TERRORIST LINK TO ROTWELL AGENCY!
FORBIDDEN WEAPONS FOUND AT RUINED INSTITUTE
STEVE ROTWELL STILL MISSING, PRESUMED DEAD
First interview with DEPRAC investigator Montagu Barnes inside:
The sensational discoveries made in the rubble of the ruined Rotwell Institute facility in Hampshire continued yesterday, with confirmation that police had uncovered the remains of a large 'weapons factory' in one of the outbuildings. Among the items recovered are said to be several unexploded 'ghost-bombs' of the kind used in a terrorist attack on the London carnival last November, in which an attempt on the life of Miss Penelope Fittes was made. Several members of the institute staff, including facility chief Mr Saul Johnson, have been arrested, amid claims that they and agency head Mr Steve Rotwell were intimately involved in that attack. Mr Rotwell's whereabouts remain unknown, but it is believed that he may have perished in the explosions that destroyed the facility.
In today's exclusive interview in The Times, DEPRAC chief investigator Mr Montagu Barnes gives a detailed account of his team's dangerous exploration of the ruins. 'It was an inferno when we arrived,' he says. 'But we managed to discover a store of illicit weapons, including deadly ectoplasm-guns. Ghost-bombs are just the tip of the iceberg, believe me.' He refused to comment on the contents of the central building at the site, which was severely damaged in the incident. 'Sadly, the purpose of that building is not yet clear. Rest assured that enquiries are continuing.'
Police investigations widened yesterday, following reports of forbidden Sources found stored at the institute. Several arrests have been made among staff at the Greater London Metropolitan Furnaces in Clerkenwell, and more are expected in the coming days. However, such developments pale into insignificance next to the crisis surrounding the Rotwell Agency. With its leader missing and other key executives also implicated in serious crimes, public confidence in the organisation has plummeted and its future hangs in the balance. Latest reports suggest that DEPRAC has invited Fittes Agency head Miss Penelope Fittes to take temporary charge of the rudderless organisation in an effort to stabilize its fortunes. She will run both companies from her offices in the Strand.
"Well..." Lockwood said. "That's another investigation successfully brushed under the carpet." He tossed the paper onto the breakfast table and reached for the toast. "Old Barnes is a master at this sort of stuff. All that flimflam with the illegal weapons allows him to quietly gloss over the only important thing, which is the iron circle. Still, I suppose we should be happy that he's glossed over our part in the affair too."
"I'm very happy about that." Holly said.
They all were. They were happy about many things that morning. And because of that, they'd decided to enjoy an official celebratory breakfast at 35 Portland Row.
It was the day after their return from Aldbury Castle, and the sun was shining bright. Holly had thrown open the kitchen door. Birds sang, new leaves sparkled. Cool spring air flooded the room, almost driving out the smell of George's smoked kippers. Best of all, the team was there to share the occasion.
The whole team, that is. Including Nola. And Ghostbuster.
Part of Nola's happiness stemmed from the fact that she'd spent the previous night back in Lockwood's bedroom. She did attempt to initially sleep in the attic as she did before, but her mind was still scarred from Agent Phillips' appearance. She padded down the staircase in the middle of the night after tossing and turning for hours, and Lockwood welcomed her with open arms.
Quill Kipps was at breakfast, too. While not himself a member of Lockwood & Co (which would, in his words, be a fate worse 'than being whipped naked across Wimbledon Common'), there was talk of him being a consultant who might be called in from time to time. He was with them that morning to discuss this, and also to celebrate their return to London. Eggs were being poached, bacon fried, and even Holly's super-healthy waffles glistened temptingly under oodles of honey and fresh butter. They all ate contentedly and well.
Lockwood sat at the head of the table, passing laden plates, making sure everyone had their fill. Nola. who sat beside him, was relieved to see that he looked his normal self. His colour had returned and he moved with his customary ease. Physically, it was taking both of them a long time to recover from their walk through the iron circle. Nola still felt weary, and had been troubled by even more obscure nightmares about the Other Side – but these seemed to be lessening. On a morning such as that one, it was easy to imagine that the effects of their ordeal would soon fade.
