Chapter Text
Part 1 — The Conservator's Curse
1: The Brazen Serpent
The way I see it, Lockwood & Co. never entered into a life of crime. Our goal was always to use our talents and training to deal with unwelcome Visitors, and we did so efficiently and well. It was the world around us that changed the rules.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. My name, if you don't know, is Lucy Joan Carlyle. My job is hunting ghosts. I'm very good at it. In fact, as far as I know I'm the best at listening to ghosts in the country. Together with Anthony Lockwood, George Cubbins and Holly Munro I represent the celebrated psychical investigation agency Lockwood & Co. in London.
You might have heard of us.
***
It was autumn about a year after we sorted out the Fittes debacle that Lockwood & Co. handled what I now know would be the last of our normal cases. Not that it wasn't full of the sort of mortal danger and general chaos that defines our line or work—the case of the Conservator's Curse was certainly interesting.
It's be fair of you to assume that the most haunted museums in London are the ones with the mummies and burial urns, or perhaps Hunterian on Lincoln's Inn Fields with its jars of pickled organs. The truth is those were either closed down or the big agencies did a bang up job clearing them of manifestations in the early years of the Problem. These days the most haunted museums are not the ones riddled with bones or still-born babies preserved in formaldehyde. There are other things that can keep a spirit tethered to this world.
A couple of things about art museums makes them especially insidious. Firstly, any artist worth their paint is going to pour their soul into their work. That is how sources are made and that is why we tether art with iron and silver. It's a bit like keeping wild animals as pets you see—you can never quite trust them to stay docile. Secondly, art moves around. They lend the work to galleries in foreign countries and get new pieces to exhibit in return. This constant flux makes it difficult to properly seal the gallery. The agent's work is never done. Thirdly, and I personally think this is the real crux of the problem, for some reason people in the scene are tetchy about teenagers mucking about with priceless paintings. They'd rather take chances. I can't tell you how many aging culture workers have ended up ghost touched just because they didn't want salt stains on their Picasso. Well, the number is one, but only because I was being very specific. There are plenty of similarly ludicrous stories going around.
So when we got the furtive call from the Director of the National Gallery to look into a possible "off-hours Visitor" at the museum, we didn't take it lightly.
***
Dr. Seynep Karga was a wiry woman with a shock of frizzy, dark curls shot through with silver, giving her silhouette the appearance of a seeding dandelion. She'd let us in herself through a modest staff entrance and now her heels click-clacked through the corridors, Lockwood's long stride effortlessly keeping pace. I could hear the even murmur of his polite conversation only intermittently broken by the curt snap of her replies. My own stride was lopsided under the weight of the kit bags and beside me George was huffing like a steam locomotive. The director's steps became a rapid staccato as she sprinted up a set of stairs. I took a deep breath before following, heaving my weight against the closed door at the top only to have it slip away from me. I fell in a graceless heap, kit bag topping over my head, rapier clicking against the hard veneer of a fine herringbone parquet.
"Sorry Luce," Lockwood said looking down on me. The apology was somewhat ruined by the spark of amusement in his dark eyes.
"Not a problem," I muttered. He grabbed my hand and hauled me up. George followed soon after. His puffy face looked red even in the dim light of a museum at closing time. The three of us and Dr. Karga had exited right into one of the exhibition halls.
The National Gallery is one of those grand old buildings, one strikingly painted hall after the other, the high ceiling ending in vaulted skylights and edged by decorative trims. There was a row of hard benches in the middle and a selection of oil paintings in heavy frames along the walls. With the approaching dusk the light in the room was sparse.
We'd followed Dr. Karga into a great pistachio hall where she was standing in front of an oil canvas. It was one of those gloomy, religious pieces from the Renaissance, all dark shadows and pale, distant faces.
"Leonardo da Vinci," she said in a faraway tone. "What would you have made of this world I wonder? It's difficult to look at this panorama and not imagine a ghost in the shadows reaching for the blessed Virgin."
"Well it's not like she was a stranger to handsy ghosts," George said. That caught the director's attention, though she didn't look half pleased. "You know because she got knocked up by one? The holy ghost? Oh, never mind."
Lockwood cleared his throat. "Shall we get on with it? I'm sure Dr. Karga wants to be out of here before nightfall."
