There was a slight pause in which the hidden mechanics of the afternoon moved slowly, silently toward disaster. “Schemer?” Sir Rupert Gale said. He stepped closer. “Flea-bitten? Maybe I’m getting deaf in my old age, but—”
“Holly,” I said brightly, “wasn’t our appointment in Stratford for five p.m. exactly? We should be going.”
Holly had the jolly tones of a mother who had just discovered her toddler eating cat food on the floor of a friend’s kitchen. “Yes! Quite! Come along, George!”
George seemed reluctant to move.
“Did you want to expand on your statement?” Rupert Gale said.
“I could,” George said, “but why expend the energy? We all know what you are. You know it yourself.” He took off his spectacles and rubbed them on his sweater. “Behind all the flounce and swagger, your moral shabbiness fascinates and appalls you. You can’t take your eyes off it. Which is why you’re so crashingly dull. Oh, and I know the DEPRAC rules as well as you, and if you pick fights with accredited agents off on their appointed tasks, Barnes will have your tweedy backside hauled over hot cobblestones to Scotland Yard. So why not go off and hassle someone else?” He held his glasses up toward the sun and tilted them, checking that any conceivable smudge had been removed. “Good. Sometimes I see so clearly, it almost frightens me.” He put them back on and bent to his bag. “Lead on, Holly. Stratford, here we come.”
We walked away. The skin on the back of my neck prickled as we went; that was probably Sir Rupert’s gaze brushing against it. I kept expecting him to call out after us to stop, but the order never came.
None of us spoke for a full two blocks. Holly and I walked casually enough, rapiers swinging, but we moved to either side of George, like warders leading a condemned prisoner to a cell. We crossed a silent square, where fallen leaves lay on the paths. When we were in the open, where no one could spy on us, we stopped.
“What do you think you were doing?” Holly hissed. “Do you want us to be arrested?”
“Do you want us to be beaten senseless?”
George shrugged. “He didn’t arrest us. He didn’t beat us.”
“No thanks to you!” I snarled. “He’s only looking for the slightest excuse.”
“Right, and we didn’t give him one,” George said. “What we did do was warn him off, which was something that needed to be done. I’m just alerting him that if he messes with us, he won’t have it all his own way.” He looked at us as if that settled the matter. “Besides, did you hear how he spoke about Flo? That’s not right. Listen, we’re running late. If we hurry, we can just catch the train.”
Tufnell’s Traveling Fairground was a short walk east of Stratford Station. Five minutes before we got there, we could hear faint hurdy-gurdy music and smell hot dogs on the wind.
Perhaps, as Mr. Tufnell had asserted, his business was doing well. But in the late afternoon, with the shadows lengthening, it didn’t radiate prosperity. The Palace Theater itself was a hulking construction, standing alone on the edge of a stretch of waste ground. At one time it must have been impressive; it had a columned front, reminiscent of a Roman temple, with carved figures above the pillars depicting tragic and comic scenes. But the concrete in the columns was cracked and broken, and half the carvings were gone. The main doors were boarded up. Entry to the building appeared to be from the field alongside, where many tents of faded colors had been erected, their canvas snapping in the wind. A makeshift iron fence, in which snack food wrappers fluttered like trapped insects, surrounded the compound. A siren played a cheesy melody; this was the cue for closure of the fair. The last few sad-faced customers, bearing draggled sticks of cotton candy, were shuffling homeward through the rusty gates.
Lockwood was standing just inside the gates, with Quill Kipps beside him.
“Isn’t it fabulous?” Kipps said, as we joined them. “I’ve seen internment camps that look jollier than this.”
“Didn’t know you were with us on this one, Quill,” I said.
“Nor did I. Bumped into Lockwood at Mullet’s. He said you might need help, and I didn’t have anything particular to do, so…”
I nodded, smiling. “Sure.”
Circumstances hadn’t been kind to Kipps, who had been ostracized by some of his former Fittes colleagues for helping us out once too often. This, combined with his naturally downbeat temperament, meant that a thin vein of resentment still ran through him, like a layer of bitter chocolate in one of George’s raspberry cakes. In addition, he had lost his Talents as he crossed into his early twenties. Despite the pair of goggles we’d given him, which allowed him to see ghosts, he knew the deprivations of age. These experiences had mellowed, even humbled him. Which, given that he was still as abrasive as a pair of steel-wool underpants, showed how insufferable he’d once been.
