Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase (30 page)

He continued to rebuke them, but I had tuned him out. I walked across the lobby, listening with my inner ear, hearing only my heart beating in the waiting silence. Ahead of me, the great stairs rose, curving to the quarter-landing and onwards into darkness. Strange creatures, with lots of scales
and horns, were carved into the sides of the balustrade every other step. Each supported a small plinth between its claws.

‘Hear anything?’ George murmured. He’d drifted alongside me.

‘No. The reverse. It’s like it’s cloaked, or something.’

‘I see you’ve found the legendary Screaming Staircase!’ Fairfax was back with us once more. ‘See those plinths beside the carved dragons? Those are where the Red Duke set the skulls of his victims – or so the story has it. Perhaps, after tonight, you will be able to confirm the story of the stairs. I hope, for your sake, you do not hear it scream.’

He led the way up the flight, stick tapping on the stone. We followed in a silent, ragged procession, each ignoring the others, letting our senses take the lead. I let my fingers run across the handrails, opening my mind to psychic traces, listening all the time.

We crossed below the window, four slow figures stained with the sun’s last rays, climbed another flight and arrived at a landing. A deep burgundy carpet and flocked red wallpaper absorbed all sounds. There was a strange sweet smell up here, like tropical flowers, heavy with the taint of decay. A long, wide corridor that I remembered from George’s plans ran east–west, following the line of the house. Numerous rooms opened on both sides; through half-open doors I glimpsed dark-toned furniture, paintings, heavy golden mirrors . . .
Fairfax ignored them all. He led the way west along the corridor until it ended in a door.

Fairfax halted; whether it was the effort of the stairs, or the suddenly stifling quality of the air, he was out of breath.

‘Beyond this barrier,’ he said finally, ‘is the place I told you of. The Red Room.’

It was a sturdy wooden door, closed and locked, and no different from the others we’d passed – except for the mark upon it. Someone, at some time, had slashed a great rough X upon its central panel. One stroke was short, the other long; both were made with violence, scoured deep into the wood.

Fairfax adjusted the position of his stick upon the floor. ‘Now, Mr Lockwood, pay close attention. Because of its particular danger, this room is always kept locked. However, I have the key here, and I hereby transfer it to your possession.’

He made a great palaver about it, patting and rummaging. Finally the key appeared: a small gold thing on a loop of dark red ribbon. Lockwood took it coolly.

‘It is my belief,’ Fairfax said, ‘that the Source is in that room. Whether you decide to pursue it is a matter for yourselves. You do not
have
to enter. I leave it up to you. I think you can already sense, however, that I am right . . .’

He may have said more, but I was too busy trying to block out the faint, insistent whispering sounds that had suddenly
broken through the silence. They were somewhere very near, and I did not like the voices. I noticed that Lockwood had gone ashen, and even George looked green and queasy; he’d drawn his collar high about his neck as if he felt the cold.

Down in the lobby, the telephone had been rigged up beside the vase, its cable running across the stones to a socket somewhere in the library. The footmen had gone. Old Bert Starkins jittered by the doors, silhouetted in the half-dark, desperate to follow them.

‘Ten minutes, sir!’ he cried.

Fairfax regarded us. ‘Mr Lockwood?’

Lockwood nodded. ‘That’s fine. Ten minutes is all we need.’

We worked in silence beneath the high thin windows of the Long Gallery, emptying out the bags, collecting the equipment, tightening straps and adjusting gear. Each of us had our usual kit – plus a little extra, to make up for our lack of flares.

At my belt I carried my rapier, a torch and extra batteries, three candles with a lighter and a box of matches, five small silver seals (each of a different shape), three sachets of iron filings, three salt bombs, two flasks of lavender water, my thermometer, my notebook and pen. Next, on a separate strap, looped like a sash across my shoulder, I had two lines of plastic canisters arranged in pairs. Each pair contained half
a pound of iron filings and half a pound of salt. Next, also over my shoulder, I had a loop of slender iron chain, six foot long when fully unfurled, and tightly wound with bubble wrap to prevent excessive noise. Last, in an outer pocket of my coat, I kept a pack of emergency provisions – energy drink, sandwiches and chocolate. Our thermos flasks of good hot tea, and the larger chains and seals, were carried in a separate bag.

In addition to my normal clothes I wore thermal gloves, a thermal vest and leggings, and thick socks under my boots. It wasn’t cold enough yet for my hat, so I stuffed this in the pocket of my parka. And I still had the necklace in its silver-glass case, hidden round my neck.

The others were kitted out more or less the same, though Lockwood also had his dark glasses clipped to the breast pocket of his coat. The kit weighed us down, and was more cumbersome than usual, but we each carried enough iron to be individually self-reliant. If we were separated, and the need came, we could set up our own circles of defence. The duffel bags still contained double sets of two-inch iron chains – which even the strongest Visitor would find pretty hard to shift – but we weren’t wholly dependent on those now.

We finished. The light outside the windows was almost gone. Over in the fireplace, the orange flames danced low. Darkness crept along the ceiling of the Long Gallery, and
weltered in the crooks and angles of the great stone staircase. But so what if it did? Yes, the day was dead and the night had come, and the Visitors of the Hall were stirring, but Lockwood & Co. were ready. We worked together, and we wouldn’t be afraid.

‘Well, that’s it,’ Fairfax said. He stood beside Starkins at the door. ‘I shall re-enter here at nine tomorrow morning to receive your report. Are there any final questions?’

