The Empty Grave

by Jonathan Stroud

  I shrugged the bag down. The top flap was left subtly loose, leaving a dark but inconspicuous gap beneath.

  “Coo,” the skull’s voice said in my mind. “Isn’t this fancy. They’ve spruced it up since I was last here. Used to be a couple of beat-up display cases and an old settee. Where’s Marissa, then? That’s not her. It’s a pimply bloke scarfing a sausage roll. I’d have thought even you could see that.”

  “I know she’s not here yet,” I muttered. “We’re still waiting. See that lectern? That’s where she’ll be.” I nudged the bag forward with a boot and turned to Lockwood. “The skull’s talking nonsense even more than usual,” I said. “It’s edgy. And so am I.”

  “No need to be,” Lockwood said. “We’re among friends.”

  He nodded his head in the direction of a nonchalant figure in a vile green suit, leaning against the wall near the lectern. Sir Rupert Gale was idly surveying the crowd of agents; as I watched, he caught my gaze and gave a little wave.

  “We ought to run him through and have done with it,” I growled.

  Lockwood smiled. “Yes, but it would only spoil this nice clean floor.” He took a fresh glass of juice from a passing attendant. “Want another drink, Luce?”

  “No. I don’t know how you can be so relaxed.”

  “Oh, we have to go with the flow, make the most of being here.” Lockwood’s body language was as chilled as Sir Rupert’s, but his eyes were never still, scanning the boundaries of the room. “Let’s move a bit closer to the pillar, shall we? We can lean against it and doze, if Penelope’s talk goes on too long.”

  It was the pillar farthest from the lectern, at the margins of the crowd. It glowed with a pale blue light. On a steel rack inside the glass hung a wicked-looking knife with odd serrations, the very knife with which the Clapham Butcher Boy had worked his horrors fifty years before. If you looked closely and at the correct angle, you could just see the ghost of the Boy himself floating above and around the weapon. He wasn’t the most active of the nine trapped spirits in the hall, but he always caused particularly loud shrieks among parties of touring schoolchildren, his eyes having been put out by the mob that had finally run him down.

  From somewhere came the bang of a door. The noise of the crowd dropped, became a nervous rustling murmur, soft and dry as fallen leaves.

  Sir Rupert was looking toward the side of the room. He gave a nod.

  The sound of high-heeled shoes echoed through the hall.

  “Uh-oh,” the skull’s voice said. “She’s coming.”

  At once, Lockwood was at my elbow. “Listen carefully to what she says, Luce. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  “Why, what will you be—?”

  But now Penelope Fittes was walking into the hall.

  She crossed from a far door, out under the lights, a slim, tall woman with long black hair lying loose around her shoulders. She wore a dark green knee-length dress that molded around her body in a businesslike sort of way. It was glamorous, yes, but functional; she moved with calm precision. I’d been building up the moment so much, to be reminded of her very ordinary human scale surprised me. Then she climbed onto the platform, stepped behind the lectern, gave her flashbulb smile—and spoke.

  “Hello, everybody.”

  Yes, that voice: deep, authoritative, unmistakable. At the sound of it, I was transfixed. There she was: Penelope Fittes, chairperson of the Fittes Agency, associate director of the Rotwell Agency, and de facto head of all psychic investigation operatives in London. For months she had been the focus of our energies, our thoughts and fears, our dreams and plans. Everything extended from her—from her power and her mystery—and everything led back to her, too.

  Just by stepping through the door, she had at once become the focal point of the room. She was reflected in a hundred wineglasses, in the curving sides of the nine silver-glass pillars, in a thousand teardrop crystals of the ceiling’s chandeliers. Did the ghosts within the pillars turn to watch her as she strode to the curved wood lectern? I wouldn’t have been surprised. Certainly the Fittes employees previously standing at the side of the hall were now rigid with attention; one or two even saluted. My fellow agents did not salute, but they were very still. The room had become silent. Only Sir Rupert Gale maintained his louche and tolerant posture, but even he had eyes only for Penelope; his gaze remained locked on her as she took a sip of water, adjusted her paper, and smiled gleamingly at the silent crowd.

