back any moment. What are you going to do to get me out of here?’

‘I don’t know. Shut up.’ I was finding it hard to think. Psychic noises buffeted my head – the mirror’s buzzing, the plaintive calling of the seven spirits, even some distant insults from the irate skull. And – above all – the presence of the hooded figure bore down on me. What would Lockwood do if he was here? My mind was blank. I didn’t know.

‘Can I just say,’ Kipps growled, ‘that when I get out of this, I’m going to kick your idiot friend’s backside from here to Marylebone.’

‘Let’s face it,’ I said, ‘you shouldn’t have been spying on us. But yes, so will I. Wait – would Joplin have put the key on that table?’ I crossed quickly, rounding the edge of the mirror circle, where the pale spirits turned to follow me. The table was piled high with a confusion of objects – dusty pots, ornaments, jewellery, and many, many books and papers. If the key was there, I couldn’t see it. I threw my hands up in despair. What could I do? Think .

‘ Watch out, Lucy . . . ’

That was the skull’s whisper, echoing faintly from the passage. I froze – then began reaching for my belt. Even as I did so, someone stepped from the darkness behind me. A sharp point pricked the back of my neck. The skull gave a chuckle. ‘ Oops. Maybe I left it a little late to warn you there .’

‘Please don’t do anything annoying, Miss Carlyle.’ It was Albert Joplin’s bleating voice. ‘You feel the knife? Very well. Take off your belt and rapier.’

I stood frozen, rigid with panic. The knife-tip prodded me gently.

‘Quickly, now. I get jumpy when I’m cross. My hand slips. Do as I say.’

No choice . . . I unclipped the belt, and let it and my rapier drop to the floor.

‘Now walk back across to Kipps. Don’t try anything. I will be right behind you.’

Slowly, stiffly, I obeyed. In its circle, the hooded phantom moved closer to the iron. I saw the grinning mouth, its snaggle-teeth; its hungry eagerness crackled through the room.

Kipps was gazing bleakly at me from the chair. ‘Yes, this is just about the efficiency I’d expect from Lockwood and Co.,’ he said. ‘What next? Lockwood comes in, trips over and impales himself on his sword?’

Albert Joplin said, ‘Stand beside Kipps, put your hands against the back of the chair. Wrists together. Now, I have one more piece of cord, which— No – you do what you’re told!’ I’d tried to turn; the knife jabbed me, making me cry out in pain. ‘That’s better,’ Joplin said. With a series of quick movements, he bound my hands to the chair. I stood beside Kipps, neck stinging, as Joplin walked away.

He looked as crumpled as ever, his jacket laced with grave-dust, his hair a storm-tossed crow’s-nest. He still moved in the same stooped manner, shoulders hunched inwards, spindly-legged and pigeon-toed. He was circling back to George. There was a short, stubby knife in one hand; in the other, a notebook. A biro was tucked behind one ear. He hummed softly to himself as he went. When he glanced back, I saw that his nose was red and swollen-looking, and he had a bruise on his chin.

But it was his eyes that really shocked me. They were dark and sunken, the pupils very wide. He seemed to be staring intently at something far away. His head was cocked, as if listening.

In its circle, the Bickerstaff ghost swayed from side to side.

‘Yes, yes . . . in a moment.’ Joplin talked absently, as if to himself. When he got to George, he bent down and squinted towards the shrouded mirror, perhaps comparing heights. What he saw seemed to satisfy him. He straightened, and slapped George sharply twice around the face. George gave a croak, and stared wildly all around.