The Empty Grave

by Jonathan Stroud

  “She’s been doing a little bit of research on my behalf, here and there. I’m not always able to gain access to some of the libraries, but Flo knows people who are surprisingly well connected….As for these, they’re death certificates.” He scratched his nose.

  “Does this have to do with your research on Marissa Fittes?” I said. “What have you found?”

  George hesitated. “I can’t talk about it now. Still thinking. Ask me again tomorrow.”

  Alma Terrace, the location for our meeting with Inspector Barnes, turned out to be a soot-stained row of narrow houses in northwest London. A few old rusted ghost-lamps lined the northern side, flashing vainly at the coming dusk. We walked between them, from light to dark to light again, looking for number seventeen.

  Net curtains hung in many of the ground-floor windows, lit by warm interior light. The blinds weren’t yet drawn, and you could sometimes make out hazy images of people moving in the rooms. Already, in their evening domesticity, they were detached from us. The curtains kept agents like us one step removed.

  Inspector Montagu Barnes was waiting for us outside the gate of number seventeen. It was a dark part of the street, midway between ghost-lamps; we could see his crumpled form flashing dimly on and off as we approached. The house behind him was not very different from the others, except for the neatness of its tiny garden. It featured grass and gnomes.

  “Evening, Inspector,” Lockwood said. “Sorry we’re late.”

  “Didn’t expect anything else,” Barnes said. “In fact, you’re only half an hour later than I requested. I’m honored.”

  There followed the usual awkward interlude while we smiled at him in our young and perky fashion, and he regarded us with middle-aged distaste. There was something slightly odd about him tonight. What was it? Not his general bearing. As ever, his mustache drooped as if shouldering the sorrows of the world. Then I realized I had never previously seen Barnes without either his raincoat or his tie. He had his shirtsleeves rolled below his elbow, and his collar was undone.

  “So…this is number seventeen.” George surveyed the building. “It’s a sinister-looking dive. You can bet your boots something awful’s happened here.”

  “Yes. You carrying out an exorcism or something, Mr. Barnes?” Lockwood asked. “Might be simpler just to knock the old pile down….” He hesitated. “Why are you glaring at us like that?”

  “Because this is my home.” Barnes gave a heartfelt sigh. “Well, I suppose you’d better all come in.”

  He held the door open for us. It didn’t look so much like a gesture of welcome as a preparation for slamming it hard on George’s head. We slipped through as quickly as possible. Before closing the door, the inspector took a good look up and down the street. The ghost-lamps flashed on and off in the quiet dark; no one seemed to be near.

  Barnes led us down a narrow hallway and into a cramped dining room, centered on an oval table of dark wood.

  “Nice cozy little spot,” Lockwood remarked.

  “Yes, really lovely brown carpet,” George said. “And that row of ceramic ducks on the wall…I believe that kind of ornament has become quite hip again, hasn’t it?”

  “All right, all right,” Barnes growled. “You can save your breath. Sit down, make yourselves at home. I assume you’ll all be wanting tea.” He stomped off to the kitchen.

  One by one, we sat around the table. The chairs were upright, uncomfortable, and clearly seldom used. There was a patina of dust on the tabletop. Aside from the ducks, there were photographs on the walls of soft green hills, misty valleys, tumbledown cottages, expanses of air and nature. They reminded me of my childhood, far from London.

  A kettle boiled in the distance; spoons clattered; Barnes returned with a heaped tray. To our surprise, chocolate digestive biscuits were included in the offering. The usual ceremonials were completed. We sat in silence, with our cups and plates, facing the inspector at the head of the table. It was an intimate setting, laced with ambiguity; we might have been about to join in prayers, or play cards for money, or do anything in between. The combination of drab formality and general awkwardness gave it the air of one of those suburban séances where dowdy women tried to summon ghosts.

  “I do honestly like these photographs, Mr. Barnes,” I said. “I didn’t know you enjoyed the countryside.”

  The inspector regarded me. “What, did you think I’d have pictures of batons or handcuffs on my wall, maybe? I do have other interests, you know.” He shook his head sourly. “Anyway—yes, I do. But I didn’t ask you here to discuss my photos. I wanted to give you a warning.”

