The Dagger in the Desk

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It was a winter’s morning, the day after the messy conclusion to the Case of the Floating Fingers, and Lockwood, George and I had assembled in the kitchen for a very late breakfast. Rapiers, chains and salt-bombs lay scattered on the table. George’s jacket, peppered with ectoplasm burns, hung steaming on a chair. A severed hand, securely contained in a silver-glass case, sat by the cornflakes, ready for disposal later. This sort of thing is normal in our house, and it didn’t spoil our appetite. We were just helping ourselves to another round of tea and toast when there was a clanging on the bell outside.

‘Could be a client,’ Lockwood said. ‘Go see who it is, Lucy.’

I frowned. ‘Why me?’

‘I’m still in my pyjamas and George’s face is covered in jam.’

They were decent points; I couldn’t argue with them. I answered the door. On the step stood a small, roundish man with a pink face and a dishevelled mop of sandy hair. He wore a brown tweed suit and a wild-eyed expression of deep horror.

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