"Yes." She gave a strained little smile. "But please, it's Seynep. I'm relieved you could come at such short notice. I managed to get the board to table the question of the haunting for one more day but it's only a matter of time before they get DEPRAC involved. I'd rather avoid that... for obvious reasons."
I was about to ask her for clarification regarding these obvious reasons when George cut in.
"Hold on a minute. You want us to close the case today?" He sounded incredulous. Lockwood discreetly shoved an elbow into his side and George responded with a demonstrably indiscreet ow.
"Of course Dr—Seynep. That shouldn't be a problem."
"Not a problem?"
"At Lockwood & Co. we are known for our swift and efficient action," Lockwood said quickly to interrupt any further complaints. Unusually he'd handled the contact with the director by himself and as far as we could tell largely over phone. "As I understand it the incident in question was in room 10?"
"Yes, this way."
While I'd been to the gallery before, it was a very different experience after closing. Our steps echoed as we stepped from the green hall into a burgundy one that immediately felt more oppressive. Paintings were suspended on black wires and a low rope marked out the border of the prohibited area. I'd made the mistake of leaning over it to get a better look the first time I came here and had immediately been chastised by some uptight security guard in a polyester suit. I'd never felt more like an uncultured northern runt.
"We found her here," Dr. Karga gestured at a spot on the floor. "Neil was doing the final rounds, if he hadn't... well, you will know all about the perils of ghost touch. She's recovering well I hear. I haven't been to visit. I've been busy, you see, the board... well. It is what it is. We all have our crosses to carry, don't we?" At this she looked up at the painting above the spot where the curator had been found three days earlier. It showed a pale Jesus with a crown of thorns and red-rimmed eyes. I immediately disliked it. "Neil is only nineteen. He said the room felt uncomfortable but he didn't see anything... otherworldly. We keep a young evening staff just for eventualities like this one. Former Nightwatch kids mostly. The board have been unhappy about their qualifications in the past but I feel rather vindicated in my hiring policies now."
"Is it usual for museum staff to stay so late?" I asked. "The curator I mean."
"On no, it was well past her hours. So many of our curators are passionate about their work. It's not uncommon that they loose track of time. Sometimes it feels like all I do is scold my staff for working too hard and then turn around to apologise to the board that we don't get enough done."
"I asked you on the phone if there had been any recent deaths attached to the museum," Lockwood said. "Did you have time to look into that at all?"
Dr. Karga looked uncomfortable. "No. I mean, yes. And no, no one comes to mind. We're really very boring here."
"You say that," George said. "But what about Stephan Molieux?"
Dr. Karga started, then barked out a bitter little laugh. "Oh... Stephan was let go last spring. Did he pass away? We haven't kept in touch."
George nodded. "Found dead in his home two months ago. The neighbour complained. Apparently his cats wouldn't stop crying through the night and there was a foul smell on the landing. Police broke down the door. They had to tear up the carpet. Salted the whole place down before putting down a new one, iron thresholds in the doors. Nice place actually." George had found a lot of his info from the estate listing. It had somewhat warped the quality of his information towards the irrelevant.
"I see," The director said. "Well, Stephan was a employed as a conservator here up until a half year ago. He was a difficult man. Talented, but... he had some odd ideas. Do you think this is significant?"
"You never know in our line of work," George said with a shrug. "But if I'm honest it's more likely that one of these paintings haven't been properly warded."
"Well, I'll have to leave that up to you professionals."
With that Dr. Seynep Karga took her leave, handing us a master key and an empty museum.
***
The large halls of the National Gallery are chained together like strings of beads, doors aligned, floors polished smooth. The symmetry at times makes it look less like a building and more like an abstract pattern. It seems to take longer to traverse the empty rooms than it does when they're crowded. Every step feels like an intrusion.
