Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase (29 page)

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Lockwood said. ‘And actually I’ve never been to college.’

‘Perhaps you don’t believe the tales I’ve told,’ the old man said. Like cartwheels slipping in thick mud, the rheumy eyes swivelled round to George and me. ‘Perhaps none of you do.’

‘No, no. We do,’ I said. ‘We believe every word. Don’t we, George?’

‘Almost all of them.’

Bert Starkins scowled. ‘You’ll discover very shortly whether or not what I say is true. In any case, there’s no ghost in that cottage because that’s where
I
live. I keep it clean of Visitors.’ Even from a distance the iron defences dangling from the tiled roof were clear.

The old man said no more. He stalked onwards, rounded
the final corner and led us back to the front of the house, where we discovered our duffel bags had been moved to the top of the entrance steps, and a tall, emaciated figure stood at the open doors, waving his iron-handled walking stick in greeting.

‘Welcome, Mr Lockwood, welcome!’ John William Fairfax ushered us over the threshold, shaking Lockwood’s hand, nodding curtly to George and me. He seemed even taller and thinner and more mantis-like than I remembered; the cloth of his dark-grey suit hung off his wasted limbs in empty folds. ‘Right on time, exactly as you promised. And you will find that I have kept
my
promise too. I wired the money to your bank account ten minutes ago, Mr Lockwood, so your company’s future is assured. Congratulations! If you will accompany me now to my apartments in the East Wing, you may telephone your bank manager, as we discussed. Mr Cubbins, Miss Carlyle – yonder in the Long Gallery you will find refreshments laid out by the fire.
No, don’t bother with your bags! Starkins will see to them.’

He continued talking loudly as he walked away, his stick tapping on the flagstoned floor. Lockwood went with him; George lingered a moment, stamping his boots clean on the entrance mat. Me, I lingered too, but not to clean my boots. For the first time since I was a tiny kid, and Jacobs had forced me inside a haunted farmhouse with a stick, I disobeyed the first, most crucial rule.

I hung back at the doorway, hesitant and afraid.

The lobby of the Hall was a great square chamber with a vaulted wooden ceiling and plainly whitewashed walls. George’s floor-plans had told us it was a relic of the original priory, and in its scale and simplicity it was still very much like a church. Up on the ceiling, where ancient cross-beams met, small carved figures gazed inscrutably down, winged and robed, their faces worn away by the years. The walls were hung with oil paintings, mostly portraits of lords and ladies from long ago.

On either side of the lobby, recessed arches led to other rooms. Directly opposite me, however, a much larger arch rose almost as high as the ceiling, and beyond that arch . . .

Beyond that arch was a staircase. The steps were broad and made of stone. Time and the feet of centuries had worn them thin at the centre, smoothed them sheer as marble. On either side, stone balustrades swept up towards a quarter-landing,
beneath a circular glass window. Through this the final rays of sunlight gleamed, splashing the stairs with red.

I looked at that staircase, and I couldn’t move. I looked at it and
listened
.

Beside me, George stamped his great fat feet. Old Starkins hefted the first duffel bag, wheezing and gasping as he thumped it down in the lobby. Footmen walked by, carrying trays of cups, cakes and clinking cutlery. I heard Lockwood laugh as he passed into another room.

There was plenty of noise around, in other words. But when I listened, it was something else I heard. A silence. The deeper silence of the house. I sensed it all around me, sentient and aware. That silence stretched away from me, along the corridors and levels, up that great stone flight of stairs, through open doors and under lonely windows, on and on, to an ever more frightening distance. There wasn’t any end to it. The house was just the gate. The silence continued for ever. And it was waiting for us – I could feel it waiting. I had the impression of something towering over me, massive and cliff-like, ready to crash down on my head.

George finished stamping his boots; he set off in pursuit of the footmen and their cakes. Starkins wrestled with the luggage. The others were gone.

I looked over my shoulder at the gravel driveway and the park beyond. Light drained across the winter countryside. Out in the fields, furrows filled with shadow; soon they’d
brim over and flood the land with spreading dark, and the silence in the house would stir . . .

Panic gripped my chest. I didn’t
have
to go in. There was still time to turn back.

‘Nervous, are we?’ Bert Starkins remarked, shouldering his way past me with a duffel bag in his arms. ‘Don’t blame you if you are. That poor little Fittes girl, thirty years back: she was fearful too. Tell you what, I wouldn’t blame you if you ran for it.’ He regarded me with dour commiseration.

His voice cut through my self-absorption. The moment passed; my paralysis was gone. I shook my head dumbly. With slow, mechanical steps I stepped over the threshold, crossed the chilly hallway, and entered the Long Gallery.

This was a darkly beautiful room, lit along its enormous length by a line of mullioned windows. It was clearly the same age as the lobby: the same whitewashed stone, oak ceiling, carved figures in the shadows, rows of darkened paintings. Halfway along, a fire leaped and spat in a vast brick fireplace; at the far end, a faded tapestry filled the wall. It showed a scene of obscure mythological interest, involving six cherubs, three plump semi-naked women and a disreputable-looking bear. Beside the fireplace was a table, and the footmen setting out high tea.

George had already helped himself to a cake, and was surveying the tapestry with interest. ‘Nice tarts,’ he said. ‘You should try a custard one.’

‘Not now. I need to talk with Lockwood.’

‘Good timing. Here he is.’

Lockwood and Fairfax had entered the room from the lobby. Lockwood moved over to intercept us. His face was calm, but there was a bright gleam in his eye.

‘Have you felt the
atmosphere
in this place?’ I began. ‘We—’

‘You’ll never guess what,’ he said over me. ‘They’ve been through our bags.’

