Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase

10

Whether the chill of the ghost-touch still ran in his veins, or whether his other injuries – together with his long interrogations at Scotland Yard – had simply exhausted him, Lockwood was in a ropy state all day. He slept (as I did) for much of the morning; at lunch he ate little, scarcely picking at George’s fresh-made cottage pie and peas. He moved slowly; he hardly spoke, which for Lockwood was unusual. After lunch he went into the living room and sat with his wounded arm swathed in hot-water bottles, staring dully out of the window.

George and I stayed near him in companionable silence throughout the afternoon. I read a cheap detective novel. George conducted experiments on the trapped ghost in the jar, using a small electrical circuit to apply shocks to the glass. Whether out of protest, or for some other reason, the ghost did not respond.

Towards four o’clock, when the light was already failing, Lockwood startled us both by suddenly asking for our casebook. It was the first time he’d said anything for hours.

‘What’ve we got coming up, George?’ he said, when the black ledger had been fetched. ‘What cases have we got outstanding?’

George turned the pages to the latest entries. ‘Not a great deal,’ he said. ‘Got a report of a “terrifying black shape” seen in an off-licence car park, early evening. Could be anything from a Dark Spectre to a Grey Haze. We were going to visit it tonight, but I’ve rung them to postpone . . . We’ve also got a “sinister rapping sound” heard in a house in Neasden . . . Possibly a Stone Knocker, even a weak Poltergeist, but again there’s not enough info yet to be sure. Then there’s a “dark, still shadow” seen at the bottom of a Finchley garden – probably a Lurker or a Shade . . . Oh, and an urgent request from Mrs Eileen Smithers of Chorley. Every night, when alone in the small hours, she hears—’

‘Hold it,’ Lockwood said. ‘Eileen Smithers? Didn’t we work for her before?’

‘We did. That time it was a “ghastly disembodied howling” resounding about her lounge and kitchen. We thought it might be a Screaming Spirit. In fact it was her neighbour’s cat, Bumbles, trapped inside the cavity wall.’

Lockwood made a face. ‘Oh Lord, I remember. And this time?’

‘An “eerie, child-like wailing” heard in her attic. Starts around midnight, when—’

‘It’ll be the bloody cat again.’ Lockwood removed his left hand from beneath the water bottles and flexed the fingers carefully. The skin was slightly blue. ‘All in all, it’s not the most thrilling programme in the history of psychical detection, is it? Lurkers, Shades, and Bumbles the ginger tom . . . What happened to the good cases, like the Mortlake Horror and the Dulwich Wraith?’

‘If by “good” you mean a powerful, challenging ghost,’ I said, ‘last night’s was pretty fine. Trouble was – we weren’t expecting it.’

‘As the police at Scotland Yard repeatedly pointed out to me,’ Lockwood growled. ‘No, by “good”, I mean cases that might make us some money. None of this stuff’s exactly big time.’ He subsided back into his chair.

It was rare for Lockwood to mention money; it wasn’t his usual motivation. There was an uncomfortable silence. ‘Funnily enough, George has found out a bit about our ghost-girl,’ I said brightly. ‘Tell him about it, George.’

George had been dying to get it off his chest all day. He whipped the article out of his pocket and read it through. Lockwood – who seldom had much interest in the identity of Visitors, even when they hadn’t injured him – listened indifferently.

‘Annabel Ward?’ he said at last. ‘So that was her name? I wonder how she died . . .’

‘And who it was who killed her,’ I added.

Lockwood shrugged. ‘Fifty years is a long time. We’ll never know. I’m more concerned about now. Her ghost has created a real mess for us. The police aren’t at all happy about the fire.’

‘So what did happen with them last night?’ George said.

‘Not much. They took my statement. I argued our case pretty well – dangerous Visitor, our lives at risk, had to act on the spur of the moment, all the obvious stuff. But they didn’t seem convinced.’ He broke off, stared out of the window again.

‘And now?’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘We’ll have to see what happens.’

As to that, we found out sooner than expected. Not twenty minutes later a brusque hammering sounded on the front door. George went to answer it. He returned with a blue-fringed visiting card and an expression of grim dismay.

‘Mr Montagu Barnes of DEPRAC,’ he said bleakly. ‘Are you at home?’

Lockwood groaned. ‘I’ll have to be. He knows I’m in no state to go out today. All right. Show him in.’

The Department of Psychical Research and Control, or DEPRAC, is one of the most powerful organizations in the country. It’s sort of part of the government, and sort of part of the police, but is actually run by lots of old operatives who’ve grown too slow and decrepit even to be supervisors any more. One of their main jobs is to keep tabs on the agencies and make sure we all follow the rules.

Inspector Barnes liked the rules more than most. He was famously officious and had a deep dislike of anything that didn’t follow DEPRAC guidelines to the letter. Lockwood and George had crossed paths with him on several occasions, mostly before I’d joined the company. This was the first time I’d seen him at close quarters, so I studied him with interest as he entered the living room.