On my first visit to the gallery I'd been newly arrived in London, not quite fifteen and overawed by the size of the city. I remember seeing a young girl with a big sketch pad in her lap in one of the rooms. She was tracing out the shapes of one of the paintings with big sweeping gestures, one dainty foot tucked behind the leg of the bench, the other stretched out before her. Some repressed hurt had rocked loose inside me as I studied her out of the corner of my eye—that all too common teenage mixture of disdain and envy. There was such a disconnect between that girl's life and my own. What would it have been like to have that kind of leisure? To just sit there and replicate musty old paintings until nightfall chased me home? She had a set of charcoal pencils of varying softness in a case next to her. My own sketchpad was in my tatty old backpack with a stub of a yellow pencil. Some barely understood rebellious impulse had led me to sit down on another bench and take them out, pretending to join her in imitating a painting. Instead I'd sketched her. She's still there in one of my old sketchpads, propping up the uneven leg of my old bedside table, her foot forever reaching, her back bent, her fancy pencil just lifting off the paper. I was reminded of the incident when I stepped through the echoing halls for the haunting, once again struck by the disconnect between that girl's leisurely daytime existence and my hard-won mastery of the night. I supposed I would be forced to take refuge in her world eventually. I wasn't overawed by London anymore but that thought scared me.
As darkness fell over the National Gallery the edges of the halls became shrouded in shadows. Skylights drew squares of pale moonlight across the centres. The paintings were darker squares on dark walls but every once in a while a pale face would loom out from the gloom, the eyes and mouth black hollows.
"Our main focus should be this room," Lockwood said. "It's the closest we have to a confirmed manifestation." His enthusiasm was in full swing but this time it wasn't quite enough to quiet the concern that had been building in me since we arrived. It wasn't the ghost so much as the space that spooked me. "Iron circle in the middle. I don't think we need any light." Lockwood continued. "I want iron and salt in every circle... why are you looking at me like that Luce?"
"This place is too big," I said, "I told you, didn't I? There is no way we can cover all of it. We don't even have Holly with us."
Holly's talent had showed the first signs of fading recently and she'd been visibly on edge the past few cases. It was a credit to Lockwood that he'd taken the burden of deciding to sit this one out away from her. I'd not missed the look of relief on her face before she carefully schooled it away. Still, that meant that we were one man down and this place was huge. The days when we could call in Kipps as backup were unfortunately past. He'd joined DEPRAC:s United Psychical Response Agency—more commonly referred to as United or UPRA—after the Fittes's case, and wasn't really in the market for consulting work anymore.
I suppose you'll be wondering about Skull now that we're taking stock. He'd returned to us eventually, but his appearances were unreliable. From time to time he'd pop in—usually at the most inconvenient times—dropping a few cutting remarks about my weight and social status, and then he'd sashay off again to who knows where. As he was also rather heavy I hadn't brought him along.
"I'm with Luce," George said. "Today should be an initial assessment only. We still don't have nearly enough facts."
"I suppose," Lockwood said easily. "We still need that iron circle. We'll put another circle in room 11." He pointed at a room at the floor plan. "I think we focus on the purple and this top orange bit."
"You think the ghost cares about centuries?" I said. Lockwood looked a bit baffled at that. "Purple is 1500 to 1600, orange is 1600 to 1700? That's what the colours mean?"
"Oh. Of course, I knew that. Anyway, I want one circle in the central hall, one in room 8 and one in room 18. We'll leave the rest for now but that might change later in the night."
"Do we have enough chains for that?"
"Yep, I packed extra."
"Wait, is that why my kit bag is so heavy?"
He had the decency to look chastised. "I'm sorry Luce. I tell you what, when we're done here I carry your chains as well, how does that sound?"
"That sounds like you're giving Lucy an unfair advantage because she warms your sheets," George said. "But don't mind me."
"Oh let's just get on with it. It's getting dark."
We set up the chains and placed stashes of salt bombs and iron filings within each. Even limited to half the second floor I couldn't help feeling intimidated by the sheer size of the undertaking. Any one of us could end up ghost locked before the others noticed a thing, it was that much space. At least sound carried well enough. Our steps bounced off the walls and echoed down the rooms.
"What now?" I said as we finished the circle in the central hall. I wouldn't say Lockwood's enthusiasm had waned but there was definitely an edge of uncertainty to it.
"I don't think I realised quite how big this place is," he admitted. "I'm not sure we should split up. We know where the incident took place. I suggest we retreat back there for tea and biscuits and wait to see if we can register any phenomena. If we don't get anything we take turn around the galleries, but I think we should stick together for now. There are too many unknowns."
