The Empty Grave

by Jonathan Stroud

  “Here you are, Lockwood,” he said, pouring the contents out onto the kitchen table. “Four black ski masks, four sets of thin black gloves. Got them from a seedy little shop in Whitechapel. I completely cleaned them out of sinister protective clothing. There’s going to be a lot of disappointed criminals in the East End till they get their next delivery.”

  “Excellent.” Lockwood was inspecting a ski mask. “I see they’ve got mouth holes and everything, so we can speak to each other easily. That’s always useful. Great work, Quill. How’s the surveillance been going?”

  “Nicely.” Kipps tapped his backpack. “I’ve got photos, too.”

  “Superb. Will it be feasible?”

  “At the worst, we might have to rough up a few seniors.”

  “I think we can cope with that.”

  Holly and I had been following this exchange like it was a tennis match, heads turning in bafflement from Quill to Lockwood and back again. Now Holly raised a hand. “There’ll be some roughing up going on right now,” she said, “if you don’t start filling us in. No ifs or buts, please. Tell us what’s going on.”

  Lockwood grinned. “Certainly. We’re going to complete George’s research for him. Who’s up for a spot of burglary?”

  A fly on the wall, lured perhaps by the prospect of one of Holly’s cakes, wouldn’t at first have noticed anything unusual about our meeting in the living room that afternoon. So many missions had been planned there—why was this so different? But it was. There weren’t any cakes, for starters—it would have seemed wrong to eat anything, with George lying stricken just upstairs. No cake, no tea, and no George. And we weren’t discussing ghosts, either. We spoke in hushed tones, our faces pale and grim.

  Kipps got the proceedings going. He took out a packet of grainy black-and-white photographs and spread them across the table. They mostly showed an elegant black door, with whitewashed pillars on either side. A succession of elderly, well-dressed men and women were coming out of it. One in particular caught my eye.

  “I know him,” I said, pointing to a snapshot of a man with white hair. He had a big, bulging forehead and a slight stoop; his long black coat was decidedly old-fashioned.

  Lockwood nodded. “Yes. The secretary of the Orpheus Society. This is their front door.”

  The Orpheus Society was a very exclusive club in central London. Prominent industrialists and businesspeople formed its membership. Its official purpose was to research aspects of the Problem, but we happened to know that this research took a decidedly practical turn. The goggles that Kipps wore, which allowed him to see ghosts despite his advanced age of twenty-two, were an Orpheus Society creation. And Penelope Fittes—or Marissa, as I was forcing myself to think of her—was closely associated with their underhand activities. We had visited their headquarters once, and found a plush and ornate town house, festooned with oil paintings, marble statues, and quiet closed doors.

  “I don’t need to remind any of you,” Lockwood went on, “that when George was attacked, he’d gotten a copy of Occult Theories, this important lost book written by Marissa. Rupert Gale took it from him. As far as we know, there are only two other copies in existence. One, in the Black Library of Fittes House, is too well guarded for us to reach. But the other’s here at the Orpheus Society, and that’s the one I intend to steal tonight. We needn’t be embarrassed doing this, because these Orpheus people are definitely in on the whole Marissa thing. Remember that old secretary talking to us when we visited? He said that their main concern was winning a battle—not just against ghosts, but against death itself. Which is pretty much what we think Marissa is trying to do.”

  “She founded the society in the first place,” I said.

  “Exactly.” Lockwood looked at each of us in turn. “Everyone up for this?”

  “Of course,” Holly said. “Why do you even ask?”

  Kipps shuffled forward on his chair. “Okay, so I’ve been surveying the society HQ for the last two days,” he said, “watching who goes in and out, seeing what the security procedures are. It’s always locked up at eleven p.m. sharp. After that there’s no chance of getting in by the first floor windows—they put up iron ghost-grilles after dark. A second snag is that the building’s never empty. They seem to stay mainly on the lower floor, but activity goes on there for most of the night.”

  “What kind of activity?” I asked.

  “No idea. Could be meetings, weird occult experiments, or maybe they just doze in front of the fire. The members are mostly ancient. You can see that from these photos I took of them leaving in the mornings.”

