Lockwood by Jonathan Stroud Page A

vertical edges were skewed, and the top sagged in the middle. I’ve seen lead coffins from the Roman burials they find under the City with the exact same squashed look. One corner of the lid was so warped it had risen away from the side completely, revealing a narrow wedge of darkness.
    ‘Remind me never to get buried in an iron coffin,’ George said. ‘It gets so tatty.’
    ‘And it’s no longer doing its job either,’ Lockwood added. ‘Whatever’s inside is finding its way out through that little gap. Are you all right, Lucy?’
    I was swaying where I stood. No, I didn’t feel great. My head pounded; I felt nauseous. The buzzing noise was back. I had the sensation of invisible insects running up and down my skin. It was a powerful miasma – that feeling of deep discomfort you often get when a Visitor is near. Powerful,
despite
all that iron.
    ‘I’m fine,’ I said briskly. ‘So. Who’s opening it?’
    This was the big question. Good agency practice, as set out in the
Fittes Manual
, dictates that only one person is directly in the line of fire when ‘sealed chambers’ (i.e. tombs, coffins or secret rooms) are opened up. The others stand to the side, weapons at the ready. Rotating this duty fairly is second only to the biscuit rule in terms of importance. It’s a regular point of contention.
    ‘Not me.’ Lockwood tapped the sewn-up claw-marks on his coat front. ‘I did Mrs Barrett.’
    ‘Well, I did that trapdoor in Melmoth House. George?’
    ‘I did that secret room at the Savoy Hotel,’ George said. ‘You remember – the one with the ancient plague mark on the door. Ooh, that was eerie.’
    ‘No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t haunted
or
secret. It was a laundry room filled with pants.’
    ‘I didn’t know that when I went in, did I?’ George protested. ‘Tell you what, we’ll toss for it.’ He rummaged deep in his trousers, produced a dirty-looking coin. ‘What do you think, Luce? Heads or tails?’
    ‘I think—’
    ‘Heads? Interesting choice. Let’s see.’ There was a blur of movement, too fast for the eye to follow. ‘Ah, it’s tails. Unlucky, Luce. Here’s the crowbar.’
    Lockwood grinned. ‘Nice try, George, but you’re doing it. Let’s fetch the tools and seals.’
    Breathing a sigh of relief, I led the way to the duffel bags. George followed with ill grace. Soon the silver seals, the knives and crowbars, and all the rest of our equipment were in position beside the coffin.
    ‘This won’t be too tricky,’ Lockwood said. ‘Look – the lid’s hinged on this side. Opposite that, we’ve two latches – here and here – but one’s already snapped. There’s just the one by you, Lucy, still corroded shut. Quick bit of nifty crowbar-work from George, and we’re home free.’ He looked at us. ‘Any questions?’
    ‘Yes,’ George said. ‘Several. Where will you be standing? How far away? What weapons will you use to protect me when something horrible comes surging out?’
    ‘Lucy and I have everything covered. Now—’
    ‘Also, if I don’t make it back home, I’ve made a will. I’ll tell you where to find it. Under my bed in the far corner, behind the box of tissues.’
    ‘Please God it won’t come to that. Now, if you’re ready—’
    ‘Is that some kind of inscription on the lid?’ I said. Now we’d come to the point, I was really alert, all my senses firing. ‘See that bit of scratching there?’
    Lockwood shook his head. ‘Can’t tell under all this mud, and I’m not going to start wiping it off now. Come on, let’s get this done.’
    In fact, the lid of the coffin proved harder to force than Lockwood had anticipated. Quite apart from the corroded latch, the bloom of rust across the surface had bonded the top to the sides in several places, and it took twenty minutes of laborious chipping with pocket knives and chisels before the hinges were loosened and the lid freed.
    ‘Right . . .’ Lockwood was taking a final reading. ‘It’s looking good.