Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

“Found out a little bit about the victim,” George said. “Fellow called Mr. Dunn, lived a few doors up the street. Single fellow, amiable, socially conscious. He used to call on housebound neighbors—the elderly and infirm—do odd jobs for them, help with the shopping. Seems he noticed that Mr. Guppy at number seven seldom went out, and made it his business to stop in on him every once in a while. On the night in question, someone saw him heading over with the famous cake. After that, he wasn’t seen for days. When he was finally reported missing, the police went over. Guppy answered the door, told them that Dunn had indeed visited, but had left for another appointment. He didn’t know what his appointment was, or with whom. It was quite early, but Guppy was already up and making breakfast; the cops could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen.”

“Oh, ick,” I said. Holly Munro wrinkled her nose.

“Yeah,” George said. “Anyhow, the police went away, but they returned a few days later, following reports of smoke coming from Guppy’s house. His chimney was blocked; he’d been trying to burn something in the fireplace. That something turned out to be Dunn’s clothes. Most of the other things they found weren’t made public at the trial.”

Holly brushed a length of hair behind her ear. “How utterly horrid. Do we know where the murder actually took place?”

George pulled out a pale blue sheet of paper, unfolded it, and set it before us. It showed the layout of the house, which had two main floors, plus a basement. To the side was a garage. At the front and back were yards or gardens. The identity of each room was labeled neatly in red pencil.

“No one’s sure,” he said. “There was evidence of the crime in most of the rooms.”

I looked at him. “‘Evidence of the crime’? Meaning…”

“Bits of Mr. Dunn.”

“Right. I thought you meant that. Just wanted to check.”

“The good news is that it’s a small enough place,” Lockwood said. “With the four of us, it should be easy to keep tabs on it tonight. Just a thought, though. We don’t actually know which spirit is informing the house, do we? Isn’t it more likely to be Dunn’s ghost, rather than Guppy’s? He’s the one who died there.”

“Could be,” George said. “Until we find the Source, we won’t know.”

“I hope it’s Dunn,” Holly said, and I nodded. It’s not often I actively want to meet the angry ghost of a murder victim, but after seeing the photograph in George’s file, I really didn’t want to meet the owner of that blurry shape, even in death. The others were nodding, too.

Lockwood took out his wallet and put some money on the table.

“Time to find out,” he said.

Despite our best intentions, the afternoon was far advanced by the time we arrived at the house of the Ealing Cannibal. We’d forgotten that everyone liked to get out of central London well before curfew; the traffic on the arterial roads was sluggish, and repair work at the Chiswick roundabout delayed us even more. As the cab moved slowly through the suburban streets of Ealing, the last commuters were already in force on the sidewalks, hurrying home beneath the flickering ghost-lights. The sun had swung low, and a layer of black clouds lay over us like a broken slab of chocolate, with streaks of blue-and-yellow sky showing through the cracks. The air held the threat of rain.

Whether or not our driver knew the reputation of The Leas, he knew the business we were in and didn’t care to get too close to our final destination. He dropped us, and our swords, workbags, and lengths of chain, at the far end of the street, and we walked the final hundred yards to the house where horrors stirred.

It’s a common misconception that places that have suffered psychic trauma must look sinister, too, with gaping windows, creaking doors, and walls twisted subtly out of shape. As with people, so with houses—a smiling, innocuous exterior can conceal the blackest heart, and number 7, The Leas, didn’t look like anything much at all.

It stood halfway along the east side of a crescent of modest detached buildings, each with its own garage, each with its own neat scrap of lawn beside its thin concrete drive. They were fairly modern homes, the windows broad and generous, the roofs made of pleasant reddish tiles. The front doors were paneled with glass and protected by simple, flat-topped porches. It was neither a poor district, nor a rich one. Dark laurel hedges separated the plots, and cypress trees rose up in the backyards, black and sharp as knives.

Number 7 looked in no worse repair than any of the other houses; in fact, in many ways, it seemed in better shape. The nearby buildings were noticeably shabby, with cars rusting under tarps on weedy drives; small signs, perhaps, that what had happened here so long before still worked its poison on the neighborhood. But the house once inhabited by Mr. Solomon Guppy was white and painted; its lawn mowed, its hedges trimmed. The local council, conscious of civic pride, had not allowed it to fall into disrepair.

The street was quiet; the only signs of life were small ones: lights coming on in downstairs windows, curtains being drawn. We hadn’t set eyes on anyone until, nearing number 7, a thin figure detached itself from the shadows of the hedge. Arms folded, it waited gloomily as we drew near.

George let out a groan. “Penelope Fittes must have hundreds of supervisors. Why did she have to choose him ?”

The young man wore the silver-gray jacket of the Fittes Agency and had an ornately handled rapier hanging at his belt. His narrow, freckled face was twisted in an expression of sour disapproval, but we’d had enough experience with Quill Kipps to know that this meant little. He was quite possibly in a good mood.

“Looking on the bright side,” Lockwood whispered, “Kipps has worked with us before. He already knows we won’t listen to a word he says. That’s going to save a lot of time. Nice to see you, Quill!” he called. “How’s tricks?”

“Before you say anything,” Kipps said, “I didn’t ask to be given this job. I dislike the idea just as much as you do. Let’s just be clear about that.”

Lockwood grinned. “I’m sure it’s a match made in heaven.”

“Yeah,” Kipps said feelingly. “I’m sure.”

Once one of Lockwood & Co.’s bitterest rivals, Quill Kipps had reached his early twenties, and thus seen his psychic Talents leach away. No longer able to detect ghosts effectively, he had consequently been put in charge of others who could. Personal losses had since mellowed him, and he had fought alongside us in the recent past. Despite being as congenial as a mustard sandwich, he was, we knew, both tough and bloody-minded. As Lockwood had said, we could have had a worse companion.

George was regarding him skeptically. “So you’re here to spy on us, I take it?”

Kipps shrugged. “I’m an observer. It’s company policy to supply one when there’s a joint venture with other agencies. Also, Ms. Fittes has asked me to provide you with any assistance you might require. Not that I’ll be much use,” he added, “since, psychically speaking, I’m practically deaf and blind. The most warning I get of something coming nowadays is a sort of squeezing sensation in my stomach, and as often as not that’s gas.”

“Remind me to station you in a different room than me,” Lockwood said. “Seriously, we’re glad to have your help. So: number seven. Have you been inside?”

Kipps looked over at the neat, blank house. The descending sun had reached it; the front windows sparkled with reflected light. “On my own? You must be joking. This is a team effort. Hopefully, one of you will get ghost-touched instead of me.” He lifted his hand; a house key hung dangling from a leather fob. “But I do have what you need.”