Sometimes it's not the heroic stories or the running battles with multiple Visitors that you remember. It's not the bravado during an epic failure or a rare instance of dazzling teamwork or even the lucky breaks. It's the little things, the quiet moments together on a job, the late-morning breakfasts at home-and the jokes. Especially the jokes.
"A weak Type Two. Maybe even a Type One. Fairly substantial Apparition but details difficult to make out. No awareness of people, no threatening movements. Just a presence down at the end of the garden and a bit of scattered ghost fog," Lockwood checked the papers in his hand again and continued in a cheerful, even voice.
"Was observed for the first time last night at 9:10 by a six-year-old houseguest. Manifestation lasted for eleven minutes. No traumatic events associated with the property. Quite a lot of good information from the young woman who owns the home, and we still have several hours of daylight for George to get to the library to do a quick spot of research. And all three of us can go, because we don't have anything else on the books this evening. Or this weekend, actually. So yes, I accepted a job for tonight."
Setting the file on his lap, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, transferring his attention from the notes to me and George. Flashing his radiant grin, glowing with enthusiasm, he was a leader you would follow anywhere, inspiring confidence and quelling all fears and doubts.
"Lockwood, you're an idiot," I started. "Assuming that information is accurate..."
"Which it is," Lockwood interrupted.
"Even assuming that information is accurate," I continued, "We're still not prepared for this job. This Visitor has only been seen once and a six-year-old can hardly be expected to give a reliable description. I completely agree with George in this case," I finished firmly.
"I haven't said anything yet! How can you agree with me?" complained George.
"Because I know what you're going to say-that this is a bad idea and that we ought to wait until we can do some proper research so that we know what we're up against," I retorted, certain that George would run true to form. He was often prickly in asserting his value to the team, but his thoroughness had frequently saved our hides.
"Well, in fact, I think Lockwood might be in the right here," offered George slowly. "It is just now half past two and the library's open 'til five, there are three of us available tonight, the Apparition is outside-so there's a greatly reduced chance of burning down the client's home with a magnesium flare-and it is a job."
"And the address is right at the border of Regent's Park, large two-floor flat with a garden. Bet she settles up tonight," added Lockwood.
I was outmatched and would soon be outvoted. Lockwood sensed that I was wavering and turned up the wattage on his smile. While he could have ruled by edict- it was his firm, after all, and he'd made that kind of quick decision several times before, most notably in accepting the much more dangerous job at Combe Carey-he preferred charm.
I sighed. "I'll pack the bags," I offered, "but I'm not making the sandwiches."
We arrived at the house before seven o'clock, about half an hour in advance of sunset. It had been an unusually hot day for September and we had walked from Portland Row-the job was so close we hardly wanted to waste the bus fare.
Helena Hickham-Holt had met us at the shiny red front door, opening it before we even had a chance to use the polished brass knocker. She seemed only a few years past the age where she might have spotted the spirit herself, but she was as glossy as the brightly painted door. Smooth hair, light but deft makeup, and a lovely large strand of pearls about her neck. Her smile was a match for Lockwood's.
With my hair plastered to my neck and my shirt stuck to my sweaty back, I felt as though we should have used the tradesman's entrance. Unexpectedly, young Ms. Hickham-Holt seemed genuinely glad to see us; most clients seem to find agents-especially our team, which lacked even a nominally adult supervisor-only a bit less unsettling than Visitors themselves.
Her home was as elegant and as welcoming as she was, with gleaming wooden floors and jewel-toned Persian rugs here and there. Soft watercolor portraits and landscapes and pen-and-ink sketches of London's landmarks lined the walls; the air was cool and dry and refreshing after our walk. She took us back to the recently remodeled kitchen, which overlooked the garden and was the cleanest room I had ever been in. We set our bags down and, after some pleasantries, we got to work.
While George and I went out through the double glass doors to size up the site of the manifestation, Lockwood did his work in the kitchen. As the doors shut behind us they were chatting about book illustrators and Helena was cheerfully admitting to being the daughter of "that Angelica Holt."
"Who the hell is Angelica Holt?" I asked George with a scowl.
"How should I know? But that's Lockwood for you. Unplumbed depths, has our kid." George ruined the effect by first snorting, then choking, then blowing his nose loudly on a dirty handkerchief.
"George, I'm fine with ichor, but what's on your snot rag is unnatural. Get a new one, or at least do the wash!" And so we bickered our way around the long narrow plot of grass, edged with beds of pale purple phlox and and clumps of bright lavender asters. A Japanese maple stood near the kitchen door; beside the garden gate was a sizable hydrangea in spectacular, strawberry-pink bloom. Everything looked manicured and well-maintained, glowing softly in the last of the late summer light.
All we learned from our turn about the garden was that it was still quite warm outside; a tall brick wall topped with iron spikes surrounded the yard, so there wasn't even a hint of breeze. Added to what George had learned at the library-nothing-we didn't have much to go on.
There had never been a murder or an accident, the building was untouched during the war, and the previous owner had sold the flat to Ms. Hickham-Holt two years before. Because she had been listed on decades of property records as Mrs. Henry Brown, it wasn't even possible to determine what had happened to her after the sale. The one bright spot was the death of Henry Brown himself, but that had happened close on 20 years ago, and no trouble with Visitors had been reported until now.
Right at eight o'clock we re-entered the now-dim kitchen, to find that Lockwood had put the kettle on, lit several candles and was arranging dark Choco Leibniz on a square cut glass plate. He was humming happily and greeted us without looking up. "I know you'll both agree with my decision to refuse Helena's offer of the white chocolate biscuits. Something not right there, I think."
"Good work, Lockwood," said George. "Glad to see you're taking care of the important details while we're risking our lives out there."
Lockwood ignored this completely, as it deserved. Instead he flipped through a small notebook and began to read: "I've pruned, but the garden is still almost exactly as Bitsy Brown left it. Bitsy was grandmother's best friend. She and her husband Henry bought this flat almost sixty years ago. Long happy marriage. Henry died when I was just starting school and Bitsy lived here alone until her health declined. After I bought the place I'd visit her care home but then she became too ill to recognize me. She died last week." Lockwood closed the notebook and awaited our reaction with a self-satisfied grin.
"Well that's it then-she has unfinished business," I exclaimed. "Perhaps she left something of value buried in the garden?"
"More likely she snuffed her husband and the murder weapon's hidden under the brick path," put in George.
"Or she's seeking revenge against the woman who bought her beloved home and then lorded it over her while watching her waste away under some strangers' care," offered Lockwood.
All plausible. Now all we had to do was wait until 9:10 to see which of us was right.