Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

I grasped the clapper and swung it hard.

George once told me there was a theory that ghosts disliked loud noises, particularly ones made with iron instruments. He said the ancient Greeks used to send evil spirits packing with metal rattles and tambourines. Well, if anything undead had been lurking in Portland Row that night, their ectoplasm would have dissolved the instant I began ringing. I nearly lost a few teeth myself. The appalling noise ripped a hole in the fabric of the night.

I gave it a good twenty seconds, and when I stopped, my heart’s clapper kept pounding against my chest.

A short time passed. To my great relief, movements sounded in the house. A faint glow showed in the semicircle of petaled panes above the door. That would be the crystal skull lantern on the hall table being switched on. I heard the chain being removed, the bolt pulled back. I stepped away from the door, back across the iron line. Best not to come too close. Some people could be mighty jittery if they saw a dark figure when they opened a door at night, particularly if those people were George.

But it wasn’t George. It was Lockwood. The door swung back, and there he was in his long bathrobe and his dark blue pajamas, with the spare rapier, the one we kept with the umbrellas in the hall, ready in his hand. His feet were bare, his hair rumpled. His lean face was wary but relaxed. He stared out into the dark.

I just stood there. I didn’t know what to say to him.

“Lucy?”

I’d not slept at all that night, and for only a short while the night before. In the last few hours I’d fled from three killers, and come face-to-face with a newly murdered ghost. I’d been cut by a throwing knife; I’d sustained countless bumps and bruises during my escape, after which I’d walked halfway across London. I hadn’t eaten since…When had I eaten? I couldn’t remember. My leggings were torn. I was cold, stiff, and sore, and could barely stand. Oh, yeah, and my coat stank.

It was after midnight. I stood on his doorstep, looking just swell.

“Lockwood—”

But he was already at my side, putting his arm around me, pulling me upright, ushering me up to the door and into the warmth and light. And talking, talking as he did so.

“Lucy, what’s happened? You’re shaking. Come on. Come on inside.”

The familiar Portland Row smell enveloped me: that mix of iron and salt, and leather coats, and that curious dusty, musty tang that came from the masks and pots and Eastern curios on the shelves. For some reason, I suddenly felt close to tears. That wouldn’t do. I blinked them away as the door clicked behind us, shutting out the night. Lockwood shot the bolt, pulled the chains across; he flipped the rapier into the old chipped plant pot we used as an umbrella stand. His arm was still around me; he led me up the hall.

“Sorry to disturb you so late,” I said.

“Don’t give it a thought! But you’re exhausted, I can barely hear you. Let’s get you to the kitchen.”

Through to the kitchen we went; on came the light—bright and clean and hard enough to make me wince. I saw the cereals and salt bins, the cups and kettles. I saw George’s moth-eaten cushion on his seat. And I saw the Thinking Cloth on the table: a fresh one, with unfamiliar doodles and designs. That made my eyes prickle, too. Lockwood didn’t notice; he was saying something, pulling back a chair. As I sank into it, he caught sight of my sleeve, saw the congealed blood running from elbow to wrist. His face changed.

“What is this?”

“It’s nothing. Just a cut.”

He knelt at my side, pulled my sleeve back with his long, quick fingers, exposing the laceration on my arm. He gazed up at me with searching eyes. “A knife made this, Lucy. Who—?” He stood up. “No—explanations can wait. I’ll get George; we can clean this, fix you up. You don’t have to worry anymore; you’re safe here.”

“Thank you. I know. That’s why I came.”

“You want tea?”

“Yes, please. In a bit. But I can make it—”

“Not a chance. Just sit tight.” He rose. “George wears earplugs these days, otherwise his own snores wake him up. Means I’ve got to venture into his room.”

“If you don’t come back,” I said, “I’ll come looking for you.” I hesitated. “Actually…on second thought, maybe not.”

He grinned, squeezed my shoulder. With a swish of his bathrobe he was gone. I sat there in the warm kitchen, and whether it was because I’d dropped off, or because Lockwood moved so fast, it seemed only a second later that the door burst open and in came George, pale-faced, pajamas flapping, bustling over with a first aid kit under his arm.

An unknown while later, I had a mug of tea in front of me and a mound of biscuits close at hand. The first aid kit lay open on the table, along with scattered scraps of cotton and antiseptic pads. George and Lockwood had cleaned and dressed my wound together, and though I thought they’d gone slightly overboard with the bandages—my arm looked like something you might see rising from a mummy’s sarcophagus—I certainly felt a lot better. As they worked, as Lockwood boiled water and George poured cookies onto plates, I told them what had happened. They listened without interrupting. When I finished, we dunked biscuits in silence for a while.

“That little Harold Mailer,” George said at last. “Incredible. Who’d have guessed?”

“Bad form to speak ill of the dead, of course,” Lockwood said, “but I always thought he was a ratty little specimen. Laughed too much, too loudly. I never liked him.”

“Doesn’t mean he deserved to die,” I said.

“No, of course not….But why did he die? Why did they kill him? Two possibilities: either he was dumb enough to tell them about you, or they sussed out he was going to give you information. Whichever it was, they decided to eliminate the problem.” He looked sharply over at me; I was staring at the table. “I hope you’re not feeling guilty about this, Lucy. It’s in no way your fault. You realize that, don’t you? Mailer chose to get involved with those men. The fact that you challenged him doesn’t make you responsible for his murder.”

All of which was no doubt true. Still, I couldn’t feel happy about it. “He could have ghost-touched me,” I said quietly. “He was right there beside me, in the churchyard. But he didn’t. He chose to hold back.”

“Yes, that was good of him,” Lockwood said, after a silence. “Fair enough.”

“What was that thing he said to you?” George asked. “About the ‘place of blood’? Any idea what that was about?”

I sighed. “Not a clue. Maybe I misheard. He was babbling a lot of stuff, and it was all pretty messed up. As it would be…under the circumstances.” As it would be when you’ve just been killed , was what I meant. In my mind’s eye I could see that lolling form, sitting abandoned on the bench. No doubt Harold’s body was still there, alone in the dark and cold….

I tried to concentrate on something else. “Lockwood,” I said, “do you think some of the other attendants at the furnaces are in on this?”

He shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me if they’re all at it. It’s a big deal, this scam, which is why those guys were so keen to shut you up, too, Luce. Obviously you can’t go home now. They know where you live.”

I stared at the table, cleared my throat. “I know. I was hoping, maybe, tonight I could crash here…? Just till morning. Then tomorrow—”

“Oh, not just tonight.” Lockwood got up, went to the fridge. “You can’t go home, period. Not till we’ve found those men and put an end to this. She can stay here for a while, can’t she, George?”