Free Lockwood & Co. Book Three: The Hollow Boy by Jonathan Stroud Page A

something. Three nights running, my team’s covered the same lane behind the King’s Road. First
two nights: nothing. Third night, a Raw-bones came out of the dark; nearly got Kate Godwin and Ned Shaw. A Raw-bones! From nowhere! Barnes doesn’t have a clue why. No one does.”
    Lockwood shrugged. “I’ve offered to help. My offer’s been rejected.”
    Kipps ran fingers through his close-cropped hair. “Of course it has. Because you’re nobodies. What are you doing tonight? Some small, pathetic case, I’m sure.”
    “It’s a ghost bringing terror to ordinary people,” Lockwood said. “Is that pathetic? I don’t think so.”
    Kipps nodded. “Okay, sure, but if you want to work on the important stuff, you need to be part of a
real
agency. Either of you could easily find a proper job at Fittes. In fact,
Lucy’s got an open invitation to join my team. I’ve told her that before.”
    I stared him down. “Yes, and you’ve heard my answer.”
    “Well, that’s your choice,” Kipps said. “But I say, scrub up, swallow your pride, and get stuck in. Otherwise, you’re wasting your time.” With a nod at me, he
stalked away.
    “Bloody nerve,” Lockwood said. “He’s talking nonsense, as usual.” Even so, he said little in the taxi, and it was left to me to give renewed directions to 6, Nelson
Street, Whitechapel, and our appointment with the veiled ghost.
    It was a terraced house in a narrow lane. Our client, Mrs. Peters, had been watching out for us: the door swung open before I could knock. She was a young, nervous-looking
woman, made prematurely gray by anxiety. She wore a thick shawl over her head and shoulders and clutched a large wooden crucifix in gloved hands.
    “Is it there?” she whispered. “Is it up there?”
    “How can we tell?” I said. “We haven’t gone in yet.”
    “From the street!” she hissed. “They say you can see it there!”
    Neither Lockwood nor I had thought to look at the window from outside. We stepped backward off the sidewalk and into the deserted street, craning our necks up at the two windows on the upper
floor. The one above the door was lit; tiles indicated that it was a bathroom. The other window had no light within it, nor (unlike the other windows) did its glass reflect the glare from the
streetlight two doors down. It was a dull, black space. And in it, very difficult to see, was the outline of a woman. It was as if she were standing right up against the window with her back to the
street. You could see a dark dress and strands of long black hair.
    Lockwood and I returned to the door. I cleared my throat. “Yes, it’s up there.”
    “Nothing to worry about,” Lockwood said, as we shuffled past Mrs. Peters into the narrow hall. He flashed her his fifty-percent smile, the reassuring one. “We’ll go up
and see.”
    Our client gave a whimper. “You understand why I can’t sleep easy, Mr. Lockwood?” she said. “You understand now, don’t you?” Her eyes were frightened moons;
she hovered close behind him, keeping the crucifix raised like a mask before her face. Its top almost went up Lockwood’s nose when he turned around.
    “Mrs. Peters,” he said, gently pushing it down, “there’s one thing you could do for us. Very important.”
    “Yes?”
    “Could you pop into the kitchen and put the kettle on? Think you could do that?”
    “Certainly. Yes, yes, I think I can.”
    “Great. Two teas would be marvelous, when you get a moment. Don’t bring them up. We’ll come down for them when we’re finished, and I bet they’ll still be
hot.”
    Another smile, a squeeze of the arm. Then he was following me up the narrow staircase, our bags bumping against the wall.
    There was no landing to speak of, more of an extended top step. Three doors: one for the bathroom, one for the back bedroom—and one for the bedroom at the front of the house. About fifty
heavy iron nails had been hammered into this door; they were hung with chains and hanks of