  There was a silence. Lockwood sipped his tea. “A warning, Mr. Barnes?”

  “That’s what I said.” The inspector hesitated for a moment, as if even now he feared to commit himself; then he sat back in his chair decisively. “Everything’s changing,” he said. “You know that, don’t you? DEPRAC, the agencies, how it’s all controlled. The big outfits are running the show: the Fittes Agency, the Sunrise Corporation—the people who make a lot of money from the Problem. Independent operations like yours are being squeezed out. I don’t need to tell you this. There’ve been plenty of announcements to that effect this summer.”

  “There’s another one coming tomorrow, I believe,” Lockwood said.

  “Yes, at Fittes House, and I doubt it’ll be any better for you than any of the others. Still, it’s a general meeting, so whatever new rules they come up with won’t be directed solely at you. However, something’s come to my attention that is.” Barnes’s shrewd eyes scanned us each in turn. “I’ve heard, through the DEPRAC grapevine, that certain prominent people are losing patience with you.”

  “Certain prominent people?” Holly said.

  “You mean Penelope Fittes, I suppose?” George asked.

  Barnes pressed his lips tight together so that they both vanished under his mustache. “I leave it to your judgment who I’m talking about. It’s not necessary for me to say.”

  “Oh, it is, it is. Go on, say it,” George said. “There’s no one listening, is there? Unless they’re hiding in the teapot.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Cubbins. You illustrated my point before I could even make it.” Barnes eyed us all severely. “It’s precisely that sort of irreverent, incautious attitude that’s leading you into trouble. Whatever you may think about the new rules we all live by, there’s no doubting the fact that we’re all being observed far more closely than before. It pays to keep a low profile. And Lockwood and Co. keeps being noticed. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Lockwood smiled. “What can anyone object to? We’re not stepping out of line.”

  “Aren’t you?” Barnes said. “If that’s the case, why are DEPRAC officers being commandeered to watch your place in Portland Row? Why is that popinjay Sir Rupert Gale so interested in you? Why does Penelope Fittes ask for regular reports on your activities?”

  “She does?” Lockwood said. “We’re honored.”

  “No. You’re not. You’re at risk. You may have heard about Mr. Bunchurch’s little ‘accident.’ There have been others, too. I don’t want to see the same thing happening to you. Whatever it is you’re doing, stop it. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “We’re not doing anything untoward, Inspector,” Lockwood said. “We pay our taxes. We take proper precautions. We leave most of our clients alive.” He flashed his brightest smile. “Remember last night at the theater? We do good work.”

  Barnes nodded grimly. “Bunchurch did good work, too.”

  “Well, not very good work,” George put in. “He was actually a bit useless, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s not the point!” The inspector gave a sudden roar. He banged a hairy fist on the tabletop, making his cup jerk in its saucer. A gout of strong dark tea splashed across his plate. “That’s not the point! He crossed them, and he’s dead!”

  We sat there, Barnes breathing hard, the rest of us in shocked silence. Even George looked stunned.

  “You’ve spilled your te
a, Inspector.” Lockwood handed him a handkerchief.

  “Thank you.” Barnes mopped the table. His voice was quieter now. “You know I’m not in full control at DEPRAC anymore,” he said. “These past couple of years Penelope Fittes has placed a lot of her people in the organization. They’re slowly skewing the way we work. Of course, there are still good men and women there, and plenty of them, but we don’t have any say in wider operations. I stamp forms, issue orders, go through the motions on a day-to-day level. I can’t influence what’s going on. But I see things clearly enough. Just as I see that you’re lying now. It’s in your eyes. It’s in the way that Cubbins sits there, all smug and self-important, puffed up like a frog. I see it, plain as plain. And if I can, you can be sure other people see it, too.”

  He finished dabbing with the handkerchief and gave it back to Lockwood.

  “Mr. Barnes…” Lockwood said hesitantly, “all we’ve been doing is—just a little research, here and there. We could tell you about it. We’d value your help.”

  The inspector glared at us from under hairy eyebrows. “I don’t want to know about it.”