George and I stared. ‘
What?
’

‘While we were walking around with Starkins. Fairfax got his men to check them over. They wanted to make sure we hadn’t brought any canisters of Greek Fire.’

George whistled. ‘They can’t do that!’

‘I know! When we’d given them our word.’

Over at the tea table, Fairfax belaboured the footmen for some error. He waved an arm, stamped his stick upon the floor.

‘How do you
know
he did it?’ I said softly.

‘Oh, he told me straight out, after I rang the bank. Bold as brass, he was. Said he’d do the same to anyone. Had to protect the fabric of the ancient building, and its
highly
expensive furniture – blah, blah, blah. But the
real
message he was giving me was: it’s his house, his rules. We play it his way, or not at all.’

‘It’s been like that from the start,’ George said. ‘This
whole thing is screwy. Nothing makes sense. He doesn’t allow us to take flares. He gives us no time for research. Then throws us into what he claims is one of the most haunted sites in Britain, and—’

‘It’s not just a
claim
,’ I said. ‘Can’t you feel it? All around us?’

I stared at them. Lockwood nodded curtly. ‘Yes. I feel it.’

‘Well then, do you really think we should—’

‘Mr Lockwood!’ Fairfax’s deep voice rolled out across the gallery. ‘Your tea awaits! Come to the table, and let me advise you about the evening.’

The meal was good, the tea was Pitkins’ best, and the warmth of the crackling fire drove back the deathly silence for a while. Fairfax sat alongside us while we ate, watching us with his black and hooded eyes, and talking generalities about the Hall. He discussed its many treasures – the late medieval ceilings, the collections of Sèvres porcelain and Queen Anne furniture, the unique Renaissance oils hanging in the lobby and stairs. He told us of the extensive wine cellars running beneath our feet; of the herb gardens, which he hoped in due time to restore; of the ruined priory cloisters drowned beneath the lake. He did not mention anything of any relevance to our assignment until the tea was done. Then he dismissed the footmen and got down to business.

‘Time presses,’ he said, ‘and Starkins and I are keen to
leave before the light fails. No doubt you have your own preparations to make before you can begin your work, so I shall be brief. As I told you the other day, this wing is the afflicted region of the house. Perhaps you have sensed as much already.’

He waited. Lockwood, who was chasing a raisin around his plate with a long thin finger, smiled urbanely. ‘It promises to be a very intriguing night, sir,’ he said.

Fairfax chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit. Very well, here are the ground rules. As dusk falls, I shall shut you in, but be aware that those main doors will remain unlocked all night, should you need to leave the building. In addition, on each level you will find an iron door leading to my apartments in the East Wing. These will be locked, but in case of emergency, rap on them loudly and I will come to your aid. Electrical equipment does not work well in this wing, owing to psychic influences, but we will rig up a telephone in the lobby that will connect you to Starkins’s cottage. All internal doors will, with one exception, be unlocked, so you can roam where you please. As for that exception’ – he tapped his jacket pocket – ‘I have the key here, and will give it to you presently. Any questions so far?’

‘It would be useful if you could indicate the areas of most activity, sir,’ Lockwood said quietly. ‘If you have the time.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.
Starkins!
’ The old man raised his voice in a roar; from the lobby the even older man came scuttling,
wringing his bony hands. ‘Get Boris and Karl setting up the phone,’ Fairfax said. ‘I’m taking Mr Lockwood on a tour. He’s a good servant, Starkins,’ he confided, once the caretaker had bobbed and shuffled away, ‘only hellish timorous. Wouldn’t catch
him
going upstairs this late, even with the sun still in the sky. Well, I suppose caution’s kept him alive this long. Let’s get on.’

We left the table and followed Fairfax out across the room. He indicated a door on the far side of the fireplace. ‘Through there you’ll find the garden rooms, reception areas, conservatory and kitchens. They’re old, but not as ancient as this gallery here, which is part of the original priory. It used to lead to other buildings, but they were pulled down long ago.’ He pointed to the tapestry at the end. ‘That’s where the house ends now.’

He led us back through the lobby and over to an archway beyond. Here was a square, carpeted room made dark by rows of towering bookshelves; on the far side was a studded metal door. Uncomfortable-looking modern chairs of iron and leather stood amongst reading tables. One wall was almost covered by a large collection of framed photographs, some in colour, most in black and white. The largest of all, in pride of place, showed a serious young man, in doublet, ruff and tights, scrutinizing a mouldy-looking skull.

Lockwood regarded it with interest. ‘Excuse me, sir, but isn’t that you?’

Fairfax nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me. I played Hamlet in my youth. Indeed, I played most Shakespearean roles, but the Dane was perhaps my favourite. Ah, “To be or not to be”, the hero caught suspended between life and death . . . I flatter myself I was rather good. So then: this is the library, where I spend most time during my visits. My predecessor’s taste in books was poor, so I have replaced his with my own collection, and refurbished it a little. It is just a step through the door there to the safety of my chambers, and the iron furniture – made by my own company, of course – keeps the ghosts away.’

‘A very pleasant room, if I may say so,’ Lockwood commented.

‘You won’t spend much time here during your search.’ Fairfax returned us to the lobby, where Starkins was setting a black, old-fashioned telephone on a side-table, beside an ornate vase. ‘The Source, whatever it is, is doubtless in the oldest portion of the house. The lobby, the Long Gallery or, most probably, upstairs. Hey, careful there!’ Two footmen were unravelling a coil of telephone wire around the table. ‘That’s Han Dynasty! Do you know the
value
of that vase?’