He gazed around at us; we stood there waiting, Lockwood smiling softly in that way he had, hand resting on his rapier, seemingly as relaxed as if he were queuing for a cab. Beside him, George – as awkwardly impassive as ever, blinking through his thick round specs, his trousers hitched high against the weight of salt and iron. And me . . . How did I look, I wonder, in those final moments? I hope I carried myself well. Hope I didn’t let the fear show.

‘Any questions?’ Fairfax repeated.

Each of us stood there quietly, waiting for him to shut his trap and go.

‘Until the morning, then!’ Fairfax raised his hand in ponderous farewell. ‘Good luck to you all!’ He nodded crisply to Bert Starkins, and turned to descend the steps. Starkins reached out to close the doors. Twin squeals of hinges; the doors swung in. For a moment the caretaker’s body was framed between them, silhouetted against the twilight like a
gaunt and twisted gallows-tree . . . Then the doors slammed shut. The reverberation of their closing rang sharply around the lobby and away along the galleries. I could hear the echoes drifting on and on into the dusty reaches of the house.

‘Wouldn’t it be good if he’d forgotten his stick,’ George said, ‘and had to scurry back in again to pick it up? That would absolutely
ruin
the effect, wouldn’t it?

Neither of us answered. The echoes had faded, and now the eager silence of the house rose to enfold us like the waters of a well.

‘First things first,’ Lockwood said. ‘Wait here.’

He walked away across the lobby, boots tapping on the flagstones, under the gaze of the old lords and ladies of Combe Carey, to a small door beside the staircase. He opened the door and disappeared within. The door shut. There was a pause. George and I looked at each other. An oddly ceramic sound followed, then silence; then a toilet flushing. Lockwood emerged, wiping a hand on his greatcoat. He strolled back to us unhurriedly. ‘That’s better,’ he said. He was carrying a glistening wet packet under his arm.

‘What’s this?’ George asked.

Lockwood flourished the packet. ‘Seven of the strongest magnesium flares Satchell’s could provide,’ he said. ‘Strap
them onto your belts as normal and off we go.’ He broke the tape seal around the bag and unfolded the wet plastic. When he tipped it, two bright silver canisters fell out onto his palm.

‘Lockwood . . .’ George began. ‘How did—’

‘You had the flares under your clothes!’ I cried. ‘You hid them when we arrived! While we were waiting outside with Starkins!’

He smiled; his teeth glinted dimly in the half-light. ‘That’s right. They were strapped to the lining of my coat. As soon as we got here I nipped to the loo and hid them in the cistern. Here you go, Lucy. Hold out your hands.’

I took comforting possession of the cylinders, and fixed them to my belt in their proper place. Lockwood tipped out two more and handed them to George.

‘I guessed Fairfax would frisk us, or check our kit eventually,’ he said, ‘and I wanted them stashed away and out of sight before that happened. I must admit, though, I didn’t think he’d have the cheek to rifle through our bags while we weren’t looking. But there you go, that’s a measure of the man he is.’

‘Why, what kind of a man
is
he?’ George said, staring at his canisters.

‘A dreadful one. Isn’t it obvious? And here are two for me . . .’

I shook my head, marvelling. ‘If Fairfax knew you’d done this . . .’

‘Ah, but he doesn’t.’ Lockwood wore his wolf-like smile. ‘And I’m not going to lose any sleep over deceiving him. He’s laid out the rules so far. This is where we start to adjust them in our favour.’

‘I’m not arguing, Lockwood,’ George said. ‘This is great work. But you know that if we set fire to so much as the leg of a Queen Anne chair, we won’t be getting the rest of our money. In fact Fairfax will probably sue us, like the Hopes did, so we’ll be right back where we started.’

‘Oh, he’d sue us, all right,’ Lockwood agreed. ‘But who cares? This Greek Fire might well save our lives. Remember what happened to the last group of agents who spent the night here? No one’s finding
us
stone-dead on the floor. Which brings me to my last little purchase yesterday . . .’

He tapped the upturned packet. Out rolled a seventh cylinder, slightly larger than the rest. Like the others, it had the Sunrise Corporation’s rising sun logo stamped on its side, but the paper wrapper was dark red instead of white. It had a long fuse at one end.

‘New type of flare,’ Lockwood said, fixing it beside the other canisters on his belt. ‘The guy at Satchell’s said Fittes and Rotwell agents have begun using them on cluster cases – Blitz victims, plague sites and so on. It sends out a broad blast-wave of silver, iron and magnesium. We’ll have to be
well
away when it goes up, because it’s industrial strength, apparently. I hope so; it cost enough. Now – where can I hide
this rubbish?’ He crumpled up the wet packet, and stuffed it inside the opening of Fairfax’s Han vase. ‘Good,’ he said briskly. ‘Let’s get to work.’

We chose the library as our base of operations. It was close both to the main exit and to the door connecting to the safer wing, and its profusion of iron chairs would likely dampen Visitor activity. We dragged our bags inside and set up an electric lantern on one table. Lockwood turned it down low.

‘Well, we’ve had a quick look round already,’ he said. ‘Any thoughts?’

‘The whole place is heaving with them,’ I said.

George nodded. ‘Particularly?’

‘The corridor near the Red Room?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you hear anything, Lucy?’

‘In that corridor? A lot of whispering. It was too quiet to make out any of the words, but the voices were . . . wicked, I think. Everywhere else, just silence. But it’s a silence that I
know
is going to break as the night goes on.’ I gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, that doesn’t make much sense, does it?’

Lockwood nodded. ‘Actually, it does. It’s just the same with me. I can sense death-glows
everywhere
, but I can’t quite see them yet. What about you, George?’