twisted in an expression of sour disapproval, but we’d had enough experience with Quill Kipps to know that this meant little. He was quite possibly in a good mood.
“Looking on the bright side,” Lockwood whispered, “Kipps has worked with us before. He already knows we won’t listen to a word he says. That’s going to save a lot of time. Nice to see you, Quill!” he called. “How’s tricks?”
“Before you say anything,” Kipps said, “I didn’t
ask
to be given this job. I dislike the idea just as much as you do. Let’s just be clear about that.”
Lockwood grinned. “I’m sure it’s a match made in heaven.”
“Yeah,” Kipps said feelingly. “I’m sure.”
Once one of Lockwood & Co.’s bitterest rivals, Quill Kipps had reached his early twenties, and thus seen his psychic Talents leach away. No longer able to detect ghosts effectively, he had consequently been put in charge of others who could. Personal losses had since mellowed him, and he had fought alongside us in the recent past. Despite being as congenial as a mustard sandwich, he was, we knew, both tough and bloody-minded. As Lockwood had said, we could have had a worse companion.
George was regarding him skeptically. “So you’re here to spy on us, I take it?”
Kipps shrugged. “I’m an observer. It’s company policy to supply one when there’s a joint venture with other agencies. Also, Ms. Fittes has asked me to provide you with any assistance you might require. Not that I’ll be much use,” he added, “since, psychically speaking, I’m practically deaf and blind. The most warning I get of something coming nowadays is a sort of squeezing sensation in my stomach, and as often as not that’s gas.”
“Remind me to station you in a different room than me,” Lockwood said. “Seriously, we’re glad to have your help. So: number seven. Have you been inside?”
Kipps looked over at the neat, blank house. The descending sun had reached it; the front windows sparkled with reflected light. “On my own? You must be joking. This is a team effort. Hopefully, one of you will get ghost-touched instead of me.” He lifted his hand; a house key hung dangling from a leather fob. “But I
do
have what you need.”
Lockwood glanced toward the western sky. “And we’ve still got a bit of time before things get tasty. Let’s go.”
We took our bags and walked in silence up the drive. Somewhere in the hedge, a blackbird was singing its lovely, piercing song. There was a fresh smell on the air that afternoon, the faint warmth of coming spring. The house waited at the end of the drive.
We reached the porch without incident; here Lockwood insisted on rigging up a small circle with a lantern inside, as an outer line of defense. With luck, the lantern would remain burning all night, unaffected by whatever happened in the building. It was a place to rendezvous if anything went wrong.
While this was being done, I stepped onto the grass and peered through the big front window. Inside was a bare room, bisected by yellow sunlight. The walls had brown-striped paper on them; there was a yellowish carpet, but no furniture. You could see faint outlines where pictures had hung; on one wall was an old-fashioned fireplace, swept clean.
George was at my shoulder. “Looks like the living room,” I said.
He nodded cheerily. “Yeah. It’s where they found the victim’s feet. In a fruit bowl on the coffee table, apparently.”
“Lovely.” I put my fingers on the surface of the glass. Sometimes, even outside, even with the sun still in the sky, you get stuff. I listened. Anything? No. Only the blackbird singing. The house was just a house.
Given that the place had been abandoned for so many years, the key turned with surprising, almost ominous ease. Lockwood was the first to enter, then the others filed in slowly. I stayed behind to tend to my backpack. Holly knew about the existence of the skull, but Kipps didn’t. I wanted a quiet word with
“Looking on the bright side,” Lockwood whispered, “Kipps has worked with us before. He already knows we won’t listen to a word he says. That’s going to save a lot of time. Nice to see you, Quill!” he called. “How’s tricks?”
“Before you say anything,” Kipps said, “I didn’t
ask
to be given this job. I dislike the idea just as much as you do. Let’s just be clear about that.”
Lockwood grinned. “I’m sure it’s a match made in heaven.”
“Yeah,” Kipps said feelingly. “I’m sure.”
Once one of Lockwood & Co.’s bitterest rivals, Quill Kipps had reached his early twenties, and thus seen his psychic Talents leach away. No longer able to detect ghosts effectively, he had consequently been put in charge of others who could. Personal losses had since mellowed him, and he had fought alongside us in the recent past. Despite being as congenial as a mustard sandwich, he was, we knew, both tough and bloody-minded. As Lockwood had said, we could have had a worse companion.
George was regarding him skeptically. “So you’re here to spy on us, I take it?”
Kipps shrugged. “I’m an observer. It’s company policy to supply one when there’s a joint venture with other agencies. Also, Ms. Fittes has asked me to provide you with any assistance you might require. Not that I’ll be much use,” he added, “since, psychically speaking, I’m practically deaf and blind. The most warning I get of something coming nowadays is a sort of squeezing sensation in my stomach, and as often as not that’s gas.”
“Remind me to station you in a different room than me,” Lockwood said. “Seriously, we’re glad to have your help. So: number seven. Have you been inside?”
Kipps looked over at the neat, blank house. The descending sun had reached it; the front windows sparkled with reflected light. “On my own? You must be joking. This is a team effort. Hopefully, one of you will get ghost-touched instead of me.” He lifted his hand; a house key hung dangling from a leather fob. “But I
do
have what you need.”
Lockwood glanced toward the western sky. “And we’ve still got a bit of time before things get tasty. Let’s go.”
We took our bags and walked in silence up the drive. Somewhere in the hedge, a blackbird was singing its lovely, piercing song. There was a fresh smell on the air that afternoon, the faint warmth of coming spring. The house waited at the end of the drive.
We reached the porch without incident; here Lockwood insisted on rigging up a small circle with a lantern inside, as an outer line of defense. With luck, the lantern would remain burning all night, unaffected by whatever happened in the building. It was a place to rendezvous if anything went wrong.
While this was being done, I stepped onto the grass and peered through the big front window. Inside was a bare room, bisected by yellow sunlight. The walls had brown-striped paper on them; there was a yellowish carpet, but no furniture. You could see faint outlines where pictures had hung; on one wall was an old-fashioned fireplace, swept clean.
George was at my shoulder. “Looks like the living room,” I said.
He nodded cheerily. “Yeah. It’s where they found the victim’s feet. In a fruit bowl on the coffee table, apparently.”
“Lovely.” I put my fingers on the surface of the glass. Sometimes, even outside, even with the sun still in the sky, you get stuff. I listened. Anything? No. Only the blackbird singing. The house was just a house.
Given that the place had been abandoned for so many years, the key turned with surprising, almost ominous ease. Lockwood was the first to enter, then the others filed in slowly. I stayed behind to tend to my backpack. Holly knew about the existence of the skull, but Kipps didn’t. I wanted a quiet word with
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