Lockwood Read Online Free PDF

worst, though. He
really
hates us, doesn’t he?’
    ‘Not us,’ Lockwood said. ‘
Me
. He really hates
me
.’
    ‘But why? What’s he got against you?’
    Lockwood picked up one of the bottles of water and sighed reflectively. ‘Who knows? Maybe it’s my natural style he envies, maybe my boyish charm. Perhaps it’s my set-up here – having my own agency, no one to answer to, with fine companions at my side.’ He caught my eye and smiled.
    George looked up from his comic. ‘Or could be the fact you once stabbed him in the bottom with a sword.’
    ‘Yes, well, there is that.’ Lockwood took a sip of water.
    I looked back and forth between them. ‘What?’ I said. ‘When did this happen?’
    Lockwood flung himself into a chair. ‘It was before your time, Luce,’ he said. ‘When I was a kid. DEPRAC holds an annual fencing competition for young agents here in London. Down at the Albert Hall. Fittes and Rotwell always dominate it, but my old master, Gravedigger Sykes, thought I was good enough, so I entered too. Drew Kipps in the quarter-final. Being a few years older, he was a lot taller than me then, and was the hot favourite going in. Made all sorts of silly boasts about it, as you can imagine. Anyway, I bamboozled him with a couple of Winchester half-lunges, and the long and short of it was, he ended up tripping over his own feet. I just gave him a quick prod while he was sprawling on all fours – nothing to get het up about. The crowd rather liked it, of course. Oddly, he’s been insanely vindictive towards me ever since.’
    ‘How strange,’ I said. ‘So . . . did you go on to win the competition?’
    ‘No.’ Lockwood inspected the bottle. ‘No . . . I made the final, as it happens, but I didn’t win. Is that the time? We’re sluggish today. I should go and wash.’
    He sprang up, seized two slices of Swiss roll and, before I could say anything more, was out of the room and up the stairs.
    George glanced at me. ‘You know he doesn’t like opening up too much,’ he said.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘It’s just the way he is. I’m surprised he told you as much as he did.’
    I nodded. George was right. Small anecdotes, here and there, were all you got from Lockwood; if you questioned him further he shut tight, like a clam. It was infuriating – but intriguing too. It always gave me a pleasant tug of curiosity. One full year after my arrival at the agency, the unrevealed details of my employer’s early life remained an important part of his mystery and fascination.
    All things considered that summer, and leaving the Wimbledon debacle aside, Lockwood & Co.
was
doing OK. Not super OK – we hadn’t got rich or anything. We weren’t building swanky mansions for ourselves with ghost-lamps in the grounds and electrically powered streams of water running along the drive (as Steve Rotwell, head of the giant Rotwell Agency, was said to have done). But we
were
managing a little better than before.
    Seven months had passed since the Screaming Staircase affair had brought us so much publicity. Our widely reported success at Combe Carey Hall, one of the most haunted houses in England, had immediately resulted in a spate of prominent new cases. We exorcized a Dark Spectre that was laying waste to a remote portion of Epping Forest; we cleansed a rectory in Upminster that was being troubled by a Shining Boy. And of course, though it nearly cost us all our lives, our investigation of Mrs Barrett’s tomb led to the company being shortlisted for
True Hauntings’
‘Agency of the Month’ for the second time. As a result, our appointment book was almost full. Lockwood had even mentioned hiring a secretary.
    For the moment, though, we were still a small outfit, the smallest in London. Anthony Lockwood, George Cubbins and Lucy Carlyle: just the three of us, rubbing along together at 35 Portland Row. Living and working side by side.
    George? The last seven months hadn’t changed him much. With regards to his general