Read Online Lockwood & Co.: The Creeping Shadow by Jonathan Stroud - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Stroud
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advice from a stupid skull.
Even so, the end result was that I changed back into my usual skirt and leggings.
“You’re taking me along, of course,”
the skull said, when I was putting on my rapier.
“No way.”
“If it’s a tough case, you’ll need me. You know you will.”
“It’s just an initial conversation. If we—if Lockwood and Co. is given this case, I’ll come back and get you. Maybe.”
There was a pause.
“Whatever.”
The skull spoke dismissively.
“Doesn’t bother me. See if I care.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t need you, anyway. I can talk to other people.”
I snorted; I was still fed up with it. “Like who?”
“People.”
“You
so
don’t. Who else have you ever talked to? As a skull, I mean. There…see?” I said. “There’s nobody.”
“Actually, you’re wrong,”
the skull said.
“I spoke with Marissa Fittes once. So you’re
not
the only one, Miss Clever-Clogs.”
“Really?” I pulled up short. “I didn’t know that. When was this?”
“What, do I have a pocket watch in here? It was ages back. When I was first found, they fished me out of Lambeth sewers, cleaned me up, and took me to her. She asked me a few questions, then shut me in this bottle.”
“How did you get into the Lambeth sewers?”
The face screwed up in distaste.
“Don’t ask. I came to a bad end.”
“Sounds like it.” I stared at the ghost. In many months of irritating, self-aggrandizing conversation, it had never revealed this information about its past. And Marissa Fittes had been the founder of the first psychic detection agency, the only agent that I’d heard of with a Talent similar to mine. She had been the grandmother of the current leader of the company—the woman I was meeting today—and was still a national heroine. It was actually no small deal. I finished with the mirror, looked for my jacket. “So what was she like, Marissa?”
A grimace from the jar.
“Formidable. A powerful, ironhearted psychic who’d have swallowed your precious Lockwood and Company for breakfast, like a shark gulping a minnow. No offense to you idiots, I’m sure.”
“So she really
could
talk with spirits.”
“Oh, yeah. She did lots of stuff. You’re a babe in arms, honey, compared to her. What a lot of questions you have today,”
the skull went on.
“Tell you what, I might answer some more if you hang around a bit and don’t go scuttling after Lockwood.”
“Tempting,” I said, “and you put it so nicely. But you’ll have to talk to yourself this morning. I’ve got to go.”
As it turned out, I wasn’t on time, anyway. There’d been a Specter on the Northern Line the night before, and salting parties were working in the tunnels. The Tube was delayed. I arrived at Charing Cross five minutes late. Cursing, perspiring, I ran up the Strand to Fittes House, where my way was blocked by the usual crowds of the desperate and ghost-haunted, all come to petition the company for help. A further five minutes was lost as I pushed my way to the front of the line. Once there, I had to talk my way past the surly doorman. It was like a set of obstacles in a fairy tale; by now I was fifteen minutes late. Even then I somehow caught my coat in the revolving doors and had to go around twice before I fought myself free.
I stumbled at last into the foyer. A row of neat receptionists, each one more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than the next, regarded me with identical bland smiles.
I closed my mouth, adjusted my skirt, pushed back my hair, and dabbed ineffectually at a sweaty temple with a sleeve. “Good morning. I’m—”
The nearest receptionist spoke. “Good morning, Ms. Carlyle. If you would like to go through, your associates are already waiting in the main hall. Ms. Fittes will meet you presently.”
I took a deep breath. “Thank you. I know the way.”
Across the foyer I went, past the iron bust of the skull’s old confidante, Marissa Fittes. Past the oak doors, the gilded paintings, my
Even so, the end result was that I changed back into my usual skirt and leggings.
“You’re taking me along, of course,”
the skull said, when I was putting on my rapier.
“No way.”
“If it’s a tough case, you’ll need me. You know you will.”
“It’s just an initial conversation. If we—if Lockwood and Co. is given this case, I’ll come back and get you. Maybe.”
There was a pause.
“Whatever.”
The skull spoke dismissively.
“Doesn’t bother me. See if I care.”
“Fine.”
“I don’t need you, anyway. I can talk to other people.”
I snorted; I was still fed up with it. “Like who?”
“People.”
“You
so
don’t. Who else have you ever talked to? As a skull, I mean. There…see?” I said. “There’s nobody.”
“Actually, you’re wrong,”
the skull said.
“I spoke with Marissa Fittes once. So you’re
not
the only one, Miss Clever-Clogs.”
“Really?” I pulled up short. “I didn’t know that. When was this?”
“What, do I have a pocket watch in here? It was ages back. When I was first found, they fished me out of Lambeth sewers, cleaned me up, and took me to her. She asked me a few questions, then shut me in this bottle.”
“How did you get into the Lambeth sewers?”
The face screwed up in distaste.
“Don’t ask. I came to a bad end.”
“Sounds like it.” I stared at the ghost. In many months of irritating, self-aggrandizing conversation, it had never revealed this information about its past. And Marissa Fittes had been the founder of the first psychic detection agency, the only agent that I’d heard of with a Talent similar to mine. She had been the grandmother of the current leader of the company—the woman I was meeting today—and was still a national heroine. It was actually no small deal. I finished with the mirror, looked for my jacket. “So what was she like, Marissa?”
A grimace from the jar.
“Formidable. A powerful, ironhearted psychic who’d have swallowed your precious Lockwood and Company for breakfast, like a shark gulping a minnow. No offense to you idiots, I’m sure.”
“So she really
could
talk with spirits.”
“Oh, yeah. She did lots of stuff. You’re a babe in arms, honey, compared to her. What a lot of questions you have today,”
the skull went on.
“Tell you what, I might answer some more if you hang around a bit and don’t go scuttling after Lockwood.”
“Tempting,” I said, “and you put it so nicely. But you’ll have to talk to yourself this morning. I’ve got to go.”
As it turned out, I wasn’t on time, anyway. There’d been a Specter on the Northern Line the night before, and salting parties were working in the tunnels. The Tube was delayed. I arrived at Charing Cross five minutes late. Cursing, perspiring, I ran up the Strand to Fittes House, where my way was blocked by the usual crowds of the desperate and ghost-haunted, all come to petition the company for help. A further five minutes was lost as I pushed my way to the front of the line. Once there, I had to talk my way past the surly doorman. It was like a set of obstacles in a fairy tale; by now I was fifteen minutes late. Even then I somehow caught my coat in the revolving doors and had to go around twice before I fought myself free.
I stumbled at last into the foyer. A row of neat receptionists, each one more bright-eyed and bushy-tailed than the next, regarded me with identical bland smiles.
I closed my mouth, adjusted my skirt, pushed back my hair, and dabbed ineffectually at a sweaty temple with a sleeve. “Good morning. I’m—”
The nearest receptionist spoke. “Good morning, Ms. Carlyle. If you would like to go through, your associates are already waiting in the main hall. Ms. Fittes will meet you presently.”
I took a deep breath. “Thank you. I know the way.”
Across the foyer I went, past the iron bust of the skull’s old confidante, Marissa Fittes. Past the oak doors, the gilded paintings, my
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