At last, Lockwood banged a fork against a milk jug. "Time for some toasts." He said. "I'd like to thank you all for your efforts in Aldbury Castle. George, Holly and Quill – you did great things at the institute. Without you, James and I wouldn't have survived."
Glasses were raised and orange juice drunk. Then, Lockwood turned to Nola.
"James." He said. "You deserve a special toast. First, for coming back to us. Lockwood and Co was incomplete without you. And second, for intervening when Rotwell had me beaten. You saved my life that night. Thank you."
His eyes fixed hers. Nola did her best to look super-casual, but she could feel a bit of blushing going on. Then, she realised that everyone was watching them.
"Ooh, awkward." George said.
Lockwood grinned and tossed a crust of bread at him. "Shut up, it's not awkward. You know I love the pants off of her." He suddenly turned back to Nola, placed his slender hands on either side of her face, and planted a firm and dramatic kiss upon her lips. "See?"
Nola was left flushed and blinking. Once her surprise subsided, a bashful grin pulled at the corners of his lips.
"Aww. I love you guys." Holly grinned, clasping her hands together.
George sniffled dramatically, feigning emotion. "I feel like a proud dad!"
Kipps was scoffing and rolling his eyes. "Ugh, must you?"
Lockwood and Nola smiled at each other, before the leader continued with his congratulatory speech. "The truth is, we all rely on each other. Take any one of us away, and we're all weakened. Together, there's nothing we can't do."
"Hear, hear." Holly said.
"And that brings me to my last toast." Lockwood finished. "To new horizons. Because after the Creeping Shadow and the iron circle and what James and I found on the Other Side, I believe everything has changed. Between us, we've discovered things we never imagined. Barnes wants us to keep quiet about it, but we all know that's impossible. From now on, the scope of our enquiries will be wider. There are many new questions to answer and our investigations have only just begun."
They drank and put their glasses down. For a while, everyone was silent. They listened to the birdsong through the open door.
"What I want to know," Holly said, "is what the Creeping Shadow guy was doing on the Other Side. Steve Rotwell alluded to some kind of purpose. He wasn't wandering around out there just for the fun of it. What was he after? Why would anyone take such risks? I can't imagine anything important enough to justify it."
"Doesn't have to be anything specific." That was George. Not content with his kippers, he was preparing a final bacon sandwich on an impressive scale. "Sometimes it's just about exploring the unknown. Give me a suit of iron armour and I'd happily travel to the Other Side."
"It might need to be an extra-large suit, particularly if you eat that monster sarnie." Lockwood said. "You can always borrow the spirit-cape, though."
"It's such a pity I lost the other one." Nola said. The memory made her feel bad.
Lockwood shrugged. "Can't be helped. Besides, who knows what's still packed away upstairs? But we were talking about the Shadow. He was definitely doing something. Rotwell said as much. We've got to find out what."
"First, we have to get our heads around all of this." Kipps said. "I'm not sure that I can."
"Nor me." Holly agreed. "I'm just amazed that you've both come back in one piece."
Nola didn't say anything. At night, when she closed her eyes, she could still see the black sky stretching over the alternate, frosted world.
"Here's what I think." George said, chewing on a piece of bacon. "James and Lockwood went to the place where ghosts come from. At least, it's where some of them are hanging around, ready to step through weak points to our world. Normally, we don't have access to it, though those of us with psychic Sight get glimpses of it, I guess. But then, the Shadow crossed over and started strolling around over there, and that got the spirits very excited. He had the effect of weakening the barrier between worlds. When you saw him in the churchyard, he was like a ghost, wasn't he? You were seeing him on the Other Side – the barrier had completely frayed."
"I wonder if anyone saw us." Lockwood said. "Never thought to ask."
"So what I'm interested in," George went on, "is whether anyone's stirred them up like that before. And if so" – he gestured with a mustard spoon at the map on the wall, the one that showed the concentric spread of historic hauntings across the country – "what effect it's had on the Problem."
The doorbell rang. Holly was nearest. She disappeared into the hall.
