Haunted: A Lockwood & Co Story

Chapter Ten: The Bloody Footprints at Fifty-Four Hanover Square

"I can't believe how much of a vile and dreadful woman she was." Charlotte exclaimed.

"She's an utterly awful woman." Lockwood agreed. "Callous and ignorant and hysterical all at once. But she's given us a good and dangerous case here, love, and we mustn't mess it up."

Charlotte smiled happily across at him. "Suits me."

The two were standing, hand in hand, under the elm trees in the gardens of Hanover Square, looking towards Miss Wintergarden's house. Number 54 was a dark, thin shard, wedged like a rotten tooth between other, indistinguishable terraced townhouses on the shadowy side of the square. How elegant they should have been, with their painted facades and columned porticoes framing their neat black doors. But the recent storms had left dark stains on the stuccoed fronts, and the pavements and porticoes were a scattered waste of splintered twigs.

No lights were on. The effect was of drabness and decay.

It hadn't rained since the morning, but patches of standing water studded the grass, dull as fallen coins, reflecting the gunmetal sky. A strong wind was blowing and the naked branches of the trees did the thing all naked branches do in winter, with the daylight slowly failing. They rasped and rustled like giant papery hands being rubbed together. The world was heavy with unease.

The house waited for them on the other side of the road.

Charlotte tugged her scarf higher up to cover the lower half of her face. She wore a thick dark green jumper and long thick black pants. Her usual purple converse adorned her feet.

"Reminds me of Berkeley Square." Charlotte said. "That was dangerous too. Probably worse. I broke my rapier and George nearly cut your head off, but we still came out of it well."

She'd come out of it particularly well; it was one of her favourite cases. Perhaps this one would be even better. She felt optimistic about it, even cheerful. George was on his way, but he'd been working in the library and hadn't yet arrived. Holly Munro was back at Portland Row, doing neat things with paperclips. For the moment it was just Lockwood and her.

Lockwood pulled his collar up against the wind. "Berkeley Square was in summer. Nice short night to get through. This one may be a long haul. It's only three and I'm hungry already." He nudged his bag with the toe of his boot. "Tell you what, though - Holly's sandwiches look fine, don't they?"

"Mm." She said. "Delicious."

"It was nice of her to make them."

"Mmm," Charlotte said, stretching her smile wide across her face. "So nice."

Yes, their lovely assistant had made sandwiches for them. She'd also packed the kitbags, and though Charlotte had carefully gone through everything again herself (when it comes to the art of staying alive, she trusts nobody but herself), Charlotte had to admit she'd done an excellent job. But the best thing she'd done that day, as far as Charlotte was concerned, was stay at home. Tonight it was just going to be the three of them. Like it always used to be.

A few people were walking in the square - residents probably, judging from their expensive coats. They glanced at the two as they passed, taking stock of their swords, dark clothes and watchful stillness, and hurried on, heads down. It was a funny thing about being an agent, something Lockwood had once said: you were admired and loathed in equal measure. After dark, you represent order and all good things. They loved to see you then. In daylight, you were an unwelcome intrusion into everyday life, a symbol of the very chaos you kept at bay.

"She's a great addition, isn't she?" Lockwood said.

"Holly? Mm. She's fine."

"Strong-willed, I think. Not afraid to lay into that old harridan, Wintergarden. Really spoke her mind." He had pulled back his coat and was checking the line of plastic canisters looped across his chest; at his belt magnesium flares gleamed. "I know you had some concerns at first, Char... It's been a couple of weeks. How are you getting on with Holly now?"