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were: me sinking down against the ladder, Lockwood and George leaning against the rafters, weary, silent,
rapiers gently smoking.
    Smoke twisted from one side of Lockwood’s overcoat. His nose had a residue of silver ash on it. My jacket had burned where the plasm touched it. My hair was a nest of cobwebs. George had
contrived to tear the seat of his trousers on a nail or something.
    We were a total mess. We’d been up all night. We smelled of ectoplasm, salt, and fear. We looked at one another, and grinned.
    Then we began laughing.
    Down by the hatch, in its green glass prison, the ghostly face looked on in sour disapproval. “
Oh, you’re pleased with that fiasco, are you? Typical! I’m ashamed even to be
faintly associated with Lockwood & Co. You three really are
hopeless.”
    But that was just it. We
weren’t
hopeless. We were good. We were the best.
    And we never fully realized it until it was too late.



BED & BREAKFAST—AND MURDER!
    H ORRIFIC SECRETS OF W HITECHAPEL G UESTHOUSE
B ODIES FOUND IN PIT BENEATH GARDEN SHED
    Authorities in East London acted yesterday to seal off Lavender Lodge, a guesthouse in Cannon Lane, Whitechapel, after the discovery of human remains on the
     property. The owners, Mr. Herbert Evans (72) and his wife, Nora (70), have been arrested and charged with murder and robbery, and with failure to disclose a dangerous haunting. A powerful
     Visitor, located in the attic of the house, has been destroyed.
    It is believed that over the last ten years many lodgers may have died of ghost-touch while staying at the Lodge. Mr. and Mrs. Evans then disposed of the corpses in a fruit cellar
     hidden in the back garden. Police have recovered a large number of watches, jewelry, and other personal effects that were taken from the victims.
    The decisive investigation was carried out by the Lockwood & Co. agency, led by Mr. Anthony Lockwood. “Records show that a previous owner of Lavender Lodge vanished in
     mysterious circumstances more than thirty years ago,” he says. “We think that the mummified body in the attic belonged to him. It was his angry spirit that stalked the house,
     killing guests as they slept. Mr. and Mrs. Evans took advantage of this for their own personal gain.”
    After subduing the ghost, the agents were forced to break a window and climb down a drainpipe to escape the Lodge, before finally confronting the geriatric duo in their kitchen.
     “Old Evans proved quite handy with a carving knife,” Mr. Lockwood says, “and his wife came at us with a skewer. So we knocked them on the heads with a broom. It was a ticklish
     moment, but we’re happy to have survived unscathed.”
    “And that’s it,” Lockwood said disgustedly. He lowered the newspaper and sat back into his armchair. “That’s all the
Times
gives us for
our trouble. There’s more about the scuffle in the kitchen than there is about the Changer. Doesn’t exactly focus on the important stuff, does it?”
    “It’s the ‘unscathed’ bit that
I
object to,” George said. “That old cow gave me a right old whack. See this horrible red blob?”
    I glanced up at him. “I thought your nose always looked like that.”
    “No, here, on my forehead. This bruise.”
    Lockwood gave an unsympathetic grunt. “Yes, dreadful. What really bothers me is that we only made page seven. No one’s going to notice that. The massive Chelsea outbreak is
dominating the news again. All
our
stuff’s getting lost.”
    It was late morning, two days after the Lavender Lodge affair, and we were stretched out in the library of our house in Portland Row, trying to relax. Outside the window a gale was blowing.
Portland Row seemed formed of liquid. Trees flexed; rain pattered on the panes. Inside, it was warm; we had the heating on full-blast.
    George was slumped on the sofa beside a giant pile of crumpled ironing, sweat pants akimbo, reading a comic. “It
is
a shame they don’t talk more about the actual
case,” he said. “The