𝐇𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧┃ Anthony Lockwood┃3┃

Chapter Sixteen - Orpheus Society

Lockwood's vow sounded good, especially spoken in that shaft of sunlight and all, but Nola couldn't help noticing that he wasn't spelling out any details. In fact, he was damn vague. This didn't bother her particularly – she knew he'd think of something. She just guessed it would take him a while to figure out a plan.

In this, Nola was quite wrong. Lockwood not only had a plan; it was already well under way. She discovered afterwards that he had been devising his response to the attack on George almost from the moment it happened. During his long vigil in the hospital, his initial shock had hardened into furious intent. He'd had plenty of time to explore his options, make decisions and set his strategy in motion. But Nola only began to realise this when Quill Kipps showed up later that afternoon with a bulging plastic bag in his hand.

"Here you are, Lockwood." He said, pouring the contents out onto the kitchen table. "Four black balaclavas, 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 balaclava. "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 rucksack. "I've got photos too."

"Superb. Will it be feasible?"

"At the worst, we might have to duff up a few pensioners."

"I think we can cope with that."

Holly and Nola had been following this exchange like it was a tennis match, heads turning in bafflement from Quill to Lockwood and back again. Then Nola raised a hand. "There'll be some duffing 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 their 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 they weren't discussing ghosts, either. They spoke in hushed tones, their 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 Nola's eye.

"I know him." She said, pointing to a snap of a man with white hair. He had a big, bulging forehead and a slight stoop; his long black frock 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 Lockwood and Co 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 Nola was forcing herself to think of her – was closely associated with their underhand activities. The agents had visited their headquarters once, and found a plush and ornate townhouse festooned with oil paintings, marble statues and quiet, closed doors.