Ghost and Bone Read online

  From his hands and knees, Oscar surveyed the room. It looked rather ordinary considering whose office it was. A large desk dominated the space. It had a heavy book on it and an old-fashioned quill pen. Various houseplants were dotted around the walls. Several shelves were filled with a collection of novelty mugs.

  Oscar could hear someone muttering, but from his position on the floor, he couldn’t quite make out what was going on.

  He raised his head. It looked, unless he was very much mistaken, as if a ghost—a male ghost in a tweed suit—was whispering into a cupboard. Was that Mr. Mortis?

  Oscar blinked and looked again. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something oddly familiar about that cupboard.

  Before he could think what it was, the door slammed open and the security guards tumbled into the room, closely followed by Sally and the secretary.

  The ghost jumped away from the cupboard as if he’d been stung.

  “What is the meaning of this?!” he fumed. Oscar recognized the flustered features of Sir Merriweather Northcote, Mr. Mortis’s right-hand ghost. His cheeks were flushed, and his comb-over had fallen over his wide, glistening eyes. The small, plump man pushed out his chest and went to still the pocket watches that were swinging from his rumpled jacket.

  Everyone spoke at once.

  Security was bellowing for Oscar to get to his feet.

  The secretary was apologizing hysterically for her failure.

  Sally was congratulating Oscar on surviving.

  “Where’s Mr. Mortis?” Oscar shouted. For some reason, his voice silenced everyone.

  “Away in Fiji,” Northcote replied. “Urgent business called him away.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Left a big mess behind. I’ve had to step into the breach—a lot to be looked after. Population up means more people dying. It’s a simple equation, really.”

  Northcote had recovered his composure impressively quickly.

  “What business?” Oscar asked. “Why Fiji?”

  “He chose to go on a work trip to Vanua Levu,” Northcote replied, as if that was obvious and all that needed to be said. He tapped his nose with his finger and winked. “You’ll keep that info hush-hush, won’t you? It’s best that no one realizes I’m running the show in his place.”

  “I’ll bet,” Sally said.

  Northcote smiled thinly. “A tough job, but someone’s got to do it.”

  “You’re doing very well, sir,” the secretary chimed in. “Death rates are going down under—”

  “That’s very kind of you, Moira,” Northcote cut her off. He frowned slightly. For the first time, he seemed to realize just how strange the situation was. “How did this awkward pair get past you, eh? Some damn foolery, I’ll bet.”

  Oscar was again impressed by how quickly Northcote had seized control of the room. Despite his short stature, he seemed to double in size as he strolled toward them. He checked three of his watches, sighed, and put them away.

  “I’m not sure, boss,” the Viking muttered sheepishly. “Ran right through us.”

  “We can take them away,” the sumo wrestler said. “Do you want to put them in jail?”

  “That won’t be necessary, lads. Mr. Grimstone, and Detective Cromarty, I am a very busy ghost. You have already wasted too much of my time—but I suppose you must have some very important news if you were that desperate to see Mr. Mortis. So tell it to me. Quickly.”

  “There’s a senior ghost running amok, sir,” Sally said. “She’s twice tried to murder Oscar. She used a Ghoul Eye—and she’s got her hands on a Hungry Bottle too.”

  “A Hungry Bottle?” Northcote said. “That’s a serious accusation. Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, sir,” Sally confirmed. “She must be stopped.”

  Northcote started pacing, his brow furrowed. “Well, it’s clear that Lady Margaret must devote more resources to the problem.” He thrust a finger decisively in the air. “We must act and act quickly.”

  Oscar and Sally exchanged glances.

  “That’s just the problem,” Oscar said. “It’s Lady Margaret who’s doing the attacks.”

  Sir Northcote didn’t stop pacing but skipped a step.

  “Impossible,” Northcote said. “Implausible. Lady Margaret is one of our best and most capable ghosts. I can’t believe she’d turn rogue. You must be mistaken.”

  “Sir, the evidence is quite damning. You see—” Sally started to explain, but Northcote cut her off.

