Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase (37 page)

‘And why not tell us more about the dangers?’ I added. ‘If he’s been experimenting here, he must have known stuff about the Red Room at least, if not the hidden staircase.’

‘Exactly . . . You know, I think we should do this big block next. If we can get it loose, even George has a chance of squeezing through.’

George’s brief response was lost in the sound of our
crowbars striking stone. For several minutes more we laboured at the remaining block; with great exertions we managed to lever it halfway out before it jammed again. We all took another rest.

‘Anyway, the long and the short of it,’ Lockwood said, ‘was that I was deeply suspicious of Fairfax and his motives. I got further food for thought from George’s researches, which I read on the train. How Fairfax had started off quite wild as a boy. How his dad had wanted him to go straight into the business, but he’d spent years living it up in London, drinking, gambling and trying to be an actor. None of which would have meant anything to me at all, if it hadn’t been for Lucy’s crucial breakthrough.’ He paused dramatically.

‘Which was . . .?’ George said. I’m glad he asked; I didn’t know either.

‘She showed me this.’ He straightened and, rummaging in various pockets of his coat, discarded mint wrappers, candle stubs and bits of string before finally producing a crumpled piece of folded paper. He passed it across to us.

It was the photocopied sheet, the page from the magazine article George had discovered in the Archives. The one about the young, rich society kids who’d frequented London’s top cafés and casinos fifty years before. Annie Ward was there in the midst of the glossy crowd clustering by the fountain. In the individual portrait shot, Hugo Blake’s face smarmed smugly up at me.

‘Look by the fountain,’ Lockwood said.

It was hard to make out details in the soft magnesium light, so George switched on his torch. At the back of the crowd of merrymakers stood a group of young men, done up to the nines in white ties and tails. They surrounded the ornamental fountain. One had climbed onto the pedestal below the spout; others hung off its sides. They exuded wealth, exuberance, high spirits. The tallest of them stood partly in the shadow of the fountain, a little separate from the others. He was very big man, muscular and barrel-chested, with a resplendent mane of long dark hair. With all the hair and shadows his face was partially obscured, but the essential shapes – the great hooked nose, the heavy brows, the assertive line of the strong squared jaw – were clear enough to see.

George and I stared at the image in silence.

He’d lost a lot of weight in the intervening years, but it was him all right.

‘Fairfax . . .’ I said.

George gave a wise, contemplative nod. ‘I
thought
as much.’

I glared at him. ‘
What?
Don’t give me that. You had no idea!’

‘Well . . .’ He handed the paper back to Lockwood. ‘I thought he was damned fishy, anyhow.’

‘So when I showed this page to the ghost of Annie Ward,’ I began, ‘and she went mad with terror or distress—’ I broke
off, bit my lip. Beneath my coat, the silver-glass case burned cold against my skin. ‘But this doesn’t prove—’

‘You’re right,’ Lockwood said. ‘It doesn’t prove much in itself. Except for one crucial thing. Fairfax is a liar. When he came to see us, he claimed he’d never heard of Annie Ward. He made a big deal about not remembering her name. But quite obviously he
did
know her. He was part of the same set when he was young.’

‘And not just that!’ My heart was pounding now. I felt dizzy; my head spun, like it had back on the spiral staircase, but this time not because of any ghostly tumult. It was my memory that screamed: I’d recalled a detail that had escaped me before. ‘She was an actor too,’ I said. ‘Like Fairfax. Do you remember, in the old newspapers, it said she’d had a promising acting career, but had given it up because of . . . something or other.’

‘Because of Hugo Blake,’ Lockwood said. ‘She fell under his influence, and so—’

‘If we’re going where I think we are with this,’ George said suddenly, tapping the protruding block of stone, ‘don’t you think we should keep moving? The night won’t last for ever.’

No one disagreed with him. In silence we mounted a final assault upon the block of stone. It took all our strength, and savage attacks on the stubborn mortar with two crowbars and a knife, before the block was loosed. It fell to earth. The
sound of the impact faded. We stood staring at the hole.

Lockwood stepped close and squinted through. ‘Can’t see a thing . . . It’s probably the far cellar, where I saw the monk before. Fine . . . Once we get upstairs we’re out of the front door and away. Give me the torch, George. I’ll go through first.’

Holding the torch between his teeth, he hopped up and pushed himself head-first into the gap. A wriggle, a shuffle, a jerk of legs: he shot forward and was gone.

Silence.

George and I waited.

Dim light shone beyond the wall, and with it came Lockwood’s voice. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I lost the torch for a minute. It’s OK, it
is
the cellar. Come on – Lucy next.’

It didn’t take me long. Once my arms and head had reached the other side, Lockwood was there to pull me out.

‘Keep guard while I see to George,’ he whispered. ‘The night’s getting old, so I’d assume the other Visitors are growing quiet now, but you never know.’

So I stood by, with torch and rapier, while Lockwood wrestled George through the aperture. I could see only a little way. Thick shadows lay across the curved vaults of the cellar; beyond the nearest arch, shrouded lines of wine-racks stretched into the murk. All traces of ghost-fog had gone. Perhaps our attack on the well had already affected the entire cluster. It was impossible to say.

But ghosts, right then, weren’t my main concern. I was thinking of the blonde girl in the photograph, and the man beside the fountain. The implications battered at my mind.

‘Everyone ready?’ Lockwood whispered, once George was through. ‘We’re going to leave the house and cross the park, fast as we can. I want to reach the ruined gatehouse by the road. If we can get there by dawn, we’ll be—’

‘Tell me something first,’ I said. ‘You think Fairfax planned the burglary too?’