He was a small man, wearing a dark, rather crumpled suit. His shoes were brown and scuffed, his trousers just too long for him. He was dressed in a long brown raincoat that extended to his knees, and had a brown-suede bowler on his head. His hair was lank and thin, except under his nose, where sat a resplendent moustache, as coarse and tufty as a brand-new scrubbing brush. His age was uncertain; perhaps he was a lived-in fifty. To me he seemed inexpressibly old, one short step from becoming a Visitor himself. He had a melancholy, drawn expression, as if all light and joy had been surgically removed from his person under anaesthetic, leaving his skin loose and saggy beneath the eyes. These eyes, however, were shrewd and keen.

Lockwood rose stiffly, gave him a cordial enough greeting and ushered him to a seat. George removed the ghost-jar to the sideboard and concealed it under the spotted veil. I went to make some tea.

When I got back, Barnes was sitting in the middle of the sofa, still wearing his coat and hat, his hands flat on wide-spaced knees. It was a posture that managed to be both domineering and awkward at the same time. He was staring at the collection of artefacts on the wall.

‘Most people,’ he was saying in a somewhat nasal voice, ‘make do with landscapes or rows of ducks. This stuff can’t be hygienic. What’s that moth-eaten thing?’

‘Tibetan spirit-pole,’ Lockwood said. ‘At least a hundred years old. My guess is that the lamas somehow directed roaming ghosts into those hollow metal globes hanging between the flags. Clever of you to pick it out, Mr Barnes; it’s one of the best pieces in my collection.’

The inspector snorted into his moustache. ‘Looks more like foreign mumbo-jumbo, if you ask me . . .’ He pulled his gaze round to meet with ours. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m pleased to see you’re both in such good shape. Surprised too. When I saw you in the garden last night, I thought you’d be in hospital for a week.’ There was just enough ambiguity in his tone to make me wonder if he’d perhaps hoped for this outcome as well.

Lockwood made a regretful gesture. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stay and help out,’ he said. ‘I wanted to, but the doctors were insistent.’

‘Oh, you couldn’t have done anything,’ Barnes said. ‘You’d just have got in the way. It was a heroic effort by the fire-fighters and agents who fought the blaze. They managed to save the bulk of the house. But the upper floor is a complete write-off, thanks to you.’

Lockwood nodded stiffly. ‘I’ve made my statement to your colleagues at the Yard.’

‘I know. And I’ve spoken with Mrs Hope, whose house you destroyed.’

‘Ah. And how’s she doing?’

‘She’s distraught, Mr Lockwood, as you might imagine. I couldn’t get much sense out of her. But she and her daughter are also very angry, and they’re demanding compensation. This my tea? Lovely.’ He took a cup.

Lockwood’s face, already pale, grew paler. ‘I quite understand that they’re upset,’ he said, ‘but, speaking as professionals, accidents like this happen in our work. Lucy and I dealt with a dangerous Type Two which had killed before and was threatening our lives. Yes, the collateral damage was unfortunate, but I trust DEPRAC will support us in meeting any costs that—’

‘DEPRAC won’t help you with a penny of it,’ Barnes said, sipping his tea. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ve already checked with my superiors, and they take the view that you disregarded several basic safety procedures in your investigations at Sheen Road. Most crucially, you chose to engage with the Visitor without your iron chains: the fire was a direct result of that decision.’ The inspector wiped his moustache dry with the side of a finger. ‘As far as compensation goes, you’re on your own.’

‘But this is ridiculous,’ Lockwood said. ‘Surely we can—’

‘There’s no “we” about it!’ Barnes seemed suddenly irate. He got to his feet, brandishing the cup. ‘If you and Ms Carlyle had done the sensible thing – if you’d left the house when you’d first encountered the Visitor, if you’d returned with better equipment or’ – he glared round at us – ‘with better agents, that house would still be standing! It’s your fault, and I’m afraid I can’t help you. Which brings me to the real point.’ He took a packet from his coat pocket. ‘I’ve an envelope here from the Hope family solicitors. They’re demanding immediate settlement for the damage caused by the fire. The sum is sixty thousand pounds. You’ve four weeks to pay up, or they’ll launch court proceedings against you.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I hope you’re as well off as you seem to be, Mr Lockwood, because I can assure you that if you fail to meet this obligation, DEPRAC will have to wind your agency up, shut Lockwood and Co. down.’

Nobody moved. Lockwood and I sat as if we’d both been ghost-locked. Slowly, George took off his glasses and wiped them on his jumper.

Now that he’d given us that fatal news, Inspector Barnes seemed restless and ill at ease. He stalked around the room, glaring at the artefacts, sipping at his tea.

‘Put the letter on the sideboard, please,’ Lockwood said. ‘I’ll look at it later.’

‘No good being miffed, Mr Lockwood,’ Barnes said. ‘This is what happens when an agency isn’t properly run. No supervisors! Agencies with adults ensure everything’s done with maximum care for property and minimum loss of life. But you’ – he waved a hand disgustedly – ‘you’re nothing but three kids playing at grown-up games. Everything in this house is testament to that, even this rubbish on the wall.’ He peered at a small label. ‘“An Indonesian ghost-catcher”? Fiddle-faddle! Belongs in a museum!’

‘That collection was my mother’s,’ Lockwood said quietly.

The inspector didn’t hear; he tossed the envelope onto the sideboard and, in the same moment, noticed the object concealed beneath the spotty handkerchief. Frowning, he flicked the cloth aside, revealing the jar of yellow smog. His frown deepened. He bent close, peered into its depths. ‘And this? What’s this monstrosity? Some other appalling specimen that should have been incinerated long ago . . .’ He tapped dismissively on the glass.

‘Er, I wouldn’t do that,’ Lockwood said.

‘Why not?’

A rush of yellow plasm; the ghost’s face congealed into existence directly opposite Barnes’s own. Its eyes bulged out as if on stalks; its mouth gurned wide, revealing an Alpine range of jagged teeth. It was doing something improbable with its tongue.

It was hard to guess exactly how much of the apparition the inspector saw. Certainly he sensed something. Emitting a whoop like a howler monkey, he sprang back in terror. His hand jerked high; hot, strong tea rained down over his face and shirt-front. The cup clattered to the floor.

‘George,’ Lockwood said mildly, ‘I told you to keep that jar downstairs.’

‘I know. I’m so forgetful.’

Barnes was blinking, gasping, wiping at his face. ‘You irresponsible idiots! That hellish thing – what is it?’

‘Not sure,’ George said. ‘Possibly a Spectre of some kind. Sorry about that, Mr Barnes, but really you shouldn’t have looked so close. It’s easily startled by grotesque shapes.’

The inspector had snatched up a napkin from the tea tray and was dabbing at his shirt; now he scowled round at us all. ‘This is exactly what I’m talking about,’ he said. ‘Jars like that shouldn’t be kept in private homes. They need to be in secure locations, under the control of responsible institutions – or, better still, destroyed. What if that ghost got free? What if some kid came in and found it? I could barely see the outline and it frightened me half to death, and you go leaving it casually on a sideboard.’ He shook his head sourly. ‘Like I say, you’re just playing games. Well, I’ve said what I came for. Read those documents, Mr Lockwood, and think about what you want to do. Remember – four weeks is all you’ve got. Four weeks and sixty thousand pounds. No, don’t bother seeing me out; I can manage, assuming some ghoul doesn’t devour me in the hall.’

He slapped his hat on his head and stomped from the room. We waited until we heard the front door slam.

‘Rather a tiresome meeting in so many ways,’ Lockwood said, ‘but it perked up a little towards the end.’

‘Didn’t it?’ George chuckled. ‘That was priceless. Did you see the look on his face!’

I grinned. ‘I’ve never seen anyone move so fast.’

‘He was absolutely petrified, wasn’t he?’

‘Yeah. That was great.’

‘Really funny.’

‘Yes.’

Our laughter drained away. There was a long silence. We all stared out at nothing.

‘Can you pay the Hopes off?’ I said.

Lockwood took a deep breath; the effort seemed to pain him – he rubbed the side of his ribs irritably. ‘In a word: no. I’ve got this house, but not much in the bank. Nothing like enough to fix the Hopes’ place, anyway. The only way I could do it is sell up here, and that’s effectively the end of the agency, as Barnes well knows . . .’ For an instant he seemed to shrink back into his chair; then a switch was flicked and energy returned. He flashed us both a bruised, resplendent smile. ‘But it’s not going to come to that, is it? We’ve got four weeks! That’s plenty of time to earn some real cash! What we need is a really high-profile case that gives us a bit of significant publicity, gets the ball rolling.’ He pointed at the casebook on the table. ‘No more of these rubbish Shades and Lurkers – we want something that’ll truly make our name. Well . . . we’ll get on to it tomorrow . . . No thanks, George – I don’t want tea. I’m a little tired. If it’s all the same to you, I’m off to bed.’

He said goodnight and left. George and I sat there, saying nothing.

‘I didn’t tell him, but we’ve lost one of those cases already,’ George said at last. ‘They rang up today and cancelled. Heard about the fire, you see.’

‘The cat lady?’

‘I’m afraid not. One of the interesting ones.’

‘Four weeks isn’t really long enough to get that money, is it?’ I said.

‘No.’ He was cross-legged on the sofa, chin resting gloomily on his hands.

‘It’s so unfair,’ I said. ‘We risked our lives!’

‘Yeah.’

‘We faced down a formidable ghost! We made London a safer place!’

‘Yeah.’

‘We should be getting praised for this!’

George stretched, prepared to rise. ‘Nice thought, but it’s not the way things work. You hungry?’

‘Not really. Just exhausted. I think I’m going to bed too.’ I watched him gather up the tea things, and retrieve the inspector’s fallen cup from under the settee. ‘At least Annabel Ward’s dealt with,’ I said. ‘That’s a little consolation.’

He grunted. ‘Yeah. You did that bit right, at least.’