  “It’s important. Seriously, it is.”

  “I don’t want to know. Mr. Lockwood, you’ve impressed a lot of people over the years. Personally, I expected you all to be ghost-touched long ago, but your agency has flourished. Impress me again now.” Barnes touched the handle of his cup with a stubby finger, rotating it gently on the saucer. “Keep your heads down. Let them forget about you.”

  We sat in silence around the table in the dark and dusty room.

  “Let them forget about you,” Barnes repeated. “Even now, it’s probably not too late.”

  Whether Inspector Barnes’s warning left any impression on George was doubtful. The following morning, as I made my way downstairs, his bedroom door hung open. For reasons of hygiene it was never wise to venture inside, but even from the landing the rumpled, unmade bed and strew of papers on the floor told their own tale.

  In the kitchen, a scrawled note had been left on the Thinking Cloth:

  Need to check something out. Back lunchtime. BE HERE!!

  But George was back even before lunch. Holly, Lockwood, and I were in the basement office when a crash from the kitchen sent us scurrying up the iron staircase. George stood at the table. He had swept the fruit bowl off and dumped a great pile of documents in its place. He had a pen between his teeth; with ferocious speed he was swapping papers, selecting maps, spreading the pile around.

  “Um, are you ready to chat?” Lockwood ventured.

  George made a flapping motion with one hand. “Not yet! Just a couple of things to organize! Give me an hour!”

  “Do you…do you want a sandwich?” Holly asked.

  “No! No time.” George was peering at a photocopy of an old newspaper article. He frowned at it, cast it aside. “Oh, but, Lockwood…”

  “Yes?”

  “Can you get Kipps over? He should be here, too. One hour.”

  “All right. We’ll leave you alone till then.”

  George didn’t answer. He was in his own world, buoyed by the thrill of discovery. At such times a physical transformation seemed to come over him. His extra weight fell away; he was swift of movement, light of foot—Lockwood at his most pantherlike and predatory moved with no greater velvet grace. His spectacles shone with light from the garden—in just such a way, one felt, the goggles of a fighter pilot would catch the spark of the sun as his plane performed miracles of flight high above the earth. Even his hair crackled with new energy, swept back from his pale forehead like that of a racing driver negotiating hairpin bends. It was as if the sinewy intelligence that lay concealed behind his doughy frame was suddenly laid bare; its quick workings transferred into the deftness with which he organized his papers, flipped from one file to another, danced around the kitchen table, pausing only occasionally to scribble something on the Thinking Cloth. As Lockwood said later, it was like watching an artist at work; you could have sold tickets for his exhibition on that sunny morning.

  Holly went off to hunt down Kipps. While she slipped out, Lockwood and I retreated to the rapier room, where our straw dummies, Floating Joe and Lady Esmeralda, hung on their chains. Lockwood rolled up his sleeves and practiced moves on Esmeralda. I did the same with Floating Joe. As always, the simplicity of this action worked wonders on our moods. The tension between us fell away. Excitement rose; we felt mounting expectation at what George might reveal. Soon we left the dummies swinging and began dueling with each other, grinning as we circled, feinting, dodging, making ornate patterns with our clashing blades.

  The hour passed. Hot, sweaty, and in need of tea, Lockwood and I went back upstairs. In the kitchen, the table and most of the other surfaces were invisible beneath a sea of papers. George sat waiting. He looked sweaty, too.

  “I’m ready,” he said. “Put the kettle on.”

  Up on the sink, documents lapped at the base of the ghost-jar. The skull rolled its eyes at us. “Thank goodness you’re here. He’s been like a plump whirlwind. And there was a most distressing glimpse of pink flesh when he bent down to pick up a paper clip. I’d have feared for my life if I wasn’t already dead.”

  While we were setting out the tea, Holly returned with Kipps. Every member of our essential team was there. Lockwood shut the door to the hall and drew the blinds at the windows. The light in the room became blue, dim, and conspiratorial. We drew up our chairs. In the jar, the face grew faint and unobtrusive; even the ghost seemed keen to listen. Our mugs were filled, some sandwiches and biscuits handed out. It was time for George to begin.