‘Of course. When that failed, he fell back on his second plan, which was to get us here.’

‘So he wanted the locket?’

He nodded. ‘It’s
all
about the locket, and what it proves.’

‘And what
does
it prove, Mr Lockwood?’ a deep voice said.

Metal clinked. Two figures stepped forward from beyond the arch. They had the shapes of men, but with monstrous, distorted heads. One held a revolver, the other a lantern that swung directly in our eyes; its strong beam blinded us, gave us searing pain.

‘Stop there!’ the voice said. Our hands had strayed to our sword hilts. ‘There’ll be no more rapier-play tonight. Put your weapons on the floor or we’ll shoot you where you stand.’

‘Do as he says,’ Lockwood said. He undid his rapier and let it drop. George did the same. I was the last to obey. I stared fixedly into the darkness, in the direction of the voice.

‘Quick now, Miss Carlyle!’ the voice commanded. ‘Or do you want a bullet in your heart?’

‘Lucy . . .’ Lockwood’s grip was on my shoulder.

I let the blade fall. Lockwood moved his hand away, and with it made an urbane gesture. ‘Lucy, George,’ he said, ‘may I present to you once again our host and patron, Mr John William Fairfax – Chairman of Fairfax Iron, noted industrialist, onetime actor and, of course, the murderer of Annie Ward.’

He was still dressed in the same white shirt and grey suit trousers he’d worn at the beginning of the night, but everything else about the old man had changed. His jacket had gone, replaced by a tunic of shiny steel mesh that hugged his chest and hung loose below his belly in a shimmering cascade. His upper arms were shirt-sleeved, but metal gauntlets protected his wrists and hands. As before, he supported himself on his bulldog-handled walking stick – only now the wooden membrane had been removed, revealing a long, slim rapier within. Strangest and most grotesque of all was the helmet that he wore: a smooth steel skullcap with a projecting rim around the back of the neck, and bulging leather goggles strapped below the brow-plate. The
lenses shone glassily; his eyes could not be seen. All in all, Mr Fairfax had the look of a demonic frog: both horrible and ridiculous at the same time.

He raised the lantern and stood in its swirling smoke-filled light, considering us. Then he smiled, showing his silver-coated teeth.

‘Oh, you’re a cool customer, Mr Lockwood,’ Fairfax said. ‘I’ll grant you that. I’m more and more impressed with you. It’s a shame we didn’t meet in other circumstances. You could have had a permanent job with me.’

I don’t know how Lockwood did it, but despite the revolver pointed at his chest, despite the torn coat, the bloodstains, the spots of plasm, magnesium, salt and ash on his clothes, despite the trailing cobwebs in his hair and the scratches on his face and hands, he
still
made a decent stab at looking unperturbed.

‘You’re very kind,’ he said. ‘But – aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?’ He glanced at the figure with the gun. ‘I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.’

If not quite as tall as Fairfax, this man was very heavily muscled and broad across the shoulder. His face – what I could see of it – was young and clean-shaven. He too wore a frog-like helmet and a set of body armour, and carried a rapier at his belt.

Fairfax chuckled drily. ‘Percy Grebe, my chauffeur and personal assistant. Used to be an agent with the Hambleton
Agency, before it was swallowed up by Fittes. A very capable fellow, and still an excellent swordsman. In fact, you’re already acquainted. Percy paid you a little visit the other night.’

‘Oh yes,’ Lockwood said. ‘Our masked intruder. I stabbed you, didn’t I? How’s your stomach doing?’

‘Bearing up,’ Grebe said.

‘Just another little injury to add to the long list you’ve caused us, Mr Lockwood,’ Fairfax said. ‘Look at this wall!’ He gestured at the pile of stones and the ragged hole through which magnesium smoke still gently drifted. ‘Really, I’m shocked. I
did
request that no incendiaries be brought into my house.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Lockwood said. ‘On the bright side, we’ve located and destroyed your Source, so we’ll be looking forward to our second payment as soon as the banks open later this morning.’

Another chuckle. ‘Insane optimism is another quality I admire, Mr Lockwood, but I must say it’s your ability to survive that most astounds me. I truly thought the Horror in the Red Room would have killed you hours ago. I watched you go inside, I locked the door . . . Yet now I find you re-emerging like a dusty woodworm from a completely different part of the house! Quite extraordinary. Clearly you found a way out of the room, which is impressive enough, but to discover the ultimate Source . . . Tell me, was it the Red Duke? That was my favourite theory.’

‘No. It was the staircase and the monks. We found their well.’

‘Really? A well? Through there?’ The opaque goggles flashed in the lantern-light; the voice grew thoughtful. ‘How interesting . . . You’ll have to show me presently.’

At my side, George stirred uneasily. ‘Yes . . . Not necessarily a great idea to mention the well there, Lockwood.’

Lockwood grinned. ‘Oh, Mr Fairfax is a reasonable man. Besides, he wants to talk to us first – don’t you, Fairfax?’

Silence from beneath the helmet. At Fairfax’s side the other figure did not stir; the revolver hung suspended in the dark, directed at our stomachs.

‘Yes.’ The voice was suddenly harsh, decisive. ‘And we can do it in more comfortable surroundings. I’m tired and I need to sit down. Grebe, take our friends up to the library. If either of the boys tries anything, feel free to shoot the girl.’

Lockwood said something, but I didn’t hear what. Beneath my shock and terror, anger stirred. This was Fairfax’s immediate assumption: that I was least danger, the weak link of the team. That I could be used to bind the others to good behaviour, and was scarcely a threat myself. I set my face into a neutral mask, and stared straight ahead as we filed past the old man and away towards the stairs.