"We'll hardly cover any ground at all like that," I said, even though I was relieved by his suggestion.
"If it's between botching the case and one of us ending up dead I know which one I prefer." Lockwood aimed one of his softer smiles at us. There were times when it seemed like he hadn't changed at all from the 15-year old boy who'd hired me all those years ago, but in moments like this it became clear how far from the truth that was. Anthony Lockwood at 18 was a lot less keen to dive headfirst into danger. Usually.
***
One hour later we were all sitting in the iron circle in room 10, tea and biscuits having been replaced by various pastimes as we waited for proper darkness to settle over London. Or as proper as it gets in a city of this size.
"Look at this git." Unusually George was reading a paper. He angled it towards me so that I could see the beaming smile of Lord Darling, his posh mug distorted by the bend in the paper. "Holly told me he's everywhere and now I can't read the back of a cereal box without being assaulted by his stupid face. Look at this nonsense! The return of British Excellence - Sir Alistair Darling on his belief in post-Problem England. What bollocks! And this! Listen to this: 'This proud nation has been forged by hardship. We emerge not only alive but with a new superiority of character.'"
I looked at the picture. "He's giving Lockwood's best smile a run for it's money that one," I said.
"Put that down George, it's bad for your character." Pretty rich of Lockwood given his own taste in reading materials, but I didn't say so out loud.
"I have excellent character," George said. "Bet it can take a few wallops."
He closed the paper and picked up his research instead.
"Anything?" Lockwood eventually broke the comfortable silence, putting down his own glossy society magazine. He was looking at me.
I tuned into my listening and tried to separate out the crinkling of George's crisp bag and Lockwood's steady breathing. I shook my head. "Maybe some slight miasma? But I might just be bored."
Lockwood hummed noncommittally.
"Temperature is still an invigorating 15," George said.
"I'm thinking we should take a turn around the rooms," Lockwood said. "It's about the right time."
Stepping out of the iron circle I immediately threw my arms around myself. My skin had erupted in goose bumps and I suddenly felt disheartened. "Did you feel that?"
"Yes." Lockwood's voice was a bit strained. "Definitely something brewing."
"What do we do?"
He hesitated only briefly. "I still think we should make that round. Now that we have some initial phenomena it will be easier to isolate which rooms are interesting. If you agree?"
"Yes. I agree."
"George?"
"Yeah fine."
I heard the first sounds when we turned into the impressive pistachio hall of room 9. It was a kind of faint scraping, like a nail scratching at rough fabric. I almost didn't hear it over the shuffling of our feet. I stopped. Lockwood and George continued a few steps on before they registered my absence at their side.
"Luce?"
"Hush."
They are well trained, my boys. At my word they stood very sill, suspended in the silver square of the skylight. All colour had drained from the room and in the bluish tint of night we were just shades and shapes, like unfinished paintings. Lockwood's face was even paler than normal, the long dark silhouette of his coat a stripe of shadow against the moonlight. I had less romantic metaphors about the figure George cut in his orange parka.
I honed my senses, trying to catch that faint sound. There is was. Scrape-scrape-scrape. "Someone's painting," I said. "I think."
"Temperature's at 14," George said. "It's a bit of a drop but that could just be the room."
"The miasma's building too," I rubbed my arms.
"Come here Luce." The dark shape of Lockwood reached out his hand towards me. All of a sudden he looked so small to me, his long arms not covering any ground at all. The space between us felt vast and dangerous. I closed the distance with quick steps, pushing down on a rush of panic.
"Nearing 13 now," George said. "Do we stay?"
"It's not coming quite yet." Sometimes I just know these things. Lockwood had placed a gloved hand on my arm, rubbing me absently. "I think we should continue," I said.
Some hauntings come at you all at once, others build slowly so that you hardly notice how bad it gets. This was of the latter kind, perhaps because of the sheer size of the place diluted the phenomena. The faint sounds never ceased but they didn't increase either. There wasn't any echo to them, making them sound flat and apart from the room. Miasma and creeping fear thickened around us and the temperature dropped to 11. There was a pressure building, like a summer thunderstorm. I wrinkled my nose as we reached room 18.
