The next afternoon, the Lockwood and Co trio took a short walk to the Baker Street Underground station. It was good to be outdoors again, and in pleasant sunlight too. Each of them felt the change; their mood had lifted. Nola's nightmare and moment of weakness had not been mentioned by herself nor Lockwood since it had happened, and she would prefer to keep it that way. George was oblivious to its existence entirely.
They had all put on casual and comfortable clothes. Lockwood wore his signature long, black leather coat that emphasised his slimness and easy stride. George wore a hideous puffy jacket with a high elasticated waistband that emphasised his bottom, though it did quite well at disguising his overly-vibrant, all orange outfit. Nola had on her usual gear: black leather coat, black roll-neck jumper, black leather shorts, tights, and her usual chunky boots. Basically, a lot of black. Her choppy hair, of which she cuts herself, was full of volume and tossed over to one side. Black eyeliner ran across her eyelids, and her thick, long lashes were coated in mascara. She looked, and felt, much more like herself than she did last night. They all wore their rapiers on their waist belts. These – and the cuts and bruises on their faces – were the marks of their profession and their status: people moved aside for them as they went by.
After locating the Jubilee Line within the maze-like Underground station, they hopped onto the next train and made their way to Green Park. They stood silent and serious as the train rattled through the tunnels on the five-minute journey. No one spoke. The eyes of the crowd followed them as they alighted and set off along the platform. They left the station hastily and started up Piccadilly. Afternoon light lanced steeply between tall buildings; they walked from bright sun to blue shadow and back again. Preparations for the evening were already under way. A salt-spreader pushed his cart along the roadside, scattering fresh grains left and right like snow.
Nola was pleased to let her bruised muscles stretch out as she walked; it was nice to feel her strength returning. Lockwood was limping slightly, but otherwise full of zest. He'd removed the wrapped bandages from his wounded arm to let the sunshine bathe his skin.
The trio travelled up a side-road, under a great stone arch and out onto the sweeping curve of Regent Street. Not far ahead, a stand that had been set up on the pavement immediately intrigued Nola. Her sense of smell was immediately heightened, and she could feel her mouth salivating.
"Oh my God." She gasped, feeling a deep grumble erupt in the pit of her stomach.
George looked at Nola with a confused amazement on his features. "Jesus Christ, Nola. That sounded like you just released some kind of beast from your gut."
"I think I did." Nola laughed weakly, before placing her hands over her stomach. "Sorry, I'm just starving. And I can smell chips and gravy. Oh, and cheese!"
Lockwood rolled his eyes playfully, chuckling at his colleague. He rooted his hand into his trouser pocket and fished out a £2 coin. "Here. Go get some."
Nola looked up at Lockwood through her eyelashes, feeling a small grin form on her lips. "Really?"
"Yes, really. Considering the ghastly noise that your stomach just produced, and the fact you are truly obsessed with cheese, there's no other choice. Now, go on." Lockwood placed the coin in the centre of Nola's palm. She squeaked giddily before skipping away to the pop-up food stand across the way.
"You two are just something else." George clicked his tongue loudly.
Lockwood's head snapped in his direction. "What are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about. Ever since that night at the Hope house, you're as thick as thieves." George looked at Lockwood accusingly.
Lockwood, however, did not have the time to answer before Nola came bouncing back towards them, humming happily. She held a red and white striped cone in her hand, which was oozing with melted cheese and thick gravy. A horror to some, yet a delight for Nola.
"Anyone want a chip?" She asked, her voice muffled due to the fact her cheeks were stuffed with fried potato slabs. Her eyes, which were wide and innocent, flitted between the two boys. They both took a couple of chips each, before the three of them continued on their intended journey.
"Now, this is not about us helping Annabelle. It's about her helping us." Lockwood began to explain as they all walked together in unison. "It's all about media exposure. Annabelle's disappearance was a huge story."
George nodded along eagerly. "Well, it is much bigger than you two burning a house down."
Nola rolled her eyes, popping another hot chip in her mouth. She plucked one from the cone and placed it in between Lockwood's teeth, knowing that he had been eyeing them up. "That's it, Lockwood. We need to change the board back to zero." She was referencing the small whiteboard that hung in the basement, by the high-security store room. Written across the top was the statement 'Days Since George Shamed Us for Burning a House Down', and a tally of 2 was scribbled underneath it. 2 was their highest record.
Lockwood laughed heartily, whilst George scowled. "We'll change it when we get home. Anyway, if we solve Annabelle's murder, the headlines we'll get will cancel out all bad press about the fire overnight."
