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Contents

Cover

About the Book

Title Page

Dedication

I: The Ghost

II: Before

III: The Necklace

IV: The Hall

V: And After

Glossary

About the Author

Also by Jonathan Stroud

The Bartimaeus sequence

Also by Jonathan Stroud

Buried Fire
The Leap
The Last Siege
Heroes of the Valley

The Bartimaeus series

The Amulet of Samarkand
The Golem’s Eye
Ptolemy’s Gate
The Ring of Solomon

www.lockwoodbooks.co.uk
www.jonathanstroud.com

About the Book

When the dead come back to haunt the living, Lockwood & Co. step in . . .

For more than fifty years, the country has been affected by a horrifying epidemic of ghosts. A number of Psychic Investigations Agencies have sprung up to destroy the dangerous apparitions.

Lucy Carlyle, a talented young agent, arrives in London hoping for a notable career. Instead she finds herself joining the smallest, most ramshackle agency in the city, run by the charismatic Anthony Lockwood. When one of their cases goes horribly wrong, Lockwood & Co. have one last chance of redemption. Unfortunately this involves spending the night in one of the most haunted houses in England, and trying to escape alive.

Set in a city stalked by spectres, The Screaming Staircase is the first in a chilling new series full of suspense, humour and truly terrifying ghosts. Your nights will never be the same again . . .

About the Author

Jonathan Stroud was born in Bedford in 1970. After studying English Literature at York University, he moved to London, where he worked as an editor in a publishing firm. He is the author of the best-selling Bartimaeus sequence, which is published in 35 languages and has sold 6 million copies worldwide, and also of four other novels: Heroes of the Valley, The Last Siege, The Leap and Buried Fire. Jonathan lives in Hertfordshire with his family. He has yet to see a ghost, but is keeping his eyes open.

LOCKWOOD & CO.: THE SCREAMING STAIRCASE
AN RHCP DIGITAL EBOOK 9781448121786

Published in Great Britain by RHCP Digital,
an imprint of Random House Children’s Publishers UK
A Random House Group Company

This ebook edition published 2013

First Published in Great Britain by Doubleday, 2013

The right of Jonathan Stroud to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

For Mum & Dad, with love

The Ghost

Before

III

The Necklace

The Hall

And After

1

Of the first few hauntings I investigated with Lockwood & Co. I intend to say little, in part to protect the identity of the victims, in part because of the gruesome nature of the incidents, but mainly because, in a variety of ingenious ways, we succeeded in cocking them all up. There, I’ve admitted it! Not a single one of those early cases ended as neatly as we’d have wished. Yes, the Mortlake Horror was driven out, but only as far as Richmond Park, where even now it stalks by night amongst the silent trees. Yes, both the Grey Spectre of Aldgate and the entity known as the Clattering Bones were destroyed, but not before several further (and, I now think, unnecessary) deaths. And as for the creeping shadow that haunted young Mrs Andrews, to the imperilment of her sanity and her hemline, wherever she may continue to wander in this world, poor thing, there it follows too. So it was not exactly an unblemished record that we took with us, Lockwood and I, when we walked up the path to 62 Sheen Road on that misty autumn afternoon and briskly rang the bell.

We stood on the doorstep with our backs to the muffled traffic, and Lockwood’s gloved right hand clasped upon the bell-pull. Deep in the house, the echoes faded. I gazed at the door: at the small sun-blisters on the varnish and the scuffs on the letterbox; at the four diamond panes of frosted glass that showed nothing beyond except for darkness. The porch had a forlorn and unused air, its corners choked with the same sodden beech leaves that littered the path and lawn.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Remember our new rules. Don’t just blab out anything you see. Don’t speculate openly about who killed who, how, or when. And above all don’t impersonate the client. Please. It never goes down well.’

‘That’s an awful lot of don’ts, Lucy,’ Lockwood said.

‘Too right it is.’

‘You know I’ve got an excellent ear for accents. I copy people without thinking.’

‘Fine, copy them quietly after the event. Not loudly, not in front of them, and particularly not when they’re a six-foot-six Irish dockworker with a speech impediment, and we’re a good half-mile from the public road.’

‘Yes, he was really quite nimble for his size,’ Lockwood said. ‘Still, the chase will have kept us fit. Sense anything?’

‘Not yet. But I’m hardly likely to, out here. You?’

He let go of the bell-pull and made some minor adjustment to the collar of his coat. ‘Oddly enough, I have. There was a death in the garden sometime in the last few hours. Under that laurel halfway up the path.’

‘I assume you’re going to tell me it’s only a smallish glow.’ My head was tilted on one side, my eyes half closed; I was listening to the silence of the house.