  We inspected the pictures. “They’re a bit fuzzy,” Holly said.

  “If George was here,” I remarked, “we’d have floor plans of the building, a full list of accredited members, and an annotated history of the organization.”

  Kipps stared at me. “Everyone’s a critic. Know how I got these? I was dressed as a workman, painting the railings on the house opposite.” He shook his head ruefully. “I tell you, it’s a devil of a job whipping a camera out of your pocket and pointing it at people without them noticing.”

  “You did fine,” Lockwood said. “Hey, I recognize some of the others. Those are the old twins who run the Sunrise Corporation, aren’t they? The society has some very prominent members. How many are usually in the building overnight?”

  “At a guess, four or five. The secretary always is. He seems to live there.”

  Lockwood tapped his fingertips together. “Well, it’s not ideal territory for a burglar. Still, they’re just a bunch of old codgers. If any of them do disturb us, we knock them down, tie them up, and get on with the operation. It’s not the most refined of plans, but frankly I’m not in the mood for anything more sophisticated. Questions?”

  Holly raised her hand. “It’s just I’m not quite sure how we’re getting in.”

  “Oh, don’t bother about that. Kipps has scoped it out. Any other questions?”

  “What about George?” I said. “Are we happy to leave him with Flo?”

  Lockwood nodded. “She’s being very attentive. I think he’ll be okay.”

  At that moment a raucous and indescribable sound came from upstairs. I’ve never heard the noise of a hyena being ritually disemboweled, but chances are this was less attractive. We drew apart in shock.

  “I think that’s Flo laughing,” Lockwood whispered. “She must be trying to cheer George up. Dear God, what a day.”

  The district of St. James’s, where the Orpheus Society had its headquarters, was well defended against the wakeful dead. By night, ranks of ghost-lamps winked and shone along every street, while runnels of water flowed beside the sidewalks, and braziers of lavender burned before the broad black doors. From the rooftop where we stood, catching our breath after the climb, we could see the purple embers glittering far below us, and smell the lavender on the air. Somewhere far off, a siren howled. Lockwood was standing on a roof crest, staring out toward the west. A gentle wind swept his hair back, set the ends of his coat flapping. His hand rested on his rapier hilt. He looked pensive, as if he were gazing into the future and finding something sad. It made my heart hurt to see him.

  “He is such a poser,” a voice said disgustedly from my backpack. “He’s just doing that for effect. There’s no real reason for him to be up there. Bet we’re not even going in that direction.”

  “We are,” I said. “These roofs run all the way to the Orpheus Society building. He’s just checking to make sure the route’s clear.”

  The skull snorted. “Of course it’s clear! That’s the whole point of being up here, isn’t it? Might get a few roosting pigeons, maybe step on a dead cat. Other than that, it’s an easy stroll—if we could all stop looking lost and noble and just get on with it.”

  Our route had been easy, up until that point. We had walked to St. James’s, almost to the very street where the Orpheus Society was based, then detoured under Kipps’s direction to a town house in the road beyond that was being renovated.
Its frontage was covered with scaffolding. Ladders took us to the uppermost floor, and a quick scramble got us onto the roof. We were in a landscape of moonlit tiles and shadowed gutters, a world of crests and troughs that stretched to the horizon like a frozen sea.

  Lockwood beckoned to us; he skittered down the roof on the far side, and reappeared by a chimney further on. Hoisting up our backpacks, we followed in silence, boots slipping and sliding, trying to ignore the fearful drop into the street below. There were no pigeons, no dead cats; after a few minutes we came to a place where a twist of blue fabric had been tied around a chimney pot, and a length of rope, end noosed securely about the stack itself, lay in a neat coil. Kipps had prepared our way the night before.

  “Here we are,” Lockwood said. “We’re above the Orpheus building now.” He checked his penknife was fastened to his work belt, and took his ski mask out of his pocket. “It’s time. Masks on.”

  Kipps was fiddling with his goggles. “Do you think these should be worn on top of my mask, or underneath it?”