"Big mysteries..." Kipps mused. "Going to be tough to solve."
"Have confidence, Quill." Lockwood said. "With the team we've got, I think we'll do just fine." He stretched back in his chair. "Who was at the door, Hol?"
Holly had reappeared, and in the instant before she spoke they all noticed how pale she was, how stiff her expression. "We have two visitors, Lockwood." She said. "I didn't... I couldn't... Well, I mean to say, they're here right now. I've had to let them in."
She stood aside. Behind her, smiling her glossy smile, was Penelope Fittes.
Miss Fittes stepped into the kitchen. It was a small room, and there wasn't much space for her. She gazed around at the debris of the meal. She wore a green dress, mid-length, with a dark brown coat on top. As always, she might have been on her way to a dinner party. "Good morning, everyone." She said. "I hope I'm not intruding. May I come in?"
Well, she already had, of course. Lockwood jumped up. "Of course, of course. Please—"
"Just a little visit. No, don't get up. I wouldn't want to disturb you. I do have someone else with me too." She gestured behind her at a slim young gentleman with curly blonde hair and a neatly groomed moustache standing in the shadows of the hall. He wore an elegant tweed suit and had a sword-stick hanging at his side. "You know Sir Rupert Gale, I think? An old friend of the Fittes family."
"Yes, indeed... yes. I'm sorry about the mess here." Lockwood said. "Shall we go into the living room?"
Miss Fittes gave a smile. "No, no. I'd like to see where you do your work in your little agency. What a busy breakfast you've been having! And this tablecloth with all these sketches..." She leaned forward to inspect them. "So quaint! So charming... Well, possibly not those doodles there."
Lockwood was hurrying over with a spare chair. "I'm sorry. I keep telling George to stick to ghosts. Please sit, ma'am. Sir Rupert, would you care to have mine?"
"No, no, thank you. I'm good." Sir Rupert Gale took up position at the window. He leaned back against the sink and crossed one ankle over the other.
It was no great pleasure for Lockwood & Co to have Sir Rupert in their house, since they knew him to be a rogue and a wealthy collector of illicit relics. His past encounters with them had been laced with threats of violence. But, in truth, having Penelope Fittes there was more disconcerting still.
This most illustrious person sat in the agents' private space, smiling at them. The chair that she occupied was a fold-out wicker one, rather inexpensive, with a few ectoplasm burns along the back where it had played a part in one of George's experiments. Nevertheless, with her long limbs elegantly arranged upon it and the sunlight shining on her emerald dress, the lady somehow made it look quite chic. She seemed at perfect ease. By contrast, the agents all sat (or stood) in nonplussed silence. Kipps in particular looked thoroughly mortified.
He subtly insinuated himself behind the door, trying to keep out of sight.
Lockwood shook his confusion away. "Tea, ma'am? The pot's just brewed."
"Thank you, Anthony. I'll take a cup."
As the necessary formalities were completed, Miss Fittes gazed around the kitchen, her eyes taking in every detail – the remains of breakfast, the salt and iron in the corner, the door to the garden, George's map of England on the wall. "I've come here to thank you." She said. "To thank you for your services. It's really been most kind of you."
"Services, ma'am?" Lockwood passed the tea over.
"I see you've been reading the papers..." She indicated the front page of The Times. "You'll have gathered that there are many changes happening in London. In particular, you may have heard that the Rotwell and Fittes agencies are entering an association. Well, I can tell you unofficially that it will be more than that. It is a merger. Rotwell's is disgraced and in crisis. Without swift action, it will fail. So from now on, it will be fully assimilated into the Fittes Agency. That means it is part of Fittes, and its executives will report to me."
She looked around at the agents, the woman who now controlled the two largest and most powerful organisations in London. "Congratulations, ma'am." Lockwood said slowly. "That's... really quite something."
"Indeed. It is a turn-up for the books. Much work lies ahead for me if I'm to knock Rotwell's into shape, but I am confident this can be done. At any rate, I am in charge of both agencies now. And I believe that I owe much of my good fortune to you."