  “No, no, I will take it from here.” He sighed dramatically. “The work never ceases, does it?! Moira, send out a mass summons to the Board. We meet in an hour. Get right to the bottom of this.” He pulled out another of his watches. “Work! Work! Work! So much to do! So little time!”

  With the two giant security guards looming over them, it was clear the interview was over. They escorted Oscar and Sally in no friendly fashion out the building and into the busy street. The sumo wrestler barreled Oscar and Sally to the ground with a jolt of his huge belly, and the Viking gave Oscar a final slap on the back of the head for good measure.

  For a moment, they stayed seated on the sidewalk. The living walked through them, while ghosts gave them curious glances. As Oscar finally stood up and dusted himself off, he wasn’t really sure if they had succeeded in doing anything at all.

  “Fat lot of good an inquiry will do,” Sally said as Oscar pulled her up. “We need to talk to Sir Cedric. I trust him and he’ll have a good idea. Always does.”

  They climbed into Sally’s carriage. She grabbed her typewriter and fired off a quick message to Sir Cedric.

  “I’ll ask him to meet us at my house,” she said. “We need to update our case board.”

  * * *

  Sally’s house was even messier than it had been before. She left Oscar in the sitting room while she went to get some tea and biscuits.

  “Have a look at the board—see if you recognize any patterns,” she told Oscar. “You’re good at that kind of thing.” She’d updated it last night—there was a picture of Oscar stuck to it, and one of Mr. Mortis and another of Lady Margaret. Around Lady Margaret there was a little spider’s web of string, and a collection of scribbled theories about why Lady M. might want Oscar dead.

  She is a sniveling old fusspot who doesn’t like people who don’t fit in with the rules.

  She wants to steal Oscar’s powers.

  She wants to use his powerful phantasma to make powerful machines. And/or blow up the Department of Contraptions because she sees the head of the department as a rival to becoming junior secretary to Mr. Mortis.

  She wants to cover up Mr. Mortis’s switch with Oscar because otherwise other ghosts might ask to swap places with the living.

  None of them seemed very convincing. Except maybe the first.

  Another section had a list of the various pseudonyms that the hatted assassin had used: Ren Simons, Jessie Mur…Oscar picked up a pencil and scribbled in Ernie Hoy. That didn’t seem to make anything any clearer.

  Oscar’s eyes wandered and landed on a tattered piece of paper poking up on the other side of the board from Sally’s other case—the one about her parents. He remembered Sally’s story at the Shallow Grave inn about Hieronymus Jones. How the mad inventor and criminal killed Sally, then her parents. It seemed a long time ago.

  Feeling a little guilty, he turned the board around. This side of the board had scientific reports about ghouls, various descriptions of Hieronymus Jones’s cunning disguises, and a whole section devoted to the strange weapons that Jones had invented. Right in the middle was his Wanted poster.

  Hieronymus Jones had a nasty smirk.

  “Who are you really, Mr. Jones?” Oscar asked the photograph. “Hieronymus is a funny name. Is that why you turned bad? Were you bullied?”

  There’d been a few funny names recently, Oscar thou
ght. Hieronymus Jones, Ren Simons, Jessie Mur, Ernie Hoy.

  As he glanced over Sally’s board, he started repeating the names over and over in his head. They fit together well—they had a pleasing rhythm on the tongue.

  Hieronymus Jones, Ren Simons, Jessie Mur, Ernie Hoy.

  He was looking at a picture of a ghost that had been extinguished, when something cracked inside Oscar’s head. He stopped, blinking.

  “Hey!” said Sally, coming into the room. “You’re not meant to look at that.”

  Oscar ripped the Hieronymus Jones poster from the board and snatched up his pencil.

  “Hey!” said Sally—she sounded genuinely furious, but Oscar didn’t care. He scribbled the names down, pressing so hard he tore the paper.

  Hieronymus Jones, Ren Simons, Jessie Mur, Ernie Hoy.

  “Do you see?” Oscar asked. He couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice. “Do you see?”

