Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase (26 page)

‘I haven’t forgotten Blake,’ Lockwood said. ‘But Fairfax and his offer have to be our priorities now. He’s given us forty-eight hours to prepare, and we’ve got to make that count. Blake’s in jail. There’s no need to take the locket over to Barnes right now. Besides, I wouldn’t mind trying to crack that code before we do. It would be something else to tell the papers about – hopefully along with details of our triumph at Combe Carey Hall.’ He held up a hand as I tried to interrupt him. ‘No, Lucy, we won’t be burgled again – they’ll know we’re forewarned now. And your friend Annie Ward has been waiting fifty years for justice, so a couple more days won’t make any difference. OK, it’s time to get to work. George: I’ve a few things for you to look into.’

‘Obviously,’ George growled. ‘The Hall.’

‘Yes, and some other stuff as well. Get yourself ready, and try to cheer up. It’s research time – you should be hopping with delight. Lucy,
your
job today is to help me fix the house and sort through the kit. Everyone happy? Good.’

Happy or not, there was no arguing with Lockwood when he was in that mood, and George and I knew better
than to try. Soon afterwards, George set off for the Archives, while I joined Lockwood in the basement. And so two days of frantic activity began.

That first afternoon, Lockwood supervised the repair and strengthening of our home defences. New locks were placed on the front door, and firm iron bars – suitable for keeping out the living as well as the dead – placed on the basement window. While the workmen laboured, he sat at the telephone, making calls. He rang Mullet & Sons, the rapier dealer, to order brand-new blades; he spoke with Satchell’s of Jermyn Street, the main supplier of agency goods in London, requesting fresh stocks of iron and salt to compensate for leaving behind our flares.

Meanwhile I spent my time laying out our weapons and defences on the basement floor. I polished the chains and swords; I refilled the pots of filings. I reassessed our collection of silver seals, selecting all the strongest boxes, bands and chain-nets, and setting the smaller stuff to one side. Finally, regretfully, I removed our flares from our work-belts and put them back in the storeroom. The head in the ghost-jar watched the whole process with great interest, mouthing at me urgently through the murky glass, until I grew annoyed and covered it with the cloth.

Throughout our preparations, Lockwood seemed distracted by the scale of the coming adventure. He was
vigorous – I’d never seen him more buoyant, bounding around the house, taking the stairs three steps at a time – but also oddly preoccupied. He seldom spoke, and occasionally broke away from what he was doing to stare off into space, like he was following some complicated pattern in his head, trying to see its end.

George remained at the Archives all day; he still hadn’t returned when I went to bed, and had already left again by the time I got up next morning. To my surprise I discovered Lockwood preparing to go out too. He stood beside the mirror in the hall, carefully adjusting an enormous flat cloth cap on his head. He wore a cheap suit and had a battered briefcase at his side. When I spoke to him, he replied in a broad country accent quite different from his usual tones.

‘How’s this sound?’ he asked. ‘Suitably rural?’

‘I suppose so, yes. I can barely understand you. What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to Combe Carey. I want to check a few things. I’ll be back quite late.’

‘You want me to come too?’

‘Sorry. There’s important work that needs doing here, Lucy, and I need you to hold the fort. There’ll be the Satchell’s and Mullet deliveries later. When they arrive, could you get out the new rapiers and check them over? Give old Mr Mullet a call with any problems. Don’t worry about the Satchell’s stuff; I’ll open it when I’m home. Then can you
double-check the kitbags and start getting the food supplies ready? Also’ – he felt in his jacket pocket and produced the little silver-glass case – ‘I want you to have the ghost-girl’s necklace. We’ll deal with it in a couple of days, but in the meantime, look after it carefully for me. Keep it on you, as before.’ He picked up the briefcase, set off down the hall. ‘Oh, and Luce, apart from the deliveries, don’t let anyone in. Our masked friend might try a subtler approach next time.’

Late afternoon came: the winter sun shone low over the rooftops, a faint and lilac disc. Thirty-five Portland Row was cold and empty, full of grey planes of a dozen shades and shadows. I was alone in the house. Neither George nor Lockwood had returned. I’d received the deliveries, rearranged our kitbags, assembled our food and drink, and ironed my clothes ready for the morning start the next day. I’d practised rapier-play on Esmeralda in the basement. Now I paced the house in the steepening dusk, wrestling with my frustrations.

