𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Twelve - Bloody Footprints

"I still really can't believe how much of a cow that woman was!" Nola cried out.

"She's an utterly awful woman." Lockwood agreed. "Callous and ignorant and hysterical all at once. But she's given us a good and dangerous case here, James, and we mustn't mess it up."

Nola smiled happily across at him. "Suits me."

They were standing under the elm trees in the gardens of Hanover Square, looking towards Miss Wintergarden's house. Number 54 was a dark, thin shard, wedged like a rotten tooth between other, indistinguishable terraced town houses on the shadowy side of the square. How elegant they should have been, with their painted facades and columned porticoes framing their neat black doors. But the recent storms had left dark stains on the fronts, and the pavements and porticoes were a scattered waste of splintered twigs. No lights were on. The effect was of drabness and decay.

It hadn't rained since the morning, but patches of standing water studded the grass, dull as fallen coins, reflecting the gunmetal sky. A strong wind was blowing and the naked branches of the trees did the thing all naked branches do in winter, with the daylight slowly failing. They rasped and rustled like giant papery hands being rubbed together. The world was heavy with unease.

The house waited for them on the other side of the road.

"Reminds me of Berkeley Square." Nola said. "That was dangerous too. Probably worse. I broke my rapier and George nearly cut your head off, but we still came out of it well." She came out of it particularly well; it was one of her favourite cases. Perhaps this one would be even better. Nola felt optimistic about it, even cheerful. George was on his way, but he'd been working in the library and hadn't yet arrived. Holly Munro was back at Portland Row, doing neat things with paper clips. For the moment, it was just Nola and Lockwood.

He pulled his collar up against the wind. "Berkeley Square was in summer. Nice short night to get through. This one may be a long haul. It's only three and I'm hungry already." He nudged his bag with the toe of his boot. "Tell you what, though. Holly's sandwiches look fine, don't they?'

"Mm." Nola said. "Delicious."

"It was nice of her to make them."

"Mmm." Nola said, stretching her smile wide across her face. "So nice."

Yes, their lovely assistant had made them sandwiches. She'd also packed their kitbags, and though Nola had carefully gone through everything again herself (when it came to the art of staying alive, she trusted nobody but herself), she had to admit that Holly had done an excellent job.

A few people were walking in the square, residents probably, judging from their expensive coats. They glanced at Lockwood and Nola as they passed, taking stock of their swords, their dark clothes and watchful stillness, and hurried on, heads down. Nola always thought that was a funny thing about being an agent, something Lockwood had once said: you were admired and loathed in equal measure. After dark, you represented order and all good things. They loved to see you then. In daylight, you were an unwelcome intrusion into everyday life, a symbol of the very chaos you kept at bay.

"She's a great addition, isn't she?" Lockwood said.

"Holly? Mm. She's fine. I just hope she looks after Ghostbuster properly." Nola hummed. Much to her dismay, Nola had had to leave Ghostbuster in the hands of Holly Munro, of whom the cat didn't seem to like all too much. Nola simply prayed that she wouldn't return home to a destroyed house and a weeping clerical assistant.