It was one of those moments when everyone worked so hard to look innocent and uncomprehending that the atmosphere at once becomes poisonous with knowingness and guilt. Over at the sink, Sir Rupert Gale smiled. He picked up one of George's favourite stripy mugs and considered it idly.
"Pardon me, ma'am." Lockwood said. "I don't quite understand. We happened to be working in a village nearby, yes, but as to the events at the institute and the cause of the disaster – if that's what you're referring to – we're in the dark, just like everyone else."
Miss Fittes had an odd little laugh. Nola had forgotten just how low and husky it was. "That's all right. I'm not that silly Inspector Barnes. You don't have to be careful with me. But there, I won't press you. Let us just imagine for a moment that you saw things you were not supposed to see. Perhaps they confused you. Perhaps they still prey on your minds."
It was obvious what she was talking about, but having denied it at the outset, the agents couldn't very well admit to anything then. Lockwood pretended to consider. "We did come upon some very frightening apparitions in the village. George in particular ran a mile from an eyeless girl – isn't that right, George?"
"Couldn't see me for dust." George said.
The lady smiled at them. "You're very droll. Suffice it to say that some of the Rotwell scientists – I wonder, should I call them Fittes scientists now? – some of the workers at the institute have been talking to the police. There was mention of intruders."
"Five intruders." Sir Rupert Gale said. "Count them. Fingers of one hand."
"Now, I don't know precisely what it is you saw or heard," Miss Fittes said, "but I would advise you to cast it from your minds. Poor Steve Rotwell was an eccentric, driven man, who desired strange knowledge that is forbidden to us all. What dark experiments he may have chosen to attempt in his private facility are not for us to fathom. Certainly they should be of no consequence to any law-abiding agency."
Lockwood & Co sat in silence, trying to gauge her words. Up by the sink, the ghost jar hung dark and quiet too, underneath a checked dishcloth. Nola could see a glimpse of the jar, but no stirrings within. At least the skull was keeping out of it. That was one blessing.
Lockwood spoke quietly. "I think I understand you. You're requesting that we 'forget' anything we may or may not have seen."
"'Requesting' isn't the word I would have chosen – but yes, that's right."
"May I ask why?"
The lady sipped her tea. "For fifty years," she said, "we have been at war with supernatural forces. Tampering with them, or seeking to turn them to personal gain, as foolish Rotwell did, is a recipe for spiritual disaster. The mysteries of death are sacrosanct, and must not be explored." Penelope Fittes regarded the agents. "You know that as well as I do. Some things are better left unknown."
George stirred. "Forgive me, ma'am. I don't think that's true. Surely knowledge of every kind is vital to us in our battle with the Problem."
"Dear George, you are so very young." That husky laugh again. "I can see that such concepts might be difficult for you to grasp."
"No, George is right." Lockwood said. "George is always right. We shouldn't fear uncovering things that are shrouded in darkness. We should shine light upon them. Like the lantern in your agency's logo. That's what an agent does, after all."
Miss Fittes looked at him levelly. "Don't tell me you're rejecting my suggestion again?"
"I'm afraid so... Yes, we reject your 'request', or order, or whatever it is." Lockwood's voice was suddenly crisp. "Forgive me, but we're not part of your organisation. You can't waltz into our kitchen and tell us what to do."
"Oh, but actually we can." The lady said. "Isn't that right, Rupert?"
"Certainly is, ma'am." Sir Rupert Gale stepped forward from the window, strolled in leisurely fashion behind the teens' backs. "For some of us, actions will have consequences from now on." He reached down, plucked George's sandwich from his plate and took an enormous bite out of it. "And for others, there will be no consequences at all. Like this. Mm, excellent bacon! And with mustard too. Very nice."
"How dare you—" In an instant, Lockwood was out of his chair and halfway around the table. He stopped abruptly. There'd been a flash of silver, equally fast. Sir Rupert's sword was in his hand, the point hovering a short distance from Lockwood's midriff. He scarcely looked at Lockwood, but chewed placidly, inspecting the crusts of the sandwich.
"Threatening an unarmed man, are you, Sir Rupert?" Nola said with a snalred lip. "How classy of you."
