Lockwood Read Online Free Page B

Lockwood
Book: Lockwood Read Online Free
Author: Jonathan Stroud
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Co. The three of us stood silently in darkness for a time.
    ‘I had to speak out,’ George said. ‘Sorry. It was either that or punch him, and I’ve got sensitive hands.’
    ‘No need to apologize,’ Lockwood said.
    ‘If we can’t beat Kipps’s gang in a fair fight,’ I said heartily, ‘we may as well give up now.’
    ‘Right!’ George clapped his fist into his palm; bits of mud dropped away from him onto the grass. ‘We’re the best agents in London, aren’t we?’
    ‘Exactly,’ Lockwood said. ‘None better. Now, Lucy’s shirt front’s rather burned, and I think my trousers are disintegrating. How about we get off home?’

II
The Unexpected Grave

3

    Next morning, like every morning that fine, hot summer, the sky was blue and clear. The parked cars lining the street were glittering like jewels. I walked to Arif’s corner store in T-shirt, shorts and flip-flops, squinting at the light, listening to the city’s busy, breathless hum. The days were long, the nights short; ghosts were at their weakest. It was the time of year when most people tried to ignore the Problem. Not agents, though. We never stop. Look at us go. I bought milk and Swiss rolls for our breakfast, and flip-flopped my slow way home.
    Thirty-five Portland Row, shimmering in the sunlight, was its usual unpainted self. As always, the sign on the railings that read
    A. J. LOCKWOOD & CO., INVESTIGATORS
AFTER DARK, RING BELL AND WAIT BEYOND THE
IRON LINE
    was wonky; as always, the bell on its post showed signs of rust; as always, three of the iron tiles halfway up the path were loose, thanks to the activity of garden ants, and one was missing completely. I ignored it all, went in, put the Swiss rolls on a plate, and made the tea. Then I headed for the basement.
    As I descended the spiral stairs, I could hear the shuffling of plimsolls on a polished floor, and the
whip, whip, whipping
of a blade through air. Soft crisp impacts told me the sword was finding its target. Lockwood, as was his habit after an unsatisfactory job, was ridding himself of his frustrations.
    The rapier room, where we go to practise swordplay, is mostly empty of furniture. There’s a rack of old rapiers, a chalk-dust stand, a long, low table, and three rickety wooden chairs against one wall. In the centre of the room two life-size straw dummies hang suspended from hooks in the ceiling. Both have crude faces drawn on with ink. One wears a grubby lace bonnet, the other an ancient, stained top hat, and their stuffed cotton torsos are pricked and torn with dozens of little holes. The names of these targets are Lady Esmeralda and Floating Joe.
    Today, Esmeralda was receiving the full force of Lockwood’s attentions. She was spinning on her chain, and her bonnet was askew. Lockwood circled her at a distance, rapier held ready. He wore sharp fencing slacks and plimsolls; he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves a little way. The dust danced up around his gliding feet as he moved back and forth, rapier swaying, left hand held out behind for balance. He cut patterns in the air, feinted, shimmied to the side and struck a sudden blow to the dummy’s ragged shoulder, sending the tip right through the straw and out the other side. His face was serene, his hair glistened; his eyes shone with dark intent. I watched him from the door.
    ‘Yes, I’ll have a slice of cake, thanks,’ George said. ‘If you can tear yourself away.’
    I crossed over to the table. George was sitting there, reading a comic book. He wore distressingly loose tracksuit bottoms and an accurately named sweatshirt. His hands were white with chalk dust, and his face was flushed. Two bottles of water sat on the table; a rapier was propped beside him.
    Lockwood looked up as I passed. ‘Swiss rolls and tea,’ I said.
    ‘Come and join me first!’ He indicated a long, torn-open cardboard box lying by the rapier rack. ‘Italian rapiers, just arrived from Mullet’s. New lighter steel and silver

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