  “It’s very good of you to come along this evening. I know how busy you all are.” She was looking at us all, the grizzled old supervisors, the green young agents, sizing us up, taking our measure. “Indeed, that’s really why I’ve brought you here. But before I go on, may I just thank the heads of DEPRAC for inviting me to host this occasion. This hall has seen so many important nights. My grandmother Marissa often used it to…”

  Her grandmother Marissa. This was the crux we were fumbling toward. I frowned. Even from a distance Penelope was clearly in radiant shape. She certainly didn’t look eighty-plus years old.

  “Skull,” I whispered, “do you see her?”

  “It’s so difficult from down here. My view’s partially blocked. I’m looking through people’s legs. And there’s one agent there who keeps jiggling around with her particularly enormous—”

  “Can you see her or not?”

  “Yes. It’s her. It’s Marissa. Clear as day.”

  I shook my head in doubt. I turned to Lockwood. “What do you think?”

  But I was alone by the pillar. Lockwood was gone.

  He did this sort of thing all the time. I shouldn’t have been surprised, or particularly worried—but that evening my nerves were brittle. Cursing inwardly, I looked for him at the back of the room, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  “I say I know how busy you all are”—Penelope wasn’t wasting time; she was already coming to the nub of the matter—“but busy isn’t really strong enough, is it?” she went on. “Overworked would be closer to the truth. We are all struggling to keep afloat in the supernatural flood that threatens to drown our great country.” A slender arm was elegantly out-flung. “See these pillars here? These famous pillars, from the earliest days of our battle with the Problem? Nine notorious relics! When my grandmother subdued such ghosts as Long Hugh Hennratty and the Clapham Butcher Boy, she thought she was winning the war. When she compressed the Morden Poltergeist into its silver teapot, she never imagined that two generations later such feats would be a nightly business for so many brave and selfless young people. We might all fill a hundred such pillars, and there would still be no end to the terrors we face. And at what cost!”

  Another sip of water; a toss of her long black mane. She had some kind of gold necklace on—laced with diamonds, probably. It sparkled in the spotlight. Everyone waited grimly. We knew what was coming.

  “We all remember the difficulties of the Black Winter,” Penelope said, “the longest and worst in the history of the Problem. Mortality rates spiked—particularly among operatives in smaller agencies, where resources are so tight.” Her dark eyes flashed at the silent crowd. “Think back just for a moment. How many of your young heroes perished in those months, trying to make our country a safer place?”

  “None of ours did,” I said, under my breath. “Lockwood and Co. was just fine, thanks.” I glanced around; predictably, Lockwood had not returned.

  “A new winter is coming,” Penelope Fittes went on, “with forecasts suggesting that it will be no better than the one before. Do any of us want to see a whole new line of little tombs behind Horse Guards Parade? Do you want any of your employees to lie there? Of course not. And you’re quite right. Such mortality rates can’t be permitted again. But I am pleased to report that DEPRAC has been giving the matter some thought, and they have come to a decision.” Penelope Fittes glanced up at the banner by her side. She waved a gracious hand in its direction. “Yes, they are calling it the ‘Fittes Initiative.’ Rather than let DEPRAC close you all down, I have agreed tha
t each small agency, for the duration of the winter, will come under the protection of the combined Fittes and Rotwell Group. We will provide extra manpower, money, and resources, and oversee difficult operations for you. The arrangement will start at the end of October and last until March, when it will be reviewed to see…”

  The crowd emitted a long, soft sigh. They understood what she was really saying. Like it or not, we were coming under her control. It wasn’t hard to imagine it becoming a permanent arrangement at winter’s end.

  A movement at my side caught my attention. Was it Lockwood? No. It came from within the silver-glass pillar. Looking around, I was disconcerted to see the wide, translucent head of the Clapham Butcher Boy pressed right against the glass, jowls wobbling, slack mouth gaping. The thing would have been staring straight at me, if the eyes hadn’t been plucked out. I jerked back in consternation.