"You could pass me that butter knife, James." Lockwood murmured. "That would probably be enough for me to deal with him."
Penelope Fittes raised her hand. "There will be no fighting at all. This is a civilized visit. Rupert, put your sword away. Anthony, please sit down."
Lockwood hesitated a long time, then slowly returned to his seat. Sir Rupert Gale sheathed his sword, still chewing.
"That's better." Miss Fittes gave her little laugh. "You boys! What shall I do with you? Well, the point I'm making is very simple, and I can't see why you should have any objection to it. You have a charming little agency, and you are more than welcome to keep on doing your charming little things. But from now on, you will stick to the investigations that suit you better – the small hauntings that so plague our society. There will be no more silliness like this" – she pointed to George's poster on the wall – "no more idle speculation, no more getting above your station. You, dear George, have always been full of foolish fancies. It would serve you better to forget them and spend a bit of time on useful matters. Your appearance, for instance. Tidy yourself up! Go out and meet a girl, make friends."
"Starting up an acquaintance with a stick of deodorant wouldn't go amiss, either." Sir Rupert Gale said. He patted George's shoulder.
George sat there, impassive.
"Don't look so serious, all of you!" Penelope Fittes smiled around at Lockwood & Co. "You have all the makings of a perfect company, albeit in miniature. A stout and sturdy researcher – that's George. And Lockwood, of course – the resolute man of action. And you even have a perfect secretary and typist in sweet Miss Munro here. Not perhaps the bravest agent, from what my new colleagues at Rotwell's tell me, but charming to look at—"
"That's enough!" It was Nola's voice. Her chair fell back. She was on her feet. "You know nothing about Holly – or any of us, for that matter. What gives you the right to storm into our home and insult us all? Hm? And I'm such a patronising way. Leave my friends alone, or so help me God-"
"Oh, Miss James." The lady turned to her then, and for the first time, Nola felt the full ferocity of her smile. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that you didn't take me up on my offer the other week. We could have done great things together. But there we are, there's no use crying over missed opportunities... Which brings me to you, Mr Kipps."
It was the first time she had acknowledged the existence of Quill Kipps, who stood behind the door, shrinking back against the bins as if trying to compress himself out of existence. As she turned her smile on him, he flinched.
"I hear you've been busy too, Quill." She said. "Frolicking about with spectacles that don't belong to you. What fun. I hope you've enjoyed spending time with your new friends. But in all your excitement, don't forget the important thing – which is that, by your own choice, you are an outcast from my agency and henceforth barred from all significant work and status. Backsliders like you will not be tolerated, and I shall make an example of you. Your pension will be confiscated; your reputation destroyed. I will see to it that you never work for any reputable psychic investigation company again."
"It's all right, Kipps." Lockwood said. "You can work for us if you want. We're not reputable."
Kipps said nothing. He was very pale, his nose and lips a purplish blue. He looked almost dead from fear and mortification.
"Well, I'd better be going." Penelope Fittes said. "There's so much to be done... You know, life is strange, isn't it, Anthony? You refused my earlier offer – yet now, inadvertently, you've done me more of a favour than I could ever have imagined. Thank you for the tea." She rose, looking around the kitchen a final time. "This is such a nice little house. So charming, so vulnerable. Have a lovely morning."
With that, she went out. By the window, Sir Rupert Gale finished George's sandwich. Then he took a tea towel from the draining board, wiped the grease from his hands and dropped the towel into the sink. Smiling at the agents, he left the room. They heard the front door close, his footsteps fade on the path outside. Shortly afterwards, Miss Fittes' car purred away into the bright spring day.
Lockwood & Co all remained exactly where they were, sitting, standing, shrouded in silence – Lockwood in his chair, George and Holly on either side of the table, Nola with Ghostbuster on her lap, Kipps by the door. No one looked at anyone else, but they were all aware of how still the others were, how rigid. They stayed there, joined together by a little web of shock.
Then Lockwood laughed. The spell broke – they all stirred, as though waking from a dream. They looked at him where he sat smiling broadly, eyes glittering.