  “I can’t…believe you figured that out.” There was something odd in Sally’s voice. It wasn’t anger at least—which was a relief. Oscar couldn’t help but feel that he’d done something wrong.

  She was staring wide-eyed at the paper in Oscar’s hand.

  The letters of all the fake names that the assassin had given were hidden inside the name Hieronymus Jones.

  Oscar had checked it over. He wrote out hieronymus jones three times, putting each letter used in the aliases into capitals.

  hIERONyMuS joNeS

  REN SIMONS

  hIERonyMUS JonES

  JESSIE MUR

  HIERONYmus jonEs

  ERNIE HOY

  “It can’t be a coincidence,” Sally murmured, eyes wide. “It just can’t.”

  Oscar tried to make her laugh again. “The advantage of having no friends is that you have to have hobbies. I like puzzles. Probably too much.” He pointed at the sheet of paper. “It’s like a Russian doll of aliases! Don’t you think it’s like he wanted us to notice?” Oscar asked. “I mean, why choose names that are just like your own, unless you wanted to give us a clue?”

  “Typical. That’s just his style—the monkey-faced twazzock—” Sally stopped herself from saying something worse. “Always thinks he’s cleverer than everyone else. Always getting away with it. Always smirking.” She crumpled the poster savagely, as if she couldn’t bear to see his face.

  “Are you okay?” Oscar asked, a little taken aback.

  Sally was swaying slightly, and her eyes weren’t focused. She looked like she was about to have a heart attack, or maybe explode.

  All of a sudden she didn’t seem like a policeman at all. She looked just like a normal thirteen-year-old girl who was hurt and angry and a little lost. Oscar wanted more than anything to help her.

  “You all right?” he asked, rather uselessly.

  “No. I’m not.” Sally ran out of the room. Before Oscar could stop her, she had climbed into her carriage and driven off.

  Alone in the street, Oscar had no idea what to do. He felt awful. She’d needed his help, and he’d failed her.

  “You always make things worse, Oscar,” he said to no one.

  This didn’t make him feel better.

  He was just turning to go back into the house, when he saw a flash of light. Ahead, he saw Sir Cedric come whizzing down the street on the back of a giant ostrich with a siren strapped to its head.

  Oscar had never been pleased to see anyone in his life.

  Even better, once Oscar had explained everything as best he could, Sir Cedric guessed where Sally had gone immediately.

  “A bad business,” he muttered as he hauled Oscar up. “Luckily, it’s a nippy beast, your ostrich! Took this from GLE transportation. We need to move fast! Remember to hold on tight—and grip with the knees. Right, lad, tallyho!”

  Oscar didn’t need telling. He was gripping Sir Cedric’s armored waist as firmly as he could. A galloping ostrich was a bumpy ride indeed.

  Happily, they didn’t have far to go, and as soon as they arrived, they saw Sally’s carriage parked crazily across the pavement.

  The sign above the door read Paranormal Rehabilitation Unit.

  “Evening, Gladys,” Sir Cedric said to the receptionist—a meek-looking ghost surrounded by Persian cats. “Would you happen to know if Sally is visiting?”

  “She got here not long ago,” said Gladys. “She’s seeing the two patients now. Poor lass. Seemed in a right state. Wouldn’t even say hello to Mr. Tiddlemas.” She held up a particularly fat cat, which purred.

  “Hello, Mr. Tiddlemas,” Oscar said.

  “You’re a nice boy,” Gladys said.

  Somewhere upstairs, someone started screaming. The teeth-rattling howl set Oscar’s hair on end. Mr. Tiddlemas hissed and bared his teeth.

  As Oscar and Sir Cedric went up the stairs together, other screams started up, answering the first. The cries twisted and twined round each other, like a dreadful choir, or a pack of demon wolves on the hunt. They sounded hungry.

  “What is this place?” Oscar said. “What are they?”

  “This is a hospital,” Sir Cedric said. “And those are real ghouls—feeders. I think they can smell you coming.”

  They saw Sally standing in a long corridor. She was leaning against a thick metal door, peering through a small glass window.