“Isn’t it good that Quill was free tonight?” Lockwood said. “It’s the more the merrier on this one.” As so often at the start of a job, he was in excellent spirits. The hunt was up and his sense of purpose was at its sharpest, keen as the new rapier hanging at his side. The quiet, reflective boy who’d opened up to me the evening before was nowhere to be seen. He radiated energy and anticipation. “Let’s get over to the theater,” he said. “We’ll ask someone to show us around.”
We passed striped tents and a carousel, and crossed into the shadow of the building. Posters and banners festooned its massive brick-lined wall, advertising TUFNELL’S MARVELS, TUFNELL’S MAGIC SHOW FOR CHILDREN YOUNG AND OLD, and similar entertainments. A pair of double doors hung open. A sour-faced girl in an usherette’s uniform was just in the process of shutting one of them, applying iron bolts and chains.
The girl regarded us. “Show’s over for the day. I can give you tickets for tomorrow.”
“We’re not here to see the show,” Lockwood said. “Is Lew Tufnell available, please?”
He’d given her his best smile, which normally had the melting effect of hot water poured on ice. But the girl’s expression did not change. “He’s up onstage.” She hesitated, hands toying with the iron bolt. “It’s not a good time. You shouldn’t go in.”
“I’m sure he’s very busy. But he is expecting us.”
“I’m not talking about him. It’s not a good time to be here, this time of day. She’ll be walking the corridors soon.”
“You mean La Belle Dame?” I asked. “Have you seen her?”
The girl shivered, glanced over her shoulder. Before she could answer, a familiar voice hailed us from the dark. Mr. Tufnell appeared, checked shirtsleeves rolled up, vest bulging. “Come in, come in!” His face was redder than ever, his gray curls pearled with sweat. He flashed us his weak, dishonest smile. “I’m just helping the stagehands. We’re short-staffed now, what with Sid and Charley. Look alive there, Tracey! Don’t block the door, girl! Let them by, let them by!”
We filed through into a makeshift foyer smelling of popcorn, cigarettes, and mildew. There was a ticket booth, and a stand selling chocolate bars and cans of drink. The girl had stepped aside to let us pass. She was a slight, pale-skinned thing with reddish hair, perhaps a year older than me, and she looked very tightly wound. I tried to catch her eye, but she didn’t look at us and quickly slipped out into the field, leaving the door ajar.
Mr. Tufnell bobbed and bowed and shook Lockwood by the hand. “Honored that you’re here! Come along, I’ll show you the stage. We’re readying it for tomorrow.”
He led us along a broad passage, low-ceilinged and dimly lit, with cheap gold tracery decorating the walls. Other passages led off on both sides. One, labeled TUFNELL’S MARVELS, was cordoned off by a frayed gold rope.
“How’s poor Charley Budd?” Holly asked as we went.
“Alive,” Mr. Tufnell said, “but not, I fear, long for this world. I’ve got him locked in my caravan. He started screaming this afternoon, disrupting Coco the Clown’s toddler party in the main tent. I’m sorry to say it meant more refunds.” The impresario gave a mordant sigh. “In fact, I’ll need
to see to Charley shortly. I’m assuming you won’t mind if, once it gets dark, I don’t remain inside? I’d like to, of course, but I’d only get in your way.” With this, he pushed open an impressive pair of doors lined with scarlet plush, and we walked through into the auditorium.
As a general rule, Lockwood & Co. didn’t hang out in theaters much. True, back in the summer we’d once chased a Specter up an alley next to the London Palladium and blasted it to atoms with a flare. As far as I knew, the theater wall still had the outline of a startled gentleman in a top hat smudged across it in soot. This was as close to high culture as we typically got, so I wasn’t prepared for what we saw inside.
The auditorium of the Palace Theater was a world away from its dismal exterior. It was a cavern of gold, twinkling with points of light. We stood in the deepest velvet black, down among the stalls. Above and behind us, electric candles shone along curved balconies, ranged with incredible steepness to impossible heights. To the sides, golden candelabras picked out the ranks of individual boxes. Ahead, rising above the central aisle, the stage was white and spotlighted, flanked by bloodred curtains. A few youths were moving here, sweeping the boards, shifting brightly colored cubes and baskets around. They worked in silence, but I could hear their hurried breathing. The acoustics were excellent—even whispered words carried across the vast dark space.
Tufnell led us down the aisle, our boots pattering on the wooden floor. High above, several long ropes hung from the dark, some ending in trapeze bars, others tied to rings fixed into the balconies. I imagined them in motion, with hurtling bodies in temporary flight. The idea made my palms sweat. It was hard to get over the scale of the place. You couldn’t pick out the details of the balconies without squinting. The ceiling was lost in the warm golden haze.
We climbed steep steps at the side of the stage, and walked out into the light.
“This is it, Mr. Lockwood,” Tufnell said. “This is where La Belle Dame met her end.” He waved his arm at the youths, who had stopped work and were watching him. “All right, you lot can go. Straight outside, no dallying. You know the reason why.”
The stagehands trooped away. We dumped our bags in the center of the stage. Arranged at the edges were wooden cubes of varying sizes and colors, with hinged lids and little doors. At the back lay an enormous blue crash pad, knee-high and very broad. Otherwise the surface of the stage was bare, marked by the tape and scuffs of decades.
Lockwood was gazing around him, eyes narrowed, face calm. I knew he was using his Sight now, hunting for death-glows or other signs of psychic disturbance. “What’s the crash pad for?” he asked. “And these boxes? Part of the show?”
Tufnell nodded. “We start with the trapeze act. The acrobats do their thing, then swoop down on the mat. The boxes are for the magic show. The props are in there—you know, caged doves, metal hoops, that stuff. Lots of hidden cubbyholes. Our stage manager designed them. She’s very good. But you’ll be wanting to see where Sid died. It’s stage left, in the wings.”
“Thank you,” Lockwood said. “We’ll start there.”
The others moved away toward the curtains. I remained in the center of the stage, taking the measure of the place. Once, long ago, the sultan’s casket had sat here, pierced by swords, blood pouring out onto the boards. I looked at my feet, and the bland, smooth wood. I gazed into the golden dusk, imagining the packed house, the stunned silence, the first appalling screams….
No time like the present. I could use my Talents here. There was a strange expectancy in the silence of the great, dark auditorium. I crouched, put my fingertips to the floor. I closed my eyes and Listened….
As if I’d opened a sealed door, I was at once surrounded by a strange, papery rustling, the murmur of an audience making itself comfortable in a thousand seats. The noise rose and fell like the breathing of a giant. I waited, but it did not change.
I took my fingers away from the wood. The noise was still there. Muffled underneath it, I could just make out Tufnell’s voice as he spoke to Lockwood in the wings. The two sounds did not collide, but ran through each other, being separated by a century of time.
I stood slowly, turning toward the wings. At that moment a chill moved along my spine, as if someone had run a finger down it.
I stopped, and peered out into the wider dark. What with the stage lights and the auditorium’s soft haze, it was difficult to make out anything clearly. Nevertheless, my gaze moved toward a seat at the back of the stalls.
Was that a person sitting there?
My eyes hurt with straining. I glanced aside to see if any of the others had noticed anything. But they were out of sight.
“Then Tracey pushed the curtains aside,” Tufnell was saying, “and saw Sid here, locked in the ghost’s embrace! She ran forward…”
I looked out across the stalls again. The seat at the back was empty.
“…but alas, too late. He lay like a rag doll! La Belle Dame had drained him of his life!”
I pulled my rapier clear of its Velcro clasp.
The murmur in my head grew loud, turned to sudden wild applause. It came from all around me, starting in the stalls, then rippling in a wave across the balconies and boxes. I looked up, scanning the hazy reaches.
At once the sound cut out.
And now: nothing. It was as if the theater held its breath.