"Well." He said. "They've made their position pretty clear, haven't they? We're supposed to keep our noses out of this."
Kipps shifted his feet as if they pained him. George coughed slightly.
"So let's have a show of hands." Lockwood went on. "Who agrees that we ought to be obedient little agents, do what she says and keep our noses clean?"
He looked around at the others. Not one of them said a thing.
"Okay." Lockwood straightened the thinking cloth, making it nice and neat. "That's good to know. So, hands up, whoever thinks that in fact we ought to do the opposite of what she said. Whoever thinks that since Penelope has chosen to take the gloves off so completely, we are quite within our rights to make her the target of our subsequent investigations. No matter what threats she and that preening cad might make."
They all silently raised their hands. Even Kipps – though he made it look as if he was really intending to scratch the back of his head and only did it as an afterthought, with a tentative, half-bent arm.
"Excellent." Lockwood said. "Thank you. I'm glad, because that's what I think too. Let's clear up breakfast. George, why don't you put the kettle on? It's time for Lockwood and Co to get to work."
Two minutes later, Nola was standing at the sink doing the dishes, staring out at nothing, when she noticed a green glow coming from behind the dishcloth. The girl flipped it away – to find the ghost in the jar watching her. For once, its face was only mildly repulsive. It looked very sober and serious. "Nice speech from Lockwood there." The skull said. "Very prettily done. I could almost believe for a minute that you weren't doomed. Which I suppose was his intention. So... fill me in. I caught a peek from under that cloth. Who was that who just came in?"
"Penelope Fittes."
"Who's she?"
"Head of the Fittes Agency. And ruler of all London, it now appears – in her mind at least. Get with the beat. I thought you knew that."
"Oh, I'm just a poor old skull, I am. A bit slow on the uptake. So that's Penelope Fittes, is it? Head of Fittes House? Daughter of old Marissa who started it all?"
Nola frowned. "Yes. And she suddenly isn't quite as friendly as we thought... What's with you? Why are you laughing?"
"No reason... How old would you say she was?"
"What, are you thinking of proposing marriage? How do I know?"
"I see she had a bodyguard with her." The skull said. "That blonde fellow with the bum-fluff moustache."
Nola grunted. "Yeah. Sir Rupert Gale. A nasty piece of work."
"Yes, a smiling, blue-eyed killer. But it's no surprise. She always did have someone there to do her dirty work. Marissa Fittes."
"We're talking about Penelope."
"Mm... yes. Better rinse that plate again, James. Still has ketchup on it."
Nola went on with the dishes, staring out into the garden. At her side, the skull continued to chuckle witlessly to itself.
"All right." The girl said finally. "Let me in on the joke."
"I met Marissa once." The skull said. "I spoke to her. I told you that, remember."
"Yes. I know. She put you in that jar."
"It's pretty weird to see her standing there again."
"Does Penelope resemble her?" Nola thought of the wizened old woman in the photographs at Fittes House. But, that was at the end of Marissa's life. Perhaps earlier she'd looked more like Penelope.
"You could say that. She's no different than she was fifty years ago. Eugh, it freaks me out, and I'm a skull in a jar. Anyway, don't let me distract you. You're onto the cutlery now. Ooh, jammy knives and eggy spoons. Exciting times."
"I'm sorry." Nola said. "You're losing me. Run that past me again."
"How has she managed to do that, I wonder. Because she really is no different. Eighty years old or more, and she almost looks younger, if anything."
Nola gazed at the ghost. It gazed at her. Then, its eyes rolled in opposite directions.
"Let me put it in words of few syllables so you can understand, James. Penelope Fittes isn't Marissa's daughter. She's her."
Nola stopped where she was, with her hands in the soapy water, and stared at the jar. Behind her, George was putting tea bags into cups. The kettle was boiling. Lockwood and Kipps were arguing about something. Holly was in the garden, shaking crumbs off of the thinking cloth. And all the time, the ghost in the jar was watching Nola with its black and glittering eyes.
"She's her?" Nola repeated.
"Exactly. Penelope Fittes is Marissa Fittes. They're one and the same person."