"Ugh, what is that?" I said. "Smells... chemical? It's so strong too!"
"Paint thinner maybe?"
"Do you think inhaling ectoplasmic paint thinner is bad for you or is that just the regular kind?" George's flat voice didn't sound too bothered either way. He was holding up the thermometer. "10 now. Not that ectoplasm is ever particularly wholesome mind you."
"Do you see anything Lockwood?" He shook his head.
"But I wouldn't expect to. All these artists must have been dead for centuries, we'll hardly get a death glow."
"I'm really starting to feel it now."
I was feeling rather queasy to be honest. It wasn't one thing but rather the increasing onslaught of the different phenomena. Perhaps Lockwood felt it to or else he was just that tuned it to my moods, because he lead us into the circle in the middle of the room. I knew from our previous turn that it was another red room, narrow and long with two vaulted openings at the end. The shadows looked very dark in there. According to the visitor's map the paintings on the walls were mostly by Reuben. It was all half-naked bodies and anguished faces, looped around each other like a nest of snakes and seemingly trapped in the middle of some fierce motion. They made me anxious just looking at them. The whole room was oppressive. It reminded me a bit of a train carriage, what with the arched ceiling and elongated shape. The scrape-scrape-scrape continued unabated.
Nothing much changed for a while, except the gradual increase of the existing phenomena. The temperature dropped slowly but seemed to stop at 5 degrees. That ruled out a couple of Visitor types. Revenants and Cold Maidens liked it especially freezing. Eventually I became aware that a low muttering had joined the scraping.
"He's talking," I said.
"What's he saying?"
"Can't make it out. I'm going to leave the circle."
Lockwood only hesitated for a brief moment, swallowing down his objections with practiced ease. He gave a curt nod. The velcro sounded uncomfortably loud in the room as I removed the rapier from my belt and deposited it in the circle. Lockwood drew his. I felt calmed knowing they would have my back. Considering how often I did this sort of thing you'd think I enjoyed it, but I always had to fight myself through the first step over the circle. Fear pitched in my stomach. My hand felt clammy, my head strangely light even with the mounting pressure. As expected the phenomena increased outside the circle. I forced a smile to Lockwood and George who both looked grim.
"The water's alright," I said. "Bit nippy. Keep an eye out for any manifestations, I'm going to close my eyes."
As soon as I shut my eyes the phenomena enveloped me. It really was like dunking your head under water, that first freezing dip and then you sank lower an lower, fighting the need to come up for air. I focused on the muttering. It was hard to make out. I took a step forward, then another. Behind me there was the rustle of cloth as someone, Lockwood most likely, shifted quickly.
"Luce," he said.
"Hold on, almost got it."
"She'll walk right into the wall." That was George.
"Lucy..."
I shut them out. I could hear the voice now. The phenomena around me had increased even more, the pressure bearing down on me. All at once I felt deeply depressed, wronged by the world. Bitter. Alone. Betrayed. Angry.
"They ruined it," I said, my voice sounding hoarse to my ears. "They... they ruin everything."
I gave a yelp as someone grabbed my arm and yanked me back. My eyes shot open to a painting ahead to my left and a rather wide-eyed Lockwood a step behind at my other side.
"Can't you see it?" he breathed.
I looked closer at the painting. It had that look of suspended animation that unsettled me so; a tangle of pale, half-dressed people rising and tilting like a crashing wave towards two clothed figures. A woman had a snake around her arms. I shuddered. The snake was writhing as if in motion. Except they actually were in motion, I realized. The painting was moving, languidly but unmistakably. The snake was coiling around the woman's arm. The wave of bodies was slowly crashing.
"Anthony," I said.
"Move back Lucy. Come-on, as one now. We can do this, just a few steps to the circle."