  “On top, for sure,” Holly said. “Otherwise you’ll look more than usually deformed.”

  “That’s what I thought. Need anything else, Lockwood?”

  “No.” Lockwood’s face was hidden beneath the mask. He tossed the end of the rope out into space. Now he took its length in his hands and began walking backward toward the edge. “Keep your eye on the rope,” he said. “I’ll tug it when it’s safe to come down.”

  He reached the lip of the tiles, and eased himself out over the void. For an instant he hung there, leaning back, his boots planted on the very edge. Then he went on lowering himself, hand over hand. In a few seconds he was out of sight.

  We crouched like gargoyles on the roof, faceless, hunched beneath our backpacks, swords glinting in the starlight. Wind blew the tips of Holly’s hair where it showed from under her mask. From somewhere came a tiny tinkling of broken glass. We waited; we watched the rope. We didn’t move.

  “Bet he’s fallen off,” the skull said. “Bet that tinkling was him hitting a greenhouse far below.”

  The rope twitched violently, once and then again. I was nearest. As always where heights were concerned, it was a case of not thinking too much. Following Lockwood’s example, I took the rope and lowered myself out and down. I tried to ignore the drag of my backpack as it hung between my shoulder blades; also, the surrounding empty space.

  I focused only on my boots—always seeing them planted safely, first on slate tiles, then on black guttering, then rough, dark brickwork, down and down and down.

  Presently I saw white wood beneath my boots, and the glass of a raised sash window. There was a glow of a lantern; Lockwood was below me, signaling. Obeying his gestures, I walked down the side of the window frame until I reached the opening. His arms caught me, drew me inside.

  He grinned at me in the dark. “Enjoying yourself, Luce?” He tugged the rope again. “I had to break a corner of the pane, but I don’t think anyone heard.”

  His lantern was turned to its lowest setting; even so, I could make out the details of the room in which I stood. It contained an oval table with four chairs, and a sideboard with bottles of water and stacks of glasses. A cup of pens sat on the table, next to a small clock. The wall was covered in dark paper, and decorated with framed photographs of Orpheus members from down the years. There was a strong smell of furniture polish and lavender. Automatically, I used my Talents too, though I scarcely expected any psychic disturbance. There was none. It was a private meeting room; I’d seen similar ones in countless offices across London.

  I turned back to the window to help Lockwood bring the others in. In moments, first Holly and then Kipps were dangling outside the casement. Nothing went wrong; soon we stood together in the little room, listening to the ticking of the clock.

  Lockwood took another rope from his bag and tied it to a leg of the table. “If we have to leave in a hurry,” he said, “we throw this out and go down. No messing around trying to climb. But this room is our exit. Okay? If we’re separated, head back here.”

  “So where to now?” I said. “The reading room’s on the first floor, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but that may not be where George’s book is. We’ll search systematically. Above all, keep it quiet. If we can do this without disturbance, so much the better.”

  Leaving the lantern burning at the window, we crossed the room, our flashlights sweeping the walls. Lockwood slowly opened the door; beyond was a wide, dark corridor running along the spine of the building. It was dark, but lights glowed at the far end, where it opened onto a staircase. Thick red carpets muffled our footfalls. From somewhere came the ticking of another clock; otherwise there was no sound in the house.

  “Skull,” I whispered. “Sense anything?”

  “Just the flutter of your hearts, the taste of your fear. Is that what you meant?”

  “I was thinking more of supernatural activity….Let me know.”

  Most of the rooms leading off the corridor had their doors open, and we quickly established that these were other meeting rooms, bathrooms, even a little bedroom. All were nicely furnished, but otherwise unexceptional. But there was one door which Holly tried that was of far more interest. As she swung her flashlight around the dark interior, she gave a stifled cry and sprang back, ripping her rapier free.

  In seconds, the rest of us were at her side.

  “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s just, for one horrible moment, I thought it was filled with people.”

