Lockwood & Co: The Screaming Staircase (24 page)

As one, we stared at the locket’s open halves.

There wasn’t any hair. Or a photograph, a keepsake or a tiny folded letter. But that didn’t mean the locket was empty. No. There
was
something there.

It was another inscription, neatly scored into the smooth gold of the interior:

A ‡ W
H.II.2.115

‘Here it is,’ Lockwood said. ‘The hidden clue. This is what he wanted to hide.’

‘The AW’s obviously Annabel Ward,’ I said.

‘And the H is for Hugo,’ George breathed. ‘As in Hugo Blake . . .’

Lockwood frowned. ‘That’s good as far as it goes. But there must be more. What about these numbers? This is some kind of code . . .’

‘We’d better give this to DEPRAC,’ I said suddenly. ‘We can’t hold onto it. This is serious evidence, which the police will need to see. And Blake knows it’s here.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Lockwood said. ‘Not that I
really
want to come clean with Barnes. I’d rather we figured this out ourselves. Still . . .’ The phone rang shrilly in the office.
‘Maybe we haven’t got much choice. Answer that, would you, George?’

George departed and was some time gone. By the time he returned, Lockwood had returned the locket to its case and I’d started sweeping up the debris on the floor.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Lockwood said. ‘Barnes again?’

George’s features were slightly flushed. ‘Actually, no. A new client.’

‘I assume some old lady with a ghost-cat up a tree?’

‘Nope, and you might want to leave that, Lucy, and start tidying upstairs. That was Mr John Fairfax, Chairman of Fairfax Iron, and he’s coming over now.’

It was generally accepted that the Problem afflicting the British Isles was a bad thing for the economy. The dead returning to haunt the living, apparitions after dark – these things had consequences. Morale and productivity were low. No one wanted late shifts. In winter, businesses closed mid-afternoon. But some companies
did
flourish, because they fulfilled a vital need. One of these was Fairfax Iron.

Already a leading manufacturer of iron products when the crisis began, Fairfax Iron had immediately set about supplying seals, filings and chains to the Fittes and Rotwell agencies. As the Problem worsened, and the government began to mass-produce ghost-lamps, it was Fairfax Iron that provided the vast quantities of metal required. This alone secured the
company’s fortune. But of course there was more. Those ugly iron gnomes that people dotted around their gardens? Those naff Protecto™ necklaces? Those little plastic bracelets with the smiley iron faces they put on babies’ wrists before they left the hospital? Fairfax products, every one.

The company’s owner, John William Fairfax, was in consequence one of the richest men in the country, up there with the silver barons, with the heirs of Marissa Fittes and Tom Rotwell, and with that bloke who owns the great lavender farms on the Lincolnshire Wolds. He lived somewhere in London, and when he snapped his fingers, the ministers of whichever government was currently in office scampered hot-foot to his house.

Now he was coming here in person.

You can be sure we tidied that living room double-quick.

A few minutes later the purr of a large vehicle sounded in the street. I peeped out, to see a shiny Rolls idling to a halt. It seemed to fill the road. It had polished silver-coated grilles upon the windows, and threads of silver tracery running down the sides. On the bonnet, a small silver figurehead glinted in the winter sun.

The chauffeur emerged; smoothing down his crisp grey uniform, he marched round the car to open a rear door. I ducked back inside, where Lockwood was frantically plumping cushions, and George brushed cake crumbs beneath the sofa. ‘He’s
here
,’ I hissed.

Lockwood took a deep breath. ‘OK. Let’s try to make a good impression.’

We stood up when Mr John Fairfax entered the room – not that it made much difference. He was a very tall, thin man. He towered over me, towered over Lockwood. George, trailing in his wake, was entirely in his shadow. Even at seventy or eighty, or whatever age he’d got to, he was built on an impressive scale, like something you’d expect to launch down a slipway at Southampton docks. Yet his limbs were thin and wasted. The sleeves of his long silk jacket hung loose; his legs, despite the walking stick that supported him, trembled as he walked. My immediate impression was of a peculiar mix of strength and weakness. In a room of a hundred people he would have been impossible to ignore.

‘Good morning, sir,’ Lockwood was saying. ‘This is Lucy Carlyle, my associate.’