  “Hey, fish-face, find your own human!” the skull’s voice called. “You do attract them, don’t you, Lucy?” it continued. “Even behind that thick prison, even dumb and sightless as he is, he knows. He smells someone who’s been to the Other Side.”

  I shuddered. “How can it know that?”

  “You carry the taint of it. It can’t be shaken off. It’s with you always. Lockwood, too. But neither of you are anything compared to Marissa there. She stinks of it.”

  “The Other Side?”

  “She may look good to you, but whatever she’s been doing to look so young, it isn’t yoga, I can tell you that.”

  “Hey, Lucy.” Another movement: not the Butcher Boy this time, but Lockwood—much as before, but with a touch of pink in his cheeks and sweat beading just beside his ear. He still held his glass of juice; he took a sip. “Did I miss anything?”

  I glared at him, my anxiety hardening into annoyance. “Only the whole speech.” Up at the lectern, Penelope had finished her remarks with a few condescending platitudes. She smiled, waved at no one in particular, and left the stage. Click, click, click went her heels as she slipped out of the room. It was all done in dead silence. A few flunkies followed her out; a door closed. She was gone.

  Only now did the assembled agents begin to stir. There was a low, indignant muttering, swelling into loud complaint. Then the uproar began.

  “Everyone sounds predictably happy,” Lockwood said.

  “Yeah, it was much as expected.” Scowling, I gave a brief summary. “She’s turning the screw on us again. She had a nerve bringing up all the dead agents. It has nothing to do with the size of the organization, it’s all about the teamwork. Anyway, we’re coming under her thumb, like it or not. Where have you been?”

  Lockwood smiled at me like he was coming out of a dream. He didn’t answer. “What did the skull say?”

  “Same as before. Yes, she’s Marissa. Outwardly she’s different. But her essential nature is identical to when he spoke to her decades ago. And the odor of the Other Side hangs strongly around her.”

  He nodded absently, as if the information didn’t surprise him. He moved back to let a couple of grim-faced Mellingcamp agents past. A wave of guests was making for the doors. A few stayed to mop up the final remnants of food and drink, but most were desperate to be gone. We remained loitering in the shadow of the pillar, where the sightless ghost hovered, staring at us from its pale blue prison. “What’s so frustrating,” Lockwood said, “is that the answer to everything is so, so close to us right now.”

  “You’ve seen something?”

  “No. I tried. I didn’t find it.”

  “Then how do you know—?”

  He made a gesture of impatience. “Oh, because George is right! This is Fittes House! She keeps it all close, that’s how she retains control. She’s not stupid like Steve Rotwell, building weird laboratories in fields, doing crazy experiments where anyone could just break in. This is where the action is. It always has been. George worked here once, and Kipps did for years. They both said there are big areas that remain out-of-bounds to almost everyone—whole levels in the basements, and Penelope’s apartments up top. You’ve seen the Black Library—that was full of secret stuff, too. But it’s the upper floors, where Penelope lives, that I’d like to see. That’s where we’d find out the truth.” He nodded toward a broad inner door. “The elevators are just through there, in the Hall of Fallen Heroes. Five bronze elevators and a single silver one that goes up to her rooms. What I wouldn’t give just to pop up for ten minutes.” He sighed. “But it’s impossible.”

  I stared at him. “Don’t tell me that’s what you just tried doing…?”

  “It seemed the perfect opportunity.” Lockwood grinned at me. “Penelope down here. Everyone busy, all the Fittes crowd gawping at their mistress. I just strolled out. Had to dodge a few people, take a long-winded detour or two. I got to the Hall of Fallen Heroes easily enough. But it was a no-go. There were whopping big guards posted at the elevators. I had to turn around.”

  “Or you’d have gone up in the silver elevator?”

  “Of course.”

  Anger flared inside me. How far could recklessness stretch before it truly became a death wish? “Lockwood,” I said, “you’ve got to be more careful. I can’t believe you would do something like that without me. I’d never dream of doing that on my—”

  A jovial cry came from across the room. “Lockwood, you old hound! I thought I saw you skulking there.” Sir Rupert Gale was striding toward us, draining a glass of champagne. “You two still hanging around?” he said. “I’d have thought you couldn’t get out fast enough after enduring Penelope’s little rant.” He gave me a cheery wink. “Were you maybe thinking of scrounging the last few canapés, Miss Carlyle? I could get you both a doggie bag.”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “We were on our way out.”