  “First things first,” he said. “Take a look at this.” With a dramatic flourish, he produced a photograph and set it on the table. “Recognize our friend here?”

  It was a black-and-white shot of a middle-aged man in a dark suit, with a raincoat folded over his arm. He was pictured getting out of a car; other people stood around him. But it was his face that transfixed us: it was marked by deep and distinctive lines, and framed by a shock of long gray hair. One side was lost in shadow, and the eyes were almost hidden under shaggy brows. It didn’t matter. We had seen that face before.

  “The Revenant in Marissa’s tomb!” Lockwood said. “The one who chased us up the stairs and spoke to Luce! It’s him for sure! Isn’t it, Luce?”

  “It’s him.” When I closed my eyes I saw the wild-haired ghost rising through the mausoleum floor. I opened them—and there was this staid and somber gentleman. No doubt about it. They were the same.

  “You’re a marvel, George,” Lockwood said. “So who is he?”

  George tried not to look too pleased with himself. “This,” he said, “is a certain Dr. Neil Clarke. Not much is known about him, but he was personal physician to Marissa Fittes, and he tended to her in her last illness. It’s he who signed her death certificate, and he who confirmed her cause of death in a report to the media.” He picked up the documents Flo had found for him and squinted at them through his glasses. “According to Dr. Clarke, Marissa died from ‘a wasting disease that affected all the organs of her body, and which had all the aspects of premature old age.’ Sounds nasty, but Marissa was cared for up at Fittes House. She didn’t go to the hospital, and only Dr. Clarke had access to her.” George put down the papers. “I’ve been hunting around, but after her death he fades from the records and isn’t heard of again.”

  “Not surprising, really,” Holly murmured, “since he was lying in her tomb.”

  Lockwood whistled. “Marissa didn’t die. And the person who knew that, who’d faked the official records, was silenced immediately afterward.”

  “No wonder he’s so livid,” I said. I could still hear an echo of the whispered voice: Bring her to me.

  George nodded; he set the photograph aside. “That takes care of our friend in the tomb. The next question concerns how Marissa reappears as ‘Penelope.’ I take it we all agree that this is what happened?”

  There was a hoot from the jar. “Y
ou ought to by now!” the skull cried. “I’ve been telling you long enough! Honestly, those digestive biscuits have higher IQs than you.”

  “Shut up,” I said. “Not you, George. The skull.” I glared at the indignant ghost.

  “In fact,” George said, “I haven’t quite gotten to the bottom of Marissa’s transformation yet, though I have a terrific lead that I’ll tell you about in a moment. What’s known is that after the old girl’s supposed death, her daughter, Margaret, takes over the agency.”

  He produced another photograph, this one of a dark-haired young woman. She was officiating at some agency function and didn’t seem to be enjoying it. Her face was pale and sad.

  “Margaret was head of Fittes for only three years,” George said. “She was a quiet, retiring person, by all accounts not well suited to running a big company. Well, she didn’t have to do it for long, because she died, too.”

  Holly frowned. “How did she die?”

  “It’s not known. I can’t find any proper death certificate. Then ‘Penelope’ pops up. On the face of it, she appears to be a real person. I’ve gotten birth certificates for her; hospital records, all the rest of it. Everything seems correct and aboveboard. But it isn’t. It can’t be, because that doesn’t square with what the skull’s telling us. If the woman we know is Marissa, masquerading as a younger person somehow, this must all be forged.”

  “But how can it be Marissa?” I said. “How’s she made herself look like that?”

  George eyed us all over the top of his glasses. We waited. Even Kipps had paused with his mug halfway to his mouth. With careful deliberation, George selected another sheet of paper.

  “I found an article in an old Kent newspaper,” he said. “It’s from sixty years ago, when Marissa and Tom Rotwell were just starting out as a psychic detection team. Back then almost nobody believed in ghosts, crazy as that sounds. They were considered complete eccentrics. The Problem hadn’t yet begun to spread. A journalist interviews them, makes lots of cheap jokes at their expense. But listen to this—” He adjusted his spectacles and read the following: