I

The Tomb

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 1

Want to hear a ghost story? Thats good. I know a few.

How about the one of the sightless blue face pressed
against the cellar window? Or the apparition of the blind
man holding a cane made of childrens bones? What
about the evil swan that followed me home through
the lonely, rain-washed park, or the giant disembodied
mouth seen opening in the centre of a concrete floor?
What of the milk jug that poured blood; or the empty
bath from which choking gurgles sounded after dark?
What of the orphans spinning bed, or the skeleton in the
chimney; or the vile spectral pig, all bristles and yellow
tusks, glimpsed snuffling through the dirty glass of a
shower-room door?

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 LOCKWOOD & CO.

Take your pick. I experienced them all. They represent a

typical months work for Lockwood & Co. during that
long and desperate summer. Most of them were written up
in our casebook by George on the mornings after the events
concerned, in between sips of scalding tea. He did this in
his boxer shorts, incidentally, sitting cross-
legged on the
floor of our living room. It was a sight that was frankly
more disturbing than all the hauntings combined.
Our Black Casebook has since been copied and filed
away in the National Archives in the new Anthony Lock-
wood Gallery. The good news about that is you dont have
to negotiate the crushed crisps in the pages of the original
if you want to know the details of each job. The bad news?
Not every case is in there. Theres one that was simply too
terrible to be written down at all.
You know how it ended. Everyone does. The city was
already full of it on that last cruel morning, with the rubble
of Fittes House still steaming around the bodies of
the lost.But the beginning? No. Thats not yet public
knowledge. For the hidden story of murder, conspiracy,
betrayal yes, and ghostsyou need the account of one
who survived it. For that, you have to come to me.
My name is Lucy Joan Carlyle. I talk with the living
and the dead, and it sometimes gets sos I cant tell the
difference any more.

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 THE EMP TY GRAVE

*
Here it is, then: the beginning of the end. Heres me, two
months ago. Im dressed in a black jacket, skirt and leg-
gings, with heavy-
duty boots suitable for staving in coffin
lids and scrambling out of graves. My rapiers at my belt,
a holster of flares and salt bombs is slung across my
chest.Theres a spectral handprint on my jacket. My bobs
cropped shorter than before, though this doesnt disguise
where a few strands of hair have recently turned white.
Otherwise I look the same as ever. Kitted out for psychic
investigation. Doing what I do.
In the outside world, the stars were out. The days
warmth was folded up and done. It was shortly after
midnightthe time when spirits wandered and all sen-
sible folk were tucked up safe in bed.
Me? Not so much. I was shuffling around a mauso-
leum with my bottom in the air.
In my defence it has to be said that I wasnt the only
one doing this. Elsewhere in the small stone-clad chamber
my colleagues Lockwood, George and Holly were also on
hands and knees. We had our heads low, our noses near
the flagstones. We swept our candles close to walls and
floor. Occasionally we stopped to press fingertips into
suspicious nooks and crannies; otherwise we worked in
silence. We were looking for the entrance to a grave.

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 LOCKWOOD & CO.

Do you lot have to bend over like that? a voice asked.

Its making my eyes water.
A thin, red-
haired young man was sitting above us on
a granite block in the centre of the room. Like the rest of
our raiding party he was all in black
in his case, whop-
ping big boots, skinny jeans and a roll-
neck top. Unlike
the rest of us, he had an enormous pair of bulbous goggles
clamped across his face, giving him the look of a startled
grasshopper. His name was Quill Kipps. He was readying
our tomb-cracking equipment, laying out crowbars and
coils of rope on the surface of the stone. He was also
keeping watch, blinking at the shadows. His goggles
allowed him to spot ghosts, if any were around.
See anything, Quill? That was Lockwood, dark hair
hanging over his face. He picked with his penknife at a
gap between the flagstones.
Kipps lit an oil lamp, tilting the shutters so that the
light stayed low. With you in that position, Ive seen
plenty. Particularly when Cubbins hoves into view. Its like
watching a beluga swimming by.
I meant ghosts.
No ghosts yet. Apart from our tame one. He tapped a
large glass jar perched alongside him on the block. Green
light flared evilly within, and a spectral face of unusual

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 THE EMP TY GRAVE

hideousness materialized, moving closer through a vortex

of ectoplasm.
Tame? A disembodied voice that only I could hear
spoke in indignation. Tame?! Let me out of here and Ill
show that scrawny idiot how tame I am!
I sat back on my heels, brushing my fringe out of my
eyes. Best not call the skull tame, Kipps, I said. It doesnt
like it.
The face in the jar bared serrated teeth. Too right I
dont. Lucy, tell that boggle-
eyed fool that if I was out of this
prison Id suck the flesh off his bones and dance a hornpipe with
his empty skin. You just tell him that.
Is it offended? Kipps asked me. I can see that horrid
mouth moving.
Tell him!
I hesitated. Dont worry, I said. Its fine, really. Its
cool with it.
What? No Im not! And whats he doing tapping my glass
like Im some kind of goldfish? I swear, when I get free of this,
Im going to catch Kipps and pull off his
Lockwood, I said, tuning out the ghost, are you sure
theres a trapdoor in here? We havent got much time.
Anthony Lockwood straightened; he was kneeling in
the centre of the floor, one hand holding his penknife, the

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other running distractedly through his hair. As usual, our

leader was impeccably dressed. He wore a dark jersey
instead of his long coat, and soft-soled pumps instead of
his normal shoes; these were his only concessions to the
demands of breaking and entering a national monument.
Youre right, Luce. Lockwoods pale, thin face was as
relaxed as ever, but his brow had an elegant kink in it that
told me he was concerned. Its been ages, and theres still
no sniff of it. What do you reckon, George?
With a scuffling George Cubbins levered himself up
into view from behind the granite block. His black Tshirt
was dirty, his glasses askew, his pale hair spiked and matted
with sweat. For the last hour hed been doing the exact
same thing as the rest of us, but somehow hed contrived
to get completely covered in a layer of dust, mouse drop-
pings and cobwebs that no one else had even seen. Such
was Georges way. All the accounts of the burial mention
a trapdoor, he said. Were just not looking hard enough.
Particularly Kipps, who isnt looking at all.
Hey, Im doing my job, Kipps said. The question is,
have you done yours? Were risking our skins tonight
because you said there was a way in.
George unwound a cobweb from his glasses. Of course
there is. They lowered her coffin through the floor into
the crypt. A silver coffin. Nothing but the best for her.

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 THE EMP TY GRAVE

It was noticeable that George didnt care to mention

the name of the person whose tomb this was. Noticeable
too that even the thought of that silver coffin gave me a
hollow prickling in my gut. I got the same feeling when-
ever I glanced at the shelf at the far end of the chamber
and looked at what was sitting there.
It was an iron bust of a woman in late middle age. She
had an imperious and austere expression, with hair swept
back above a high forehead. The nose was sharp and aqui-
line, the mouth thin, the eyes astute. It was not a pleasant
face exactly, but strong and hard and watchful, and we
knew it very well indeed. It was the same face as the one
on our postage stamps and on the cover of our agency
manual; a face that had shadowed us from early childhood
and entered all our dreams.
Many remarkable things had been said about Marissa
Fittes, the first and greatest psychic investigator of us all.
How, together with her partner, Tom Rotwell, she had
devised most of the ghost-
hunting techniques that oper
atives like us still used. How she had improvised her first
rapier from a snapped-off iron railing; how shed con-
versed with ghosts as easily as if they were flesh and blood.
How shed created the first psychical detection agency;
and how, when she died, half of London came to watch
as her coffin was carried from Westminster Abbey to the

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Strand, the streets strewn with lavender flowers, and all

the agents in the city marching along behind. How the
bells in every church had rung as she was interred beneath
her mausoleum, which was still maintained by the Fittes
Agency as a special shrine.
Remarkable things...
The final one was that we didnt believe she was buried
there at all.
The Fittes Mausoleum, in which we stood, lay at the
east end of the Strand in central London. It was a com-
pact, high-
ceilinged chamber, roughly oval in shape, built
of stone and swathed in shadow. Apart from the big
sarcophagus-sized block of granite in the centre of the
room (which had the single word fittes carved into the
top), the place was empty. There were no windows, and
the iron doors that led to the street were closed and tight.
Somewhere beyond those doors stood two sentries.
They were only kids, but they had pistols and might have
used them had they heard us, so we had to go carefully.
On the upside, the place was clean and dry and smelled of
fresh lavender, and there werent any obvious body parts
lying underfoot, which instantly made it preferable to
most of the other places wed been that week.
But equally, there didnt seem to be anywhere for a
trapdoor to hide.

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 THE EMP TY GRAVE

Our lanterns flickered. Blackness hung over our heads

like a witchs cloak.
Well, all we can do is keep calm, keep quiet and keep
looking, Lockwood said. Unless anyones got a better
suggestion.
Ive got one. Holly Munro had been zealously comb
ing the floor at the far end of the room. Now she got to
her feet and joined us, light and silent as a cat. Like the
rest of us, she was in stealth mode: she had her long dark
hair clipped back in a ponytail, and wore a zip up top,
skirt and leggings. I could go on about how well the
all-black getup suited her, but why bother? With Holly,
that was a given. If shed gone around wearing nothing
but a dustbin suspended from her shoulders by a pair of
spotty braces, shed have somehow made it look svelte.
I think we need a fresh perspective, she said. Lucy,
cant the skull help at all?
I shrugged. Ill try, Hol. But you know what mood
its in.
Over in the jar, the translucent face was still talking
animatedly. I could just see the old brown skull clamped
to the base of the glass beneath it.
I let myself tune back in to what it was saying.
... and eat them. Then Ill freeze his toenails off. Thatll
fix him.

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 LOCKWOOD & CO.

Oh, youre not still going on about Kipps! I said. I

thought youd finished ages ago.
The face in the jar blinked at me. Werent you even
listening?
No.
Typical. I went into all kinds of grim, inventive detail
just for you.
Save it. We cant find the entrance. Can you help us out?
Why should I? You wont believe anything I say.
Thats not true. Its because we do sort of believe you
that were standing here right now.
The skull snorted rudely. If you took my word in any
conventional sense, youd be sitting at home with your feet up,
rotting your innards with tea and chocolate biscuits. But no.
You have to double-check my story.
Are you surprised? You say that Marissa Fittes isnt
dead, but is actually alive and well and pretending to be
her supposed grand-daughter, Penelope Fittes. The same
Penelope Fittes who is head of the Fittes Agency and
probably the most powerful person in London. Thats
quite a claim to make. Youll forgive us if we need to check
it out for ourselves.
The face rolled its eyes. Piffle. Know what this is an
example of? Skullism.
What nonsense are you spouting now?

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 THE EMP TY GRAVE

Youve heard of racism. Youve heard of sexism. Well, this is

skullism, pure and simple. Youre judging me by my outward
appearance. You doubt my word solely because Im a skull
lurking in a jar of slime-green plasm. Admit it!
I took a deep breath. This was a skull known far and
wide for its outrageous whoppers and virtuoso fibbing.
To say it sometimes stretched the truth would be like
saying George sometimes stretched the seat of his
trousers when tying his shoelaces. On the flipside, the
ghost had saved my life more than once andon certain
important mattershadnt always lied. Thats an inter-
esting point, I said, and I look forward to discussing it
with you later. In the meantime, help me out. Were
looking for the entrance to a crypt. Do you see a ring or
handle?
No.
Do you see a lever?
Nope.
Do you see a pulley, winch or any other mechanism for
opening a hidden trapdoor?
No. Of course not. Youre getting desperate now.
I sighed. OK. I get the message. So theres no door
here.
Oh, of course theres a door, the ghost said. Why didnt
you ask me? Its obvious enough from up here.

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 LOCKWOOD & CO.

I relayed this to the others. Holly and Lockwood acted as

one. They vaulted up onto the block beside Kipps. Lock-
wood grabbed one of the lanterns and held it out in front of
him. He and Holly both rotated, scanning the floor, faces
locked in concentration. The light washed slowly over the
flagstones like water, spilling up against the base of the walls.
This is pitiful, the skull said. I saw it straight off, and I
dont have an eyeball to call my own. Well, Im sorry, but youre
not getting any more clues from

There! Holly grasped Lockwoods arm. He held the
lantern steady. There! she said. See that little flagstone
set inside the bigger one? The big one is the trapdoor. Pull
up the small stone and well find the ring or handle hidden
underneath!
George and I ran over, bent close to where she pointed.
As soon as she said it, I knew that she was right.
Brilliant, Holly, Lockwood said. That must be it.
Tools ready, everyone.
It was at times like this that Lockwood & Co. was at
its fluent best.Knives were brought out, and the cement
around the smaller stone cut free. We levered it up with
crowbars; Lockwood pulled it aside. Sure enough, a
hinged bronze ring lay beneath, set into the larger stone.
While George, Holly and I loosened the edges of this
stone, Lockwood and Kipps tied ropes around the ring,

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testing and double-

testing the knots, making sure they
could take the strain. Lockwood was everywhere at once,
softly giving orders, helping with every task. Energy
crackled off him, spurring us all on.
Isnt anyone going to thank me? The skull watched dis-
gustedly from its jar. Thought not. Good job Im not in the
business of holding my breath.
Within minutes we were in position. Lockwood and
Kipps stood by the first rope; they would lift the stone. On
the opposite side, the second rope hung slack. George and
I held this
it was our job to support the flagstone once it
was lifted, and help lower it quietly back onto the floor. In
the centre, by the ring, Holly knelt, ready with the
crowbars.
The room was still. Up on the wall our lantern light
quivered on the iron head of Marissa Fittes. It was as if she
was watching us, her eyes glittering with malevolent life.
At moments of maximum tension Lockwood always
made it his business to be the calmest of all. He smiled at
us. Everyone ready? he asked. Rightlets go.
He and Kipps pulled. At once, smoothly and without
noise, the flagstone moved. It lifted up as if on oiled
hinges, and a waft of chill air rose from the crack beneath.
Holly pushed the crowbars under it in case the others
faltered, but there was no need. With surprising swiftness,

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Lockwood and Kipps pulled the flagstone upright. Now it

was George and I who had to support its weight. Our
rope went taut; we took the strain.
The hinged slab wasnt nearly as heavy as Id have
guessedperhaps it was some special hollow stone. Slowly
we began to lower it on the other side.
Set it down gently! Lockwood hissed. No noise!
We eased the flagstone down. It met the ground with a
sound like a mouse sighing.
Now we had a square hole in the centre of the floor.
When Holly shone her torch into it, we could see a
flight of stone steps leading steeply into blackness. Beyond
the steps the light was swallowed utterly.
A damp, dark, earthy smell rose invisibly around us.
Deep hole, Kipps whispered.
Anyone see anything?
No.
There was a brief silence. Now that we had gained
access to the crypt, the enormity of what we were about to
do fell over us. It was like the darkness hanging above our
heads had suddenly, silently, shifted lower. Marissas face
watched us from the wall.
We all stood there quietly, using our Senses. None of us
got anything. Our belt thermometers showed a steady

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twelve degrees, and we detected no supernatural chill,

nomiasma, malaise or creeping fear. There was no
immediate likelihood of an apparition.
Good, Lockwood said. Collect your things. Well pro-
ceed as planned. Ill go first.Then George, followed by
Holly and Luce, with Quill at the back. Well turn our
torches off, but carry candles. Ill have my rapier; the rest of
you keep your weapons ready too. Not that well need them.
He gave us his best grin. We dont believe shes there.
But a nameless dread had stolen up on us. In part it was
the power of the iron face, and of the name inscribed in
stone. And it was also the feel of the dank air rising from
the hole. It coiled around us, entwining us with unease.
We gathered our things slowly. George passed among us,
flicking his lighter, igniting our candles. We lined up,
hefting rapiers, clearing throats, readying our belts.
Kipps vocalized his thoughts. Are we sure we want to
do this?
Weve got this far, Lockwood said. Of course we do.
I nodded. We cant bottle out now.
Kipps looked at me. Youre right, Lucy. Maybe Im
being overly cautious. I mean, its not as if our tip came
from an evil talking skull that probably wishes us all dead,
is it?

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Everyone glanced over at the open rucksack I was

carrying. Id just put the jar inside. The ghosts face had
disappeared now; only the skull was showing. Even I had
to admit that its death-black sockets and leering toothy
grin werent entirely reassuring.
I know you set great store by that skull, Kipps went
on. I know its your best mate and all the rest of it, but
what if its wrong? What if its simply mistaken? He
glanced up at the wall. His voice dropped to a whisper.
She might be waiting for us down there.
Another moment and the mood would have shifted
irrevocably. Lockwood stepped between us. He spoke
with crisp decision. No one needs to worry. George,
remind them.
Sure. George adjusted his spectacles. Remember, all
the stories say that Marissa Fittes gave orders for her body
to be placed in a special coffin. Were talking iron inlays
and silver casing. So, if the skulls wrong and her body is
there, her spirit wont be able to bother us, he said. Itll be
safely constrained.
And when we open the coffin? Kipps asked.
Oh, thatll only be for a second, and well have our
defences in place by then.
The point is, Lockwood said, no ghost is going to
attack us on the way down. Right, George?

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Right.
Good. Very well, then. Lockwood turned to the stair.
Obviously there might be a few traps, George said.
Lockwood paused with his foot hovering above the top
step. Traps?
Not saying there are. Just that there might be some.
George pushed his glasses up his nose and gave an encour-
aging flourish with one hand. Anyway, Lockwood
the
stairs await! Off you go.
Lockwood did a sort of reverse swivel. Now he was
facing George. Hold it, he said. What traps are these?
Yes. Im quite interested in this too, Holly said.
We all were. We gathered around George, who did
something with his shoulders that was probably meant to
be a casual shrug. Oh, its just silly rumours, he said.
Frankly Im surprised youre interested. Some say Marissa
didnt want grave-robbers interfering with her tomb, so
she took precautions. He paused. Some say these pre
cautions might be... supernatural ones.
Now you tell us, Holly said.
When was this little fact going to be mentioned? I
demanded. When a Spectre put its fingers around my neck?
George made an impatient gesture. Its probably non-
sense. Besides, it would have been a distraction earlier. Its
my job to distinguish between solid fact and rumour.

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No, thats my job, Lockwood said. Your job is to tell

me everything so I can make the judgement.
There was a heavy pause. Do you lot always argue like
this? Kipps asked.
Lockwood gave a bland smile. Usually. I sometimes
think incessant bickering is the oil that lubricates our
efficient machine.
George looked up. You reckon?
Oh, for heavens sake, are you going to pick me up on
that as well?
I thought you liked some bickering! You just said

I dont like anything that much! Now, can everyone
please shut up? Lockwood gazed around at us. His dark
eyes locked on ours, holding our attention, steadying our
collective purpose. Traps or no traps, he said, we can
handle this. We have two hours to check the tomb, close
it up and be ready to go when the sentries change again.
Do we want to learn the truth about Penelope Fittes and
Marissa? Of course we do! Weve worked wonders to get
here, and we wont panic now. If were right, there wont be
anything to worry about. If were wrong, we deal with it,
as we always do. He smiled. But we wont be wrong.
Were on the verge of something big here. Its going to be
good!

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Kipps adjusted his goggles dolefully. Since when has

anything good happened in a crypt? Its going to be ropy
by definition.
But Lockwood was already heading down the stairs.
Beyond him, light flickered on the iron face. Its thin lips
seemed to smile as we descended into the dark.

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