  “Yes, perhaps that would be best. We wouldn’t want you to be swept out with the trash. That’s a very big handbag you’re carrying with you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “We’re off to a couple of cases,” I said. “Perhaps you want to see my papers?”

  “No, no. We’ll take it as read this time.” Sir Rupert raised his glass to the bloodstained ghost in the pillar, which was inching around to follow us as we walked past toward the door. “Looks as if someone likes you, anyway, Miss Carlyle. Isn’t it nice to have a fan?”

  “Didn’t know you could see ghosts so clearly, Sir Rupert,” Lockwood said. “Aren’t you a bit old for that?”

  An expression of mild annoyance crossed the man’s face, as of one caught in some minor indiscretion. “Oh, well,” he said. “I’m younger than I look. The doors are just through here….” With ostentatious courtesy, he escorted us back across reception to the entrance. Outside, the fragmenting host of agents was milling around. Some took waiting Night Cabs, others dispersed in little groups into the night. “Where’s Cubbins?” Sir Rupert asked suddenly, as we started down the steps. “Not off being naughty in some library again?”

  “George will be at home, I should think,” Lockwood said easily. “Probably making one of his chicken-and-sweetcorn pies. He’s really very domesticated.”

  Sir Rupert smiled approvingly. “Sounds scrumptious. I must pop round to Portland Row sometime.”

  “Please do,” Lockwood said. “I’d love that.”

  “Good night, then.”

  “Good night.”

  We pattered swiftly down the steps and set off up the Strand.

  “One day,” Lockwood said, “I’m clearly going to have to kill him. Not now, but sometime soon.”

  The two Soho jobs turned out to be fairly minor: a Lurker in an apartment above a Chinese restaurant, and a Bone Man in an alley just off Wardour Street. Both were easy to constrain, but it took time to locate the Sources (an antique paper fan and a worn sandstone milepost, respectively) and get them safe and sealed. We didn’t get back to Portland Row until shortly before midnight. There was a light showing in the living room window.

  “Looks like George is waiting up with his results,” Lockwood said
. “Told you he wouldn’t be able to hold it in.”

  I smiled. “Let’s go and put him out of his misery.”

  We opened the door. Holly stood in the hall by the coatrack, one hand holding on to the coats as if she needed their support. Her posture was odd, both rigid and subtly off-kilter. She looked at us. She didn’t say anything. Her face was taut, stricken.

  We stopped at the threshold. It was suddenly a new night, a different one. We had passed from one to the other, and I didn’t know where I was.

  “Holly?”

  “You need to come. There’s been an incident.”

  A deadweight swung from my spine. My legs were water. I knew.

  “George?” Lockwood said.

  “He was found in the street. He’s been attacked. Hurt.”

  Lockwood’s voice didn’t sound like his at all. “Is he all right?”

  “No, he isn’t.” The tiny shake of the head made the world tilt under me. “Lockwood,” Holly said, “it’s bad.”

  Some months before, Lockwood and I had walked together through a gate made of stockpiled Sources, where ghosts screamed in a perpetual whirlwind and the air was deathly cold. We’d stepped through it and out into another world. This was a place superficially the same as ours, but different; a place where normal rules did not apply. The transition had been instant, sickly, and disorienting, and the effects were almost fatal.

  Those experiences were nothing to the dislocation I felt now.

  The hall looked ordinary, but the colors were wrong, and the objects in the room kept slipping out of position. Holly was both close and very far away. She was talking; her voice boomed in my head like a ship’s horn, but it was also too faint to hear.

  George.

  George.

  George.

  “Where is he? What happened?” Someone else was speaking. I thought it was Lockwood, but the rush of blood in my ears was like a flood tide carrying me elsewhere. I fought against it, paddled furiously back into the present moment. Like Holly I needed to clutch at something. I jammed my fingers against the wall.