‘Delighted.’ The voice was deep, the outstretched hand vast and all-encompassing. A great square head, bald and liver-spotted, bent in my direction from on high. The nose was hooked, the black eyes bright and shining; the lines on the brow were heavy. When he smiled (it was scarcely a smile at all; rather an acknowledgement of my existence), I saw that the teeth were capped with silver. It was a face used to exerting authority and command.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.

We sat. Our guest engulfed his chair. His walking stick was mahogany, with an iron handle shaped like a dog’s head: a mastiff or bulldog, maybe. He rested it against one great bent knee and spread his fingers on the seat arms.

‘It’s an honour to have you here, sir,’ Lockwood said. ‘Would you like some tea?’

Mr Fairfax inclined his head, gave a rumble of assent. ‘Pitkins’ Breakfast, if you have it. Tell your boy to bring the sugar too.’

‘My boy? Er, yes. Off you go, George. Teas all round, please.’

George, who had neglected to remove his apron, rotated a leg and exited the room, expressionless.

‘Now, Mr Lockwood,’ John Fairfax said, ‘I’m a busy man, and as you’ll be wondering why I’ve called upon you unannounced on a Friday morning, we’ll dispense with the small talk and get down to business. There is a haunting that is proving most troublesome to me. If you can help me with it, I shall make it worth your while.’

Lockwood nodded gravely. ‘Certainly, sir. We’d be glad to.’

Our visitor cast his gaze around the room. ‘A nice house you have. Excellent collection of New Guinean ghost-wards, I see . . . Business going well?’

‘Tolerably, sir.’

‘You lie like a politician, Mr Lockwood,’ the old man said.
‘Smooth and effortless. My mother, God rest her soul and may she never walk at night, told me to speak plainly and honestly to all men. I have followed her advice all my life. So, come’ – he slapped his knee with his great flat palm – ‘we shall get on much better if we are open with each other! Your business is
not
going well. I read the papers! I know you are in financial difficulties . . . in particular following a certain incident with a house you managed to burn down.’ He chuckled, a dry reverberation. ‘You have a heavy fine to pay.’

A muscle twitched in Lockwood’s cheek; otherwise he gave no sign of irritation. ‘That’s correct, sir, though I am in the process of raising the money. We have plenty of other excellent cases, which give us a healthy income.’

Fairfax made a dismissive gesture. ‘Fibbing again, Mr Lockwood! I should tell you I have contacts in DEPRAC and I have read your recent files. I know the extent and quality of those “excellent” cases. Grey Hazes! Cold Maidens! Gibbering Mists! The weakest and most humdrum Type Ones imaginable! I’m surprised you earn enough to pay Miss Carlyle here.’

Which was a good point, come to think of it. I
hadn’t
been paid for a month.

Lockwood’s eyes glinted. ‘That being so, sir, might I ask why you have come to us today? There are many other agencies in London.’

‘Indeed there are.’ Fairfax raised his tufted eyebrows and
fixed us both with his black and beady stare. ‘But it so happens that your recent publicity surrounding that case drew my favourable attention. I was impressed by the way in which you not only found the body of . . .’ He hesitated. ‘What was the name of the girl?’

‘Annie Ward, sir.’

‘Of Annie Ward, but discovered her identity too. I like your panache, I like your attention to detail. I also like your youth and independence of mind!’ The old man leaned forward on his stick. There was something new in his face: not warmth, exactly, more a fierce enthusiasm. ‘I began as an outsider too, Mr Lockwood. I struggled hard to make my way when I was a lad. I fought against big companies, knew lean times . . . I understand the passion that drives you on each day! Besides, I’ve no interest in giving yet more money to Fittes or Rotwell. They’re rich enough already. No, I propose to give you an opportunity you’ve never dreamed of, see if you can bring your powers to bear on a different, more dangerous puzzle . . . Ah, your fellow’s back again.’

George had returned, carrying the tray, on which he’d assembled a tea service I’d never before set eyes on. It was all fine-bone china and little pink flowers, the kind of mincing cups that are so delicate and brittle you expect them to shatter when you put them to your lips. This classy effect was slightly undermined by a teetering pile of fat jam doughnuts on a plate beside them.

‘Thanks, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘Put them down here.’

George set the tray on the table, poured out the tea and offered the doughnuts around. Since no one took one, he prised the biggest of all from the bottom of the stack, fingering most of the others in the process, plonked it on a plate and sat next to me with a lingering sigh of gratification. ‘Shove up,’ he said. ‘So have I missed anything?’

The old man’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Lockwood, this is an important consultation! Surely your lad should wait outside.’