‘Yes, about mouse-sized,’ Lockwood admitted. ‘Suppose it might have been a vole. I expect a cat got it or something.’

‘So . . . possibly not part of our case, then, if it was a mouse?’

‘Probably not.’

Beyond the frosted panes, in the interior of the house, I spied a movement: something shifting in the hall’s black depths. ‘OK, here we go,’ I said. ‘She’s coming. Remember what I said.’

Lockwood bent his knees and picked up the duffel bag beside his feet. We both moved back a little, preparing pleasant, respectful smiles.

We waited. Nothing happened. The door stayed shut.

There was no one there.

As Lockwood opened his mouth to speak, we heard footsteps behind us on the path.

‘I’m so sorry!’ The woman emerging from the mists had been walking slowly, but as we turned she accelerated into a token little trot. ‘So sorry!’ she repeated. ‘I was delayed. I didn’t think you’d be so prompt.’

She climbed the steps, a short, well-padded individual with a round face expanding into middle age. Her straight, ash-blonde hair was fixed back in a no-nonsense manner by clips above her ears. She wore a long black skirt, a crisp white shirt, and an enormous woollen cardigan with sagging pockets at the sides. She carried a thin folder in one hand.

‘Mrs Hope?’ I said. ‘Good evening, madam. My name is Lucy Carlyle and this is Anthony Lockwood, of Lockwood and Co. We’ve come about your call.’

The woman halted on the topmost step but one, and regarded us with wide grey eyes in which all the usual emotions featured. Distrust, resentment, uncertainty and dread – they were all there. They come as standard in our profession, so we didn’t take it personally.

Her gaze darted back and forth between us, taking in our neat clothes and carefully brushed hair, the polished rapiers glittering at our belts, the heavy bags we carried. It lingered long on our faces. She made no move to go past us to the door of the house. Her free hand was thrust deep into the pocket of her cardigan, forcing the fabric down.

‘Just the two of you?’ she said at last.

‘Just us,’ I said.

‘You’re very young.’

Lockwood ignited his smile; its warmth lit up the evening. ‘That’s the idea, Mrs Hope. You know that’s the way it has to be.’

‘Actually, I’m not Mrs Hope.’ Her own wan smile, summoned in involuntary response to Lockwood’s, flickered across her face and vanished, leaving anxiety behind. ‘I’m her daughter, Suzie Martin. I’m afraid Mother isn’t coming.’

‘But we arranged to meet her,’ I said. ‘She was going to show us round the house.’

‘I know.’ The woman looked down at her smart black shoes. ‘I’m afraid she’s no longer willing to set foot here. The circumstances of Father’s death were horrible enough, but recently the nightly . . . disturbances have been too persistent. Last night was very bad, and Mother decided she’d had enough. She’s staying with me now. We’ll have to sell up, but obviously we can’t do that until the house is made safe . . .’ Her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘Which is why you’re here . . . Excuse me, but shouldn’t you have a supervisor? I thought an adult always had to be present at an investigation. Exactly how old are you?’

‘Old enough and young enough,’ Lockwood said, smiling. ‘The perfect age.’

‘Strictly speaking, madam,’ I added, ‘the law states that an adult is only required if the operatives are undergoing training. It’s true that some of the bigger agencies always use supervisors, but that’s their private policy. We’re fully qualified and independent, and we don’t find it necessary.’

‘In our experience,’ Lockwood said sweetly, ‘adults just get in the way. But of course we do have our licences here, if you’d like to see them.’

The woman ran a hand across the smooth surface of her neat blonde hair. ‘No, no . . . That won’t be necessary. Since Mother clearly wanted you, I’m sure it will be fine . . .’ Her voice was neutral and uncertain. There was a brief silence.

‘Thank you, madam.’ I glanced back towards the quiet, waiting door. ‘There’s just one other thing. Is there someone else at home? When we rang the bell, I thought—’

Her eyes rose rapidly, met mine. ‘No. That’s quite impossible. I have the only key.’

‘I see. I must’ve been mistaken.’

‘Well, I won’t delay you,’ Mrs Martin said. ‘Mother’s completed the form you sent her.’ She held out the buff folder. ‘She hopes it will be useful.’

‘I’m sure it will.’ Lockwood tucked it somewhere inside his coat. ‘Thank you very much. Well, we’d better get started. Tell your mother we’ll be in touch in the morning.’

The woman handed him a ring of keys. Somewhere along the road a car horn blared, to be answered by another. There was plenty of time till curfew, but night was falling and people were growing antsy. They wanted to get home. Soon there’d be nothing moving in the London streets but trails of mist and twisting moonbeams. Or nothing, at least, any adult there could clearly see.

