Jonathan Stroud - The Creeping Shadow

Lockwood nodded. There was a grim light in his eyes. “They certainly are.”

The kettle boiled. Holly made the hot chocolate. Kipps went to help her. George raided the cupboards behind the bar, locating potato chips and chocolate. A midnight snack was soon in progress at our operations desk in the corner of the room.

The distraction helped lift Lockwood’s spirits; not just lift them, but switch them around entirely. He had the ability to flip moods like no one else; from being shocked and listless, he was suddenly galvanized, crackling with energy. Me? I ate and drank and felt a little better. I wasn’t entirely calm, though. Nor, after my experience in the churchyard, was the Creeping Shadow the only thing on my mind.

Lockwood waited till all were seated, huddled around our mugs, and then sat forward in his chair. “Okay,” he said, “I’ve got a proposal for you. It may sound crazy, but hear me out. Seeing that Shadow has changed things for me. It was so odd. It was so different. It’s definitely a kind of ghost we’ve never seen before. And I think we need to respond by upping our game.”

“How?” Kipps asked. “By laying a trap for it? By shepherding it into a ghost-pen? I’ve seen that done: you lay out a pen with iron chains, then drive it in with flares.”

“Not quite.” Lockwood glanced at his watch. “Actually, we’re going to raid the Rotwell Institute in, let’s say, an hour’s time.”

“What?” Kipps was less used to Lockwood than the rest of us were. We just sipped our hot chocolate in knowing silence. “ What? Run that past me again.”

“I’ve been planning to do it ever since we arrived,” Lockwood said, “and that little visit by Steve Rotwell himself only reinforced my intention. But I was going to do it after we’d dealt with everything here at Aldbury Castle. But since seeing that Shadow? No. For a start, there’s too much to deal with here. By the time we finish all the hauntings on our map, it’ll be the middle of next week, and whatever’s going on at the institute will long be over. Consider: Rotwell himself is part of it. He’s not going to shack up in those sheds for long.”

Kipps had taken a shrimp cocktail chip and was staring at it like it held the mysteries of time and space. “So what is going on in there?” he said. “At the institute?”

“That’s what we have to find out. I’ve told you briefly, Quill, about Lucy’s problems, and the theft of her rare and valuable haunted skull. I told you about this Mr. Johnson, and the Rotwell connection to the black market trade in artifacts. We know that all the stolen Sources will be at one of the institute centers—but the question was always which one . When young Skinner told us about Aldbury Castle’s epidemic, that rang a bell with me. A sudden cluster in an obscure village in the middle of nowhere? With the institute operating nearby? Harold Mailer told Lucy that he’d been supplying Sources to the black marketeers for about three months. That’s roughly how long Aldbury Castle’s been suffering, too. Oh, and then there was this reference to the ‘place of blood,’ and the Rotwell facility set slap-bang in the middle of a battlefield. It’s all too much of a coincidence for me.”

“Another coincidence,” George said, “is that all this started up not long after we put an end to whatever was going on in Chelsea. Are you going to eat that chip, Kipps? If not, I can give it a happy home.”

“Chelsea’s another reason I got you involved, Quill,” Lockwood went on. “You were with us on that. If the Rotwell group stirred up that cluster, they’ve stirred this up, too. And among the things they’ve roused is this Shadow. A ghost that energizes other ghosts simply by strolling by! That’s terrifying. We’ve got to get to the bottom of it.”

“It could be part of the answer to the Problem as a whole,” George said. “Remember my map back at Portland Row, showing how the epidemic has spread steadily across the country, like a disease? Diseases need carriers. This Creeping Shadow may be one of them. What if there are lots of Creeping Shadows? Maybe that’s why the epidemic is spreading.”

“I’ve got no love for Steve Rotwell,” Kipps said slowly, “but I don’t quite see how he can be blamed for all that.”

“Nor do I—yet,” Lockwood said. “But we’re going to find out—tonight. No use waiting till tomorrow. Rotwell might be finished by then.” He sat back. “What do you say?”

Kipps blew out a slow, heartfelt breath. “Raiding fellow agencies? Is this what you all usually do?”

I nodded. “Sometimes. We broke into the Black Library at Fittes House once.”

“What?”

“Don’t look so shocked,” Lockwood said, grinning. “You’re not with them any longer, are you? You’re free to think for yourself for once. Which is a good point: you don’t have to be part of this.”

Kipps shrugged. “Oh, I’m part of it. I have nothing else to do. I might as well spend the next few years in prison….Keep your paws off my chip, Cubbins. Go find your own.”

“Good,” Lockwood said. “Then we’ll go. But before we do—Holly, you worked for Steve Rotwell, you must know him pretty well. What do you think drives him?”

It was a testament to how accepting I was of Holly now that all my attention had been taken up by Kipps’s incredulity and discomfort. He was the newbie; she’d been sipping her chocolate just as calmly as George and me while Lockwood spoke of breaking-and-entering into a national institution. Okay, she still managed to be effortlessly, annoyingly elegant while doing so, but it now seemed to be just her personal variation on the Lockwood & Co. way. She’d even taken a couple of chips.

“What drives him?” she said. She tapped her shapely nails against her mug, her mouth drawn down in sharp distaste. “He likes his wealth and money. Beyond that…” She looked into the fire. “Beyond that I’d say it was his desire to keep up with the Fittes organization. He’s always talking about them; always studying what they’re up to, the successes they’ve had. He’s always tallying the number of cases they’ve notched up each month, comparing them to the Rotwell figures. He’s striving to be number one.”

“Oh, Rotwell’s has been like that forever,” Kipps said. “You’ll know this from the history books. Old Tom Rotwell and Marissa Fittes started out as partners in the fight against the Problem. Then they had a falling out, and it was Marissa who started the first official agency. Rotwell got his going a few months later, but it was never as popular—at least in the early days. The firm’s been playing catch-up ever since. All this institute stuff, whatever pathetic commercial devices they may or may not be trying to create—that’s just part of their desperate attempt to match the Fittes Agency.” He sniffed. “It’s all quite sad, really.”

“Well, Penelope Fittes has her own little private thing going on, too, don’t forget,” Lockwood said. “The Orpheus Society seems to be under her influence, and they made your goggles, Kipps. But look, if we’re going to do this, we’d better get a move on. There’s only four hours till dawn.”

We did get a move on. Turns out the equipment for burglary isn’t that different from the equipment needed for ghost-hunting. For speed’s sake, we jettisoned some of the heavier chains and a lot of the spare iron; George found wire cutters; otherwise we left our belts and bags as is. There were too many Visitors around to risk traveling any lighter. We were ready to go in ten.

It still felt funny going through my backpack and not seeing the ghost-jar there. A few bags of salt, an extra flare or two; even the spirit-cape—my new defense, carefully folded—none of them quite made up for its absence. After Vauxhall, I’d more or less given up hope of ever locating the whispering skull. Perhaps, if Lockwood was right, it would be out there now, just a mile away in the compound in the fields. I hoped so.