I hadn't realised how far I'd moved from the safety of the iron. It was in the middle of the room between two benches, we were at one end of it. At least the room wasn't large. I wondered what Lockwood was seeing with his superior sight. His breathing was quicker than normal. We took one cautious step, Lockwood's rapier arm engaged but holding the weapon low. Unfortunately the manifestation didn't take his suggestion to take it slow. All of a sudden the figures wrenched free from the canvas, striking out viper fast. Lockwood was faster. His rapier snapped up to meet a coil of ectoplasm. It hissed and smoked. He switched our positions so he was in front on me, his free arm across my midriff and grabbing at my arm. I didn't think the position would do his swordplay any favours. Instead of shrinking back the manifestation twisted around. It wasn't a single figure but rather a whole scene that had moved out of the frame, swelling as it did so. The figures didn't move like people. Coils floated around, a strangely distorted arm, an animated sheet of cloth, a darkly tortured face with eyes like gleaming stars. It billowed out around us no longer contained by the frame.
But why wasn't it? Frames had to be warded, inset by iron, studded with silver or covered by silverglass. Someone had been sloppy. I set aside the anger and focused on the manifestation.
There was something familiar by how it moved. After a while I identified it as the way thick paint swirled around in a mug of water after you dipped your brush in it. We were backing away ever so slowly when a thud and a hiss behind us made us jerk to a stop. I turned slowly to see the spray of salt on the floor, bits of the manifestation curling back with jerky movements as the salt burned it. It didn't go far. If a woman's naked chest could look affronted that's what it did. Her head had been drawn out into a whip and tried to snatch at us. I met George's frightened eyes in the chain circle, another salt bomb at the ready in his hand.
"It's trying to surround us," I said.
"Of course it is. Stubborn this one." Lockwood was painting one intricate ward knot after another in the air but the Visitor wasn't discouraged for long. It withdrew and coiled back around, looking for an angle. I felt useless. We needed more silver or iron but my rapier was in the circle. I thought about asking George to throw it but there was a non-zero chance that he'd manage to skewer us in the process. Somewhere behind the swirl of colours and otherlight ahead I could see the faint outline of the frame.
"George," I called. "Throw me a seal!"
That at least didn't have a pointy end. George crouched down to rummage through the kit bag and retrieved a large silver net, rolled into a tight cylinder for packing purposes. He gave it his best shot. His arm reached back and windmilled forward into an underhand throw, but at some point he must have angled the movement because it shot to the side and landed several feet ahead of me.
"Good one George," I said, not sounding overly thankful. Still, it was promising the way the manifestation cleared a little space around the net. I threw two salt bombs and iron filings between it and me.
"I'm going in, don't poke me," I said.
"What?" Lockwood gave a strangled little cry of protest which cut off abruptly when he realized what I was doing. I'd ducked low and made a swift dash towards the net, salt and iron crunching under my feet. The familiar smells mixed with the supernatural chemical tang in the air. It made my eyes water.
"The painting?" Lockwood asked, much closer to me than I'd expected.
"Got to try."
"Right. Could have warned me."
"I did warn you."
"Could have warned me in time, love."
"Yeah. Sorry. Bit stressed."
"No problem." His body pressed into mine as I stood up. Lockwood fighting was a strange mixture of stillness and movement. He was a solid presence, steady and calm, but I could feel his muscles flex with the quick dance of his rapier. I felt much less graceful as I fumbled to get the net unfolded. Once I had it mostly there I gave it a shake until it fanned out. I made a few bullfighter sweeps through the manifestation. It withdrew, ectoplasm hissing, but the pressure in the room grew. A wave of rage and despair bore down on me. I gave a strangled groan but when Lockwood glanced my way I shook my head. Around us the coils became jagged, frantic. Next to me a woman's face opened to a great gaping maw, her mouth bursting open and a man's muscular arm breaking through. The child in her arms became a snake of human skin. It tried to snatch at us but Lockwood's rapier cut it off.
We fought our way to the painting. Rather than the coordinated dance of agents in 'Penny Dreadful's it was a clumsy affair. We kept bumping into each other. Lockwood elbowed my face. I flinched away. He wheeled around, free arm arresting my movement. Then I accidentally slapped his bottom with the net. I caught the brief flash of his smile and made a face in response. The entity was getting angrier at the moment. Random salt bombs and iron filings exploded in the room curtsy of George's terrible aim. Pain had started to spike in my head, needles and pins in my arms and legs. I put it to the side together with the cold and the fear and the miasma and the noise. The mumbling had risen in volume. The words were hard to make out but very loud, like an angry drunk. The chemical smell was almost unbearable. I felt like it was dissolving my brain.