"I thought you said no more pet projects?" Nola asked, rummaging through her stripey cone for a chip that was covered in the most toppings possible.
"This isn't a pet project. This is a main event!" Lockwood argued.
George sighed. "It won't make us £60,000."
"No, it might make us more. Think about all the millions of old people sat at home, with nothing to do but reminisce and read the papers. They love murder mysteries! It's a bona-fide front page splash." Lockwood sang cockily as he strutted down the street.
Nola stopped eating for a moment. "Do leave me out of it, please. I don't want my name in any papers."
A few minutes later, they had reached a quiet, leafy square a block behind Regent Street. It was dominated by an ugly, brick-fronted building of colossal size. An iron plaque on the door read:
THE BRITISH ARCHIVES
"This is where it all happens." George's spectacles gleamed as he smiled ecstatically at the building. This was his territory. "Here we go. Keep your voices down. The librarians are picky here, so behave, yes?" He led the way over an iron line, and through a set of revolving doors.
Nola and Lockwood exchanged a look, simultaneously chuckling at George's bossy nature.
The British Archives was on a bigger scale than anything Nola had ever seen before. The complex had six enormous floors piled about a central concrete atrium. When you stood at the bottom, among palms and other indoor trees, the ascending levels of shelves and racks and reading tables seemed to reach to the sky. A large iron sculpture hung from the domed roof high above, part decoration, part defence. On every level, hunched figures flipped through yellowed newspapers and magazines. Some, perhaps, researched the Problem, looking for clues to the plague that beset the public. Others were agents: Nola recognised blue Tamworth jackets dotted about, the lilac tones of Grimble, and here and there the sombre dark-grey hues of Fittes.
It was not the first time she had wondered why Lockwood hadn't chosen to clothe his company in a coordinated uniform of their own.
Like Nola, Lockwood seemed somewhat overawed by the building, but George bustled them along in a confident manner. Within a few minutes, he had taken them by lift to the fourth floor, sat them down at an empty desk and, after disappearing for a moment, plonked down the first great grey files before them.
"Here are the local papers from the Richmond district, forty-nine years ago." George said. "Annabel Ward disappeared late June. The article I found came out a week or so later. Lockwood, why don't you start with the July editions? They're the most likely to be helpful. Nola, you check the Autumn file. I'll go and get some issues of London Society."
Lockwood and Nola took off their coats in unison and immersed themselves obediently in the thrill-a-minute pages of the Richmond Examiner. After a few moments, Nola soon found that her section contained more local fetes, lost cats and best-kept allotment competitions than she could have believed existed in the universe. Lockwood was having a similar lack of luck, and was growing restless. He had his feet up on the table, exposing the cuffs of his pink socks, and was looked sighingly at his watch.
"This is it." George said spontaneously, pointing at his papers. "She was in Hamlet, and played Ophelia."
Nola frowned. "Meaning?"
George scoffed. "Ugh, why must I be surrounded by philistines? Ophelia went mad and killed herself because of the way Hamlet treated her."
"But Annabelle didn't kill herself?" Nola questioned, not understanding the link that George had made.
"But the part she played and what was happening in her life were starting to mirror each other. Hamlet and Ophelia, Annabelle and her abusive lover." George explained, gesturing wildly with his hands.
Nola's eyes widened with realisation. "So you think the person who played Hamlet did it?"
"Hugo Blake." Lockwood said, out of the blue. "That's his name. Look." He gestured for his colleagues to join him in reading the article. "'The case of Annabelle Ward took another twist last night when actor Hugo Blake was arrested in connection with her disappearance. Ward was rumoured to be in a relationship with her Hamlet co-star after the pair were spotted together having an intimate dinner at a private members' club'."
"Nice one Lockwood! Not bad for a philistine." George patted Lockwood on the back, who smiled proudly. "Look, she's wearing the ring." George pointed at the picture that accompanied the article.
Nola leant forward across the table, trying to get a better look at the image. "So Blake was arrested, but he still got away with it?"
"Well, there was no hard evidence. No eyewitnesses, no body." Lockwood shrugged his shoulders. "It says Blake was let go, and the case ran dry. Unlike ours."
"Well done, Tony." A new voice entered the conversation. "Doing your research before the job, this time."
Tony. No one, in the time that Nola had known him, had so much as dared to even call him Anthony. He didn't even look like a Tony. For a split second, she assumed that there was great friendship between this Fittes supervisor and Lockwood; then she realised it was the other thing entirely. Lockwood was smiling, but not in a way she'd ever seen before. It was somehow wolf-like. Deep creases hid his eyes.