‘Er, he’s not actually an office boy, sir. This is George Cubbins. He works with me.’

Mr Fairfax appraised George, who was busily licking jam off his fingers. ‘I see . . . Well, in that case, I shall delay no longer.’ He put a hand inside his jacket and rummaged awkwardly within. ‘Take a look at this.’ He threw a crumpled photograph onto the table.

A house. More than a mere house, in fact: it was a country mansion, set in extensive grounds. The photo had been taken from some distance across a stretch of attractively mown lawn. Willow trees and flowerbeds featured on the margins, and there was also the suggestion of a lake, but the house beyond dominated all – a tall, dark slab of several floors. You could see columns and sweeping entrance stairs, and a profusion of thin, irregularly positioned windows, but the precise age and nature of the building was hard to make out. The photo seemed to have been taken either very early
or very late. The sun was somewhere behind the building, and the long black shadows of its many ancient chimneys stretched out like grasping fingers across the lawns.

‘Combe Carey Hall,’ Fairfax said, rolling the syllables off his tongue. ‘In Berkshire, just to the west of London. Have you heard of it?’

We shook our heads. None of us had.

‘No, it is not well known, and yet it is possibly the most haunted private house in England. I believe it may well be the most deadly. To my certain knowledge four previous owners of the estate have died there as a result of its apparitions. As for the numbers of servants, guests or other folk who have been frightened to death, or ghost-touched, or otherwise drawn to their doom across the house and grounds . . .’ He gave a small, dry chuckle. ‘Well, the list is extensive. In fact, the place was boarded up thirty years ago after some gruesome scandal of that kind, and not reopened until recently, when it came into my possession.’

‘You live there, sir?’ I asked.

The domed head tilted, the dark eyes flashed at me. ‘It is not my
only
property, if that is what you mean. I visit it from time to time. The place is very old. In origin, it was a priory, founded by a breakaway group of monks from one of the local abbeys. The stones at the heart of the West Wing go back to that period. Subsequently a series of local lords owned it, rebuilding and adapting the ruins, before it was
converted into its current form around the turn of the eighteenth century. Architecturally it is a peculiar mishmash of a place – passages leading nowhere or doubling back upon themselves, odd changes of level . . . But more to the point, it has always had a sinister reputation. Stories of Visitors here go back centuries. In short, it is one of those sites where hauntings were
already
in evidence, well before the start of the Problem. It’s said that—’

‘Is that someone looking out?’ George said suddenly. He had been studying the photograph closely while the old man talked, staring at it quizzically through his thick round glasses. Now he picked it up and, with a chubby finger, indicated a point on the main wall of the house. Lockwood and I bent close, frowning. High above and to the left of the entrance portico, a dark triangular notch indicated the presence of a narrow window. There was a slight grey smudge inside the notch, almost too faint to be seen.

‘Ah, you’ve noticed that, have you?’ Fairfax said. ‘Yes, it
does
look like a figure, doesn’t it? Standing just inside. The curious thing is, this photograph was taken a couple of months
before
I inherited the estate. The house was shut and locked. There was no one living there.’

He took a sip of tea, his black eyes twinkling. Again, I thought I detected amusement in his manner, as if he took a certain pleasure in that smudge and its implications.

‘What time was the picture taken?’ I asked.

‘Approaching dusk. The sun’s setting, as you can see.’

Throughout all this, Lockwood’s face had been glowing with scarcely suppressed excitement. He sat hunched forward, bony elbows balanced on his knees, hands pressed together, every sinew tense with interest. ‘You were about to tell us something of the phenomena, sir,’ he said. ‘About how they manifest, I mean.’

Mr Fairfax placed his cup down on the table, and sat back with a sigh. One great hand grasped his iron-headed walking stick; the other gestured as he spoke. ‘I am an old man. I cannot see apparitions myself, and as a general rule, I don’t sense ’em, either. But the malign aura of this house is evident even to me. I feel it the moment I walk in the door, I taste it in my mouth. Ah, it is a sickly atmosphere, Mr Lockwood, which works to sap the soul. As for specifics . . .’ He leaned a little on the stick, adjusted his position slightly as if his bones hurt him. ‘Well, there are many stories. The caretaker, Bert Starkins, is the one to ask about it; he seems to know them all. But certainly the two best-known tales in the neighbourhood – the key hauntings, if you will – concern the Red Room and the Screaming Staircase.’