  Lockwood pushed the door open; and, despite Holly’s assurances, I couldn’t help giving an involuntary start. Our collective flashlight beams lit up what looked like a row of hooded figures standing in line. The Bloody Monks of Ashford, one of our earliest cases, had lined up in a pretty similar way, and they’d shone with the same eerie silver light, except for the bloody bits, obviously. But these weren’t ghosts. Even as your skin was crawling, and your legs begging you to run, your brain was picking out the very ordinary clothes rack, the row of coat hangers on which the set of robes were hung. Elsewhere were boxes, stacked neatly, each bearing the imprint of a Grecian harp, which was the Orpheus Society’s symbol.

  The house was quiet, and it was too interesting a room to bypass, though there were clearly no books in it. I went to the rack and ran my fingers over the silver robes. To my surprise, they weren’t made of cloth or silk, but had countless tiny scales, light as gossamer and neatly sewn together. They flowed like water through my hands.

  “These cloaks, Lockwood,” I said. “Remind you of anything?”

  He nodded. “Our spirit-capes were feathery, but otherwise they might almost be the same. Look at the way the silver flakes are held to the mesh.” I couldn’t see him frowning, but I heard the perplexity in his voice. “They are so similar….”

  “And look,” Kipps said. “More goggles like mine.”

  He’d opened one of the boxes; inside was a curious helmet, soft and shapeless and also made of silvery scales, with a pair of heavy goggles fixed to it.

  “That’s not so unexpected,” I said. “We stole yours from a member of the society in the first place….Lockwood—they wear these things on the Other Side….”

  “These idiots are doing the same thing Rotwell did,” Lockwood said. “Meddling with things that shouldn’t concern them. Well, we haven’t come here for this. We don’t really have time to spare.”

  Even so, we lingered. Other boxes contained silver gauntlets to wear on the hands, and mesh boots to protect the feet. Most of the boxes had names scribbled on them, presumably their owners’; some were familiar ones, including heads of industry. Our eyes flashed at each other from within the ski masks. There was triumph in our looks, but also fear. Our finds had deep significance. Way too deep. We could feel an abyss opening beneath our feet. If we stumbled, we had a long way to fall.

  We left the room and moved soundlessly to the end of the corridor. There was a stairwell there, lit by golden chandeliers.
The steps were carpeted in red, and dark portraits of austere, bearded men glowered at us from inside heavy frames. It was the kind of stairwell where you could look over from the top to see the hallway, three stories down. We did so; lamps flickered on the landings below, but otherwise everything was still. Not silent, though. The noise of clocks was louder here. We could hear them ticking deep in the belly of the house. It was a place that seemed very conscious of time.

  “We try the next floor, then,” Lockwood whispered. “Everyone okay?”

  Three nods; four shadows stealing down the steps, pressing close to the wall. We’d traveled light for this raid, keeping our swords and explosive weapons, but dispensing with heavy stuff like iron canisters and chains. The carpet absorbed all sound. Tiptoeing around the curve of the stairwell, we saw the second floor landing before us. It was much the same as the one above. A plaster bust of a heavy-featured woman sat on a plinth, eyeing us with displeasure. There were ferns in plant pots. Beyond was a corridor, and yet more doors.

  Somewhere in the bowels of the house a door opened, releasing smatterings of distant conversation. Just as quickly, the noise cut off and everything was quiet again. We stood frozen on the stairs. Nothing further could be heard. At last Lockwood gave the signal and we padded down onto the landing.

  A quick glance showed us that the corridor was just as dimly lit and elegantly furnished as its counterpart above. No one was there. Lockwood moved to the nearest door, listened, and eased it open. He gave a soft exclamation. “We may not have to look much further,” he whispered. “This is some kind of library.”

  In seconds we were inside, with the door closed behind us. Holly lit a lantern, and by its light we saw that Lockwood’s optimism was justified. It was a broad, rectangular chamber, running along the street side of the building. Two tall windows looked out at the town houses opposite. Each wall, painted a dark maroon, was inset with white wooden bookcases; between them hung old maps and paintings. Heavy reading tables were dotted around, along with leather armchairs, each with its own standard lamp. A bust of a dour-looking man in goggles sat on one table. A vast and beautiful globe, made of countless pieces of colored inlaid wood, hung in a silver frame.