Looking up, Nola discovered three people standing by the table, watching them with ill-concealed amusement. Two were teenagers, a boy and a girl; the other was a very young man with a small, upturned nose and cropped auburn hair. All three wore the soft grey jackets and crisp black trousers of the oldest, most prestigious company of ghost-hunters in London, the Old Grey Lady of the Strand – the celebrated Fittes Agency.
George got to his feet. "Keep it down, Kipps. This is a library, not a braying gallery for bellends."
Lockwood snorted at the clever remark, whilst Kipps of the Fittes Agency simply ignored it. He turned his head, allowing his eyes to land watchfully upon Nola. "Ah." He hummed simply. "This must be your new assistant."
Nola's eyes rolled as she cringed at the comment. "I'm his new colleague, not assistant." She stood upright, pushing her shoulders backwards. "And you must be Quill Kipps. I've read about you. About that young lad you sent into the Southwark catacombs alone, while you waited for reinforcements at the door. What became of that kid, Quill? Or haven't they found him yet?" She tilted her head to one side innocently. "Oh, and that client who got ghost-touched because your agents left an arm-bone in his bin?"
The man flushed. "That was a mistake! They threw away the wrong bag—"
"Oh, I'm sure they did. Also, you have the highest mortality rate of any team leader, so I'm told." Nola finished her small recollection of her Quill Kipps knowledge with a proud smile on her face. She felt pleased upon watching him flap and fluster before her. The boy and girl on either side of Kipps exchanged an awkward and embarrased look.
"I'm the top supervisor at the country's top agency." He said defensively, earning an amused smirk from Lockwood. "I get the most dangerous jobs because of how good I am. But I handle it, you see, unlike him." Kipps focused his eyes on Lockwood, who still had a confident look on his face. He had not remotely faltered.
"I see! Having one of your agents go missing and almost getting your client killed is 'handling it'. Oh, Lockwood, George, we've been doing it all wrong!" Nola sang sarcastically, giving her boys a dramatic look.
The boys of Lockwood and Co looked at Nola proudly. They both knew she was particularly confident and sarcastic, but they had never seen her act so quick-wittedly.
Kipps looked at her with narrow eyes. "You won't stick around too long, my sweetheart." He winked, causing her to internally gag. "Not when you find out what he's really like. Everyone leaves him in the end."
Lockwood's cool and unbothered exterior soon changed upon hearing Kipps taunt him about his past. He bolted up from his seat and thrust his rapier out from his belt and towards the young man's neck. Kipps was quick, however, and mirrored the action. They were poised opposite one another, blades brandished and scowls worn proudly.
"Her name is James, not sweetheart. And, she's especially not yours." Lockwood stated without batting an eyelid.
Nola watched him in awe.
The young girl beside Kipps frowned, before finally speaking. "James? I've never even heard of you. What's your other name?"
Nola paused for a moment, carefully considering her answer. She didn't need nor want any Fittes agents to know anything about her. Besides, she hated her name, and it's meaning. "I don't have another name." She said bluntly.
Kipps scoffed. "Who did you think you are? Madonna?"
"I was thinking more like Adele, but yeah, same vibe." Nola shrugged, earning an amused chuckle from her colleagues.
"I hate to tell you, Kipps, but you need a ladder." Lockwood clicked his tongue against his teeth, as if he was feeling sympathetic for Kipps. He most certainly was not.
Kipps never lowered his rapier, however, his smarmy smirk wobbled. His pointed eyebrows twitched downward, and the corners of his mouth followed. "No I don't."
"Yes, you do." Lockwood repeated, before twisting his rapier arm and flicking his wrist. Quill Kipps' rapier was snatched from his hand. It flew straight up and embedded itself, point-first, in the ceiling.
Nola and George released a snorted laughter. "Nicely done, Lockwood." The former chuckled.
Smiling, Lockwood returned his sword to his belt and sat back down, leaving Kipps breathing loudly through his nose. After a moment he gave a little jump, hoping to reach the hilt of his hanging sword, but he missed by several inches. He jumped again.
"Little bit higher, Quill. Go on!" Nola said with sarcastic encouragement. "You almost got it then!"
"Oh, and Quill? Your fly's undone." George said, expressionless and blunt.
Kipps looked down and discovered the unhappy truth of the statement. His face went bright red. His fingers strayed to his sword hilt and he took a half-step forward. George didn't move, but unblinkingly pointed to a 'QUIET' sign hanging on the wall.
"Also, please do shut up."