It wasn’t the Fairfax case that truly bothered me, though its dangers clustered like phantoms at the corner of my mind. I could see that Lockwood was right – we simply couldn’t afford to pass up such a generous, extraordinary offer if we wanted the company to survive. And numerous as the questions surrounding the case were – the exact nature of the Red Room and the Screaming Staircase, for a start – I had
enough confidence in George’s powers of research to know we’d not be going in
entirely
blind.

But while this deservedly took our attention, it also annoyed me that I was being a bit left out. George was doing his thing with books and papers. Lockwood was (presumably) gathering fresh information about the Hall. And me? I was stuck at home, making jam sandwiches and stacking weapons. No doubt it was vital work, but it didn’t exactly thrill me. I wanted to make a better contribution.

What
really
bothered me, however, was the way we were neglecting our other case. I didn’t agree with Lockwood that we could let the locket wait for another couple of days. What with the burglary and the strange inscription, it seemed to me it was vital that we keep things moving, and this belief was confirmed by a shocking phone call during the afternoon. It was Inspector Barnes, reporting that Hugo Blake was about to be released.

‘Not enough evidence,’ Barnes snapped. ‘That’s the long and short of it. He hasn’t confessed, and we haven’t proved he went inside that house. Now his lawyers are getting busy, and that means we’re running out of time. Unless we stumble on something else, Miss Carlyle, or unless the man himself comes clean – I’m afraid he’ll walk out of here tomorrow.’

‘What?’ I cried. ‘But you can’t let him go! He’s obviously guilty!’

‘Yes, but we can’t
prove
it, can we?’ I could almost see
Barnes’s moustache rippling as he spoke. ‘It’s not enough that he took her home. We haven’t got the final piece of proof that connects him to the crime. If you idiots hadn’t burned the place down, we might perhaps have found something there. As it is, I’m sorry, but he’s likely to get away scot-free.’ Giving a final snort, the inspector hung up, leaving me to my indignation.

We haven’t got the final piece of proof
. . . But maybe, of course, we
had
.

I took the little case from around my neck and held it so that it caught the dying light. Behind the glass the locket’s sliver of gold hung distorted, like an eel in shallow water.
Tormentum meum, laetitia mea
. . . I could just about read the words. And inside: what was it?
A ‡ W; H.II.2.115
. . . Somehow, those letters and numbers concealed the final clue. That’s what Blake was after. That’s why he was so desperate to get it back. Perhaps, when we gave the piece to Barnes, he’d figure out the problem.

Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps the murderer
would
continue to get away with it, as he had for fifty years.

Cold, hard anger rose within me. If we didn’t crack the code, it would be the last chance gone. Blake would never admit what had happened, and there was no one else who knew.

No one else, except . . .

I stared down at the glass case in my hand.

The idea that had suddenly occurred to me was so
forbidden that for a little while I could only stand there, listening to the uneasy pounding of my heart. It would certainly put my life at risk, though I thought I could easily get round that; worse, it would risk the wrath of Lockwood, who had already warned me against doing anything dangerous without permission. If I had any sense at all I should wait for his return, but I knew quite well that he’d forbid me to carry out the experiment I planned. And then I really
would
have spent a useless day, while the vile Blake waited expectantly for his release.

I wandered through the house, following an aimless course, turning my plan over in my mind. The light faded; I found myself in the kitchen. Slowly I took the iron steps down to the basement below. On the back wall, the artefact shelves were a grid of black. Tonight the pirate hand glowed faintly lilac, while the other trophies remained dark.

It was worth the risk. If I succeeded, we could bypass the locket’s weird number code altogether. I could get the final confirmation of Blake’s guilt. If I failed, what did it matter? Lockwood need never know.

The iron chains were laid out on the floor, oiled and tested, ready to be packed. I took one of the longest and thickest, a stout two-incher, and hauled it into the practice room, where the ragged straw-filled forms of Joe and Esmeralda hung in melancholy silence. I laid it out to form a loop of double thickness, about four feet in diameter, with
the ends folded over each other. Just to be sure they couldn’t be forced open, I clipped the two end links together with a bicycle lock. This was a heavy-duty defence, guaranteed against Type Twos. It was probably made by Fairfax Iron. Ordinarily the agents would stand inside, safe against any roaming ghosts.