Then I could see the painting. I'd forgotten how damn large it was. I tried to lop the net over it but it slipped off. Cursing I bent to pick it up. Ectoplasm struck out and burned my jacket. I stood and tried again to get the stupid net over the canvas, feeling suddenly hopeless as it slivered off again. What did we do if this didn't work? We were so far from the chain circle.
"I think it's getting tired," Lockwood called out. "Whatever you're doing back there is working!"
That gave me the energy I needed. There was a chair between me and the door. I lifted it over the partition that separated the paintings from the visitors, struggling a little to position it. Arms covered in silver net I stepped up, encouraged by the hissing of the ectoplasm even as it tried to snake around my legs. A thin coil slipped under my skirt. Handsy bastard this ghost. Good thing I'd covered up for the occasion. I smelled burned cloth and wondered how much ectoplasm my tights could really take. Then I had the net draped over the frame. Too late I realized the gesture had left me uncovered. For a few horrified moments I was very aware of the naked skin on my face and neck, the exposed slip between my gloves and jacket.
But the cold pain of ghost touch didn't come. I turned to the room and saw Lockwood looking up at me, eyes very wide and rapier at rest. He was panting.
"So it worked then," I said weakly. "That's good."
"It's not the source." That was George, ever the optimist. He was right though. The phenomena had faded a little but they weren't gone. That wonderful psychical numbness of a disrupted haunting hadn't settled over the National Gallery. Lockwood swung me easily down from the chair. The ground was very crunchy. He stepped up and unhooked the painting from the wires, taking care not to dislodge the seal. It was unceremoniously deposited on the floor, the salt and iron making it rest unevenly. Then Lockwood flipped it over.
"Now let's see what we got," he said. I couldn't stop the small noise of protest, but when Lockwood looked up at me with questioning eyes I just shook my head, lips pressed together.
"That painting will be worth more than our house," George said. He'd left the circle and joined us. "Better be careful."
"When am I not careful?"
I didn't think he quite deserved the scoff of disbelief that George awarded him. But then he started dismantling the frame.
"What do we know?" he said as he yanked a part of the frame away with a loud crack. I winced.
"All this nonsense?" I said. "Typical Changer racket."
"Agreed." He'd managed to get a part of the frame free. The painting didn't look ripped, which was a good thing, but it was resting on a pile of salt and iron. Was that bad for invaluable oil paintings or were they basically okay with heart-stopping amounts of sodium?
Lockwood hummed. There was a sturdy metal beam inset in the wooden frame.
"Oh that's just cheap," said George. "Using iron to ward it? I'd expect silver studs at least. It's not some old aunt's watercolour landscapes they're dealing with here."
"What I like to know is how the hell the Changer went about haunting it in the first place," I said. "How powerful is this thing?"
"Yes that too obviously."
"Yes that is strange isn't it." Lockwood had walked over to the kit bag and retrieved something. When he came back I saw a small metal loop in his hand. I recognised it as one of the magnetic clasps we used to keep the chains from getting all tangled up in the bag. He pressed it to the metal bar. It didn't stick.
"Or rather it would be, if this was actually iron."
"Aluminium?" George guessed.
"Possibly. It's not really relevant is it? The real question is why."
"Money?" I suggested. "It's usually money isn't it?"
"Not that I'm an expert on aluminium prices, but I can't imagine it would be that much cheaper," George said.
"No." Lockwood rubbed his eyes, wincing as the salt coating them met the sensitive membrane. "Let's retreat to the circle. We need chocolate and a moment to think this through. This is a tricky one."
I lingered beside the painting when George and Lockwood started back towards the safety of the iron, tugging at the fingers of my gloves.
"Lucy?" Lockwood said, looking back at me.
"We haven't tried my touch yet."
"We're far too worked up now. Try it later if you like?" With a start I realised that he was a little bit shaken by the encounter. Guilt washed over me. Sometimes I forgot how much better his sight was than mine.
"You're right Anthony." I used his first name only sparingly on jobs. It felt intimate, both comforting and a little scandalous. I was rewarded with one of his warm smiles.
I joined my friends in the circle. It would be hard work finding the source of this Changer. Lockwood was right. We needed to take a step back and think.