When I looked down again, there was an object in the central aisle, directly opposite from me. It stood far back under the shadows of the balcony. Darkness enfolded it, but I could see that it was a sarcophagus or casket, very large and rounded, and shaped rather like a woman. It was upright, and its sides and belly bristled with innumerable humps and spikes. They were the hilts and blades of embedded swords.
Something was slowly extending from the casket. A dark, thin line; a thread of black that ran out along the aisle. Another followed it, and then another. They unspooled into the light, trickling down the gentle slope toward the stage.
I gripped my sword and stepped slowly forward.
The threads glistened and shone darkly under the gold lights. They linked and separated, lacing the ground. Longer and longer they grew; faster and faster they came. There was no end to them. I found myself frozen on the lip of the stage. I couldn’t take my eyes off the rivulets of blood that ran between the stalls.
“She’s here!” My shout echoed out across the theater. “Lockwood! She’s here!”
With that, I leaped off the stage, out over the pooling blood, my sword flashing under the lights. I landed heavily on a seat in the front row. Then I was up and jumping from backrest to backrest, arms outstretched to keep my balance, chair-hopping my way up across the rows. There was no way I was going to touch the floor. On the aisle to my side, the dark liquid flowed past like there would be no end to it. Ahead, darkness billowed. I could no longer see the casket, but cold beat against my face.
There in the shadows! A woman’s form, striding toward me.
With a savage cry, I took a final leap, swinging my rapier around—
“Are you quite mad?” A tall girl came out into the light. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a bright blue hoodie, and there was a smaller girl behind her. That was about all I took in as I changed direction, dropped my sword, and landed inelegantly beside them in the aisle. Which was now entirely empty of blood. Cigarette butts, yes; gum wrappers and popcorn—but the rivulets of red were gone.
I stood up slowly, breathing hard. I recognized the second girl. It was Tracey, the usherette we’d met at the entrance. I didn’t know her companion. The aisle behind them was empty as far as the exit. It wasn’t that cold now, either. The Visitation was over.
With a clatter of boots, the others joined us, Lockwood at their head. He put a hand on my arm. “Lucy—”
“She was here,” I said. “I saw the casket. Did none of you see the blood?”
Kipps picked up my sword and handed it to me, hilt first. “We saw you, playing hopscotch on the chairs.”
“But La Belle
Dame—” I glared at the newcomers. “Were either of you sitting in the back just now?”
Tracey shook her head. The tall girl regarded me coolly. “Not me. I just came in.”
“And you saw nothing odd here, in the aisle?”
“Just you.”
She was a tall young woman, broad of shoulder and square of chin. Her blond hair was tied back in a rough braid. She was very large and angry and real.
“The ghost was here,” I said again. “I acted on it. That’s what I do.”
“No one’s doubting you, Lucy,” Lockwood said. He flashed his smile at the two girls. “You’re Tracey, aren’t you? Nice to see you again. And you…?”
Mr. Tufnell had been slowest to make it from the stage. The effort had left him gasping. “This good lady,” he wheezed, “who your friend almost decapitated, is Sarah Parkins, our stage manager. She’s the one who saved Charley Budd the other day.”
I scowled at her. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Charmed.” She curled her lip at me. “I came in to tell you, Mr. Tufnell, that Charley Budd’s started howling again. He’s upsetting everyone. You’re going to have to come out, try to soothe him.”
The theater owner was dabbing at his curls with a vast lacy handkerchief. “Bless me, if I live another night, it’ll be a miracle. Yes, yes, I’ll be out directly. Mr. Lockwood, I must leave you to your work. Tracey, you stupid girl, I don’t know what you’re doing back in here hanging on Sarah’s skirts. Don’t you have chores to do outside?”
The girl had flinched at his words; she spoke sullenly. “I was frightened out there, what with the screaming. Sarah said I could come in—”
“Against my express instructions! Do it again, you’ll feel the back of my hand.”
“Actually,” Lockwood said smoothly, “I’m glad they’re both here. I was hoping to ask them some questions. They’ve each seen La Belle Dame; they’re both witnesses to the ghost.” He gave the girls the full warmth of his attention. “Is there anything you can tell us about this Visitor? Where you saw it? The way it made you feel? Anything might be useful, no matter how small.”