Today, I’d change the rules.

There were no windows in the practice room, so it was already very dark. My watch told me it was only five p.m., which is ordinarily too soon for full manifestations. But I didn’t have the option of waiting. Lockwood and George might be back at any time. Besides, when a ghost is eager, who knows how early it might come?

I stepped over the chains into the circle and took the silver-glass case from my pocket. Kneeling on the floor, I pushed open the bolt, flipped the lid and let the locket drop out into my palm. It was painfully cold, like something taken from the back of the freezer. I placed it carefully on the floor. Then I stood up and stepped back across the iron.

Easy enough so far. I didn’t expect results straight away, so I went to the office area to get a couple of things. I was only out for two minutes, but when I got back, the air in the practice room had chilled. Joe and Esmeralda were swinging gently from their chains.

‘Annie Ward?’ I said.

Nothing – no response, but I felt a tightness against my
temples, a faint force gathering in the room. I stood a little distance from the chains, with a bag of salt in my pocket and a paper in my hand.

‘Annie Ward?’ I said again. ‘I know it’s you.’

A shimmer of silver light inside the circle of iron chain. A faint outline of a girl in two dimensions, folding, bending; now here, now gone.

‘Who killed you, Annie?’ I said.

The outline warped and flickered as before. I listened, heard no voice. The tightness in my head was painful now.

‘Was it Hugo Blake?’

No change – at least not
visually
. For a fleeting second I thought I picked up the slightest murmur, as if someone were talking quietly in a distant room. I strained hard, listened; my forehead throbbing with the effort . . . No. Gone. If it had ever been there.

Well, it was too much to hope I’d pick up anything. If interrogating the dead were as simple as that, all the great Talents would have mastered the art. As it was, only Marissa Fittes had ever done it, in her legendary conversations with Type Threes. No, who was I kidding? In a moment I’d get the salt grains out, get this mess cleared up.

Still, I had one last thing to try.

I already had George’s photocopy in my hand, held hidden behind my back. Now I brought it round, unfolded it and stepped close to the chains. I flipped the paper so that
the photographs of Blake faced the circle. There he was twice over – in that main mug-shot, grinning away in black tie, hat and gloves, and ditto in the group pic beside the fountain, standing close by Annie Ward.

‘Here,’ I said. ‘Was it him? Was it H—’

A piercing psychic scream, a howl of grief and fury, knocked me off my feet. Air blasted out across the room, forcing the iron chains outwards into a perfect circle, blowing brick dust from the basement walls. The straw dummies swung up so far they struck the ceiling; I skidded on my back almost to the door, crying out as I did so, for the pressure in my head was so great I thought my skull would split. I looked up, saw the ghost careering back and forth inside the chains, colliding with the boundary, spurts of plasm fizzing off whenever it touched the rim. Its shape was grotesquely distorted, the head long, misshapen, the body spindly, cracked like a broken bone. All semblance of a girl had gone. And still the psychic wail rolled out, so that I was stunned and deafened.

I’d dropped the paper when I fell, but the salt bomb was still in my pocket. I scrambled into a sitting position and lobbed it hard into the circle.

Plastic burst, salt scattered; the thrashing, mewling thing vanished. Instantly, the noise in my head snapped off.

I sat sprawling on the floor, mouth open, eyes blinking, hair in my eyes. Opposite me, the two straw dummies
swung madly back and forth; they swiftly slowed, hung still.

‘Ow,’ I said. ‘That
hurt
.’

‘I should just about think it did.’

Lockwood and George stood in the archway, faces blank with astonishment, staring down at me.

‘Wait!’ I said. ‘Stop talking, George! Wait! I’ll show you!’

Two minutes had passed, and I hadn’t got a word in edgeways. OK, I’d been busy: my first job, once my head had stopped ringing, had been to retrieve the locket from the circle – which was easier said than done, since it was covered in frozen salt flakes that almost blistered my skin. Then I had to get it back in the case – again not easy, when you’ve got George Cubbins shouting in your ear. But I needed to speak, and do it fast. Lockwood hadn’t said a thing to me. There were spots of colour on his cheeks, and his mouth was tight and hard.