  As they came closer, she punched herself in the head, quite hard.

  “Hey, Sally, stop!” Oscar said.

  But she didn’t. A frenzy seemed to have gripped the detective.

  “He’s done it again,” she muttered. “And you’ve missed it again, Cromarty. Again and again and again!” She punctuated each word with another thump to the head.

  Sir Cedric grabbed her wrists.

  “Sally! It’s okay. You’re okay. We’re okay!” Oscar was shocked to see that she was crying. The howling was all around them. It was horrible.

  “Look at me!” Looking into her eyes, Oscar at last got her to see him.

  “Why does Hieronymus Jones want you?” Sally asked. “What did you do?”

  “I don’t know,” Oscar said. He preferred not to think about it. “But it’s not your fault.”

  “It is,” Sally said. “It’s always been my fault. Look at them!”

  Oscar glanced through the little pane of glass and gave a gasp of shock.

  He saw two figures in the padded cell. Their eyes glowed red. Their mouths were black holes surrounded by sharp white teeth.

  As they howled, they tore at the walls with their claws.

  “Those are my parents,” Sally said.

  She slumped down against the wall, still holding the poster twisted up in her fingers.

  “What do you mean?” asked Oscar softly.

  “See, I didn’t tell you the whole truth either,” Sally said.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Oscar said. “Not a bit.”

  “It does.” Sally swallowed hard and pointed at Hieronymus’s smirking face. “He killed my parents twice.”

  “What?”

  “He killed my ma and pa once back when we were alive,” she said. “And then when we were ghosts, we tried to catch him. So he tortured them. He sucked out their phantasma—but not enough to kill them. Just enough so they turned into…that.” She jabbed her thumb in the direction of the padded cell. “Soul feeders. Real ghouls.”

  Sally frowned. “He did it for fun, laughing. Just to get back at us. He’s done it to loads of people. Not enough to kill them but enough to make them hungry forever. He’s a monster, and I swore that I would catch him—but now he’s laughing at me again. And I’ve failed. I failed you. I failed my parents.”

  Oscar didn’t know what to say. Sally looked so small and scared and alone. So he bent down and gave her a hug.

  “Thanks, Oscar,” she said. “You’re a pal.”

/>   “We’ll get him,” Oscar said into her shoulder.

  Sally laughed. “I’ve been saying the same thing for a hundred years. Fat lot of good I’ve done.”

  “That’s not true.” The hug continued.

  Oscar was starting to worry. Although starting the hug had been pure instinct, he had no idea how one went about ending these things. He’d never hugged anyone who wasn’t a blood relative before. He’d certainly never hugged a girl his own age (give or take a hundred years). He tried patting Sally on the back as an experiment.

  Sally didn’t seem to notice Oscar’s confusion, or mind the patting.

  “Someone once told me about a book. They said I reminded them of this mad captain from the story who was dead set on killing a whale. Apparently the maniac chases the beast all over the sea until he finally gets his chance. And then the whale kills him.”

  “I think it’s called Moby-Dick,” Oscar said.

  “You read it? Is that how it ends?”

  “No idea.” Oscar grinned. “It’s about a billion pages long. Anyway. Let’s go catch your whale.”

  By the time they’d gone back down to Gladys and the cats, Sally had calmed down. Her good mood continued for precisely three seconds. That’s the time it took for a message to appear in midair and thump against her chest.

  “What’s it say?” said Sir Cedric.

  “It’s a summons,” said Sally, scanning the text. “Lady M. wants to see us at Ghoul headquarters. She doesn’t sound very happy.”

  “When does she ever, the pencil-pushing renegade?” Sir Cedric said, mounting his ostrich.

  * * *

  Everything had been removed from Sally’s office. Her mounds of notes and her comic books had been cleared away. Her desk was empty.

  “They’ve even taken my bin.” Sally’s mouth settled into a grim line as she pointed out where the trash can used to be. “There’s going to be murders.”

  “I smell Lady Margaret’s hounds.” Sir Cedric sniffed. “They’ve taken my kettle. Someone will burn for this!”