Suzie Martin was conscious of this too. She raised her shoulders, pulled her cardigan tight. ‘Well, I’d better be going. I suppose I should wish you luck . . .’ She looked away. ‘So very young! How terrible that the world should have come to this.’

‘Goodnight, Mrs Martin,’ Lockwood said.

Without reply, she pattered down the steps. In a few seconds she had vanished among the mists and laurels in the direction of the road.

‘She’s not happy,’ I said. ‘I think we’ll be off the case tomorrow morning.’

‘Better get it solved tonight, then,’ Lockwood said. ‘Ready?’

I patted the hilt of my rapier. ‘Ready.’

He grinned at me, stepped up to the door and, with a magician’s flourish, turned the key in the lock.

When entering a house occupied by a Visitor, it’s always best to get in quick. That’s one of the first rules you learn. Never hesitate, never linger on the threshold. Why? Because, for those few seconds, it’s not too late. You stand there in the doorway with the fresh air on your back and the darkness up ahead, and you’d be an idiot if you didn’t want to turn and run. And as soon as you acknowledge that, your willpower starts draining away through your boots, and the terror starts building in your chest, and bang, that’s it – you’re compromised before you begin. Lockwood and I both knew this, so we didn’t hang around. We slipped straight through, put down our bags, and shut the door softly behind us. Then we stood quite still with our backs against it, watching and listening side by side.

The hall of the house lately occupied by Mr and Mrs Hope was long and relatively narrow, though the high ceiling made it seem quite large. It was floored with black and white marble tiles, set diagonally, and flanked by palely papered walls. Halfway along, a steep staircase rose into shadows. The hall kinked round this to the left and continued into a void of black. Doorways opened on either side: gaping, choked in darkness.

All of which could have been nicely illuminated if we’d put on the lights, of course. And there was a switch on the wall right there. But we didn’t attempt to use it. You see, a second rule you learn is this: electricity interferes. It dulls the senses and makes you weak and stupid. It’s much better to watch and listen in the dark. It’s good to have that fear.

We stood in silence, doing what we do. I listened. Lockwood watched. It was cold in the house. The air had that musty, slightly sour smell you get in every unloved place.

I leaned in close to Lockwood. ‘No heating,’ I whispered.

‘Mm-hm.’

‘Something else too, you think?’

‘Mm-hm.’

As my eyes grew used to the dark, I saw more details. Beneath the curl of the banister was a little polished table, on which sat a china bowl of potpourri. There were pictures on the wall, mostly faded posters of old-time musicals, and photographs of rolling hills and gentle seas. All pretty innocuous. In fact it wasn’t at all an ugly hallway; in bright sunlight it might have looked quite pleasant. But not so much now, with the last light from the door panes stretching out like skewed coffins on the floor in front of us; with our shadows neatly framed inside them; and with the manner of old Mr Hope’s death in this very place hanging heavy in our minds.

I breathed hard to calm myself and shut out morbid thoughts. Then I closed my eyes against the taunting darkness and listened.

Listened . . .

Halls, landings and staircases are the arteries and airways of any building. It’s here that everything is channelled. You get echoes of things currently going on in all the connecting rooms. Sometimes you also get other noises that, strictly speaking, ought not to be there at all. Echoes of the past, echoes of hidden things . . .

This was one such time.

I opened my eyes, picked up my bag and walked slowly down the hall towards the stairs. Lockwood was already standing by the little polished table beneath the banister. His face shone dimly in the light from the door. ‘Heard something?’ he said.

‘Yep.’

‘What?’

‘A little knocking sound. Comes and goes. It’s very faint, and I can’t tell where it’s coming from. But it’ll get stronger – it’s scarcely dark yet. What about you?’

He pointed at the bottom of the steps. ‘You remember what happened to Mr Hope, of course?’

‘Fell down the stairs and broke his neck.’

‘Exactly. Well, there’s a tremendous residual death-glow right here, still lingering three months after he died. I should’ve brought my sunglasses, it’s so bright. So what Mrs Hope told George on the phone stacks up. Her husband tripped and tumbled down and hit the ground hard.’ He glanced up the shadowy stairwell. ‘Long steep flight . . . Nasty way to go.’

I bent low, squinting at the floor in the half-dark. ‘Yeah, look how the tiles have cracked. He must’ve fallen with tremendous f—’

Two sharp crashes sounded on the stairs. Air moved violently against my face. Before I could react, something large, soft and horribly heavy landed precisely where I stood. The impact of it jarred my teeth.

I jumped back, ripping my rapier from my belt. I stood against the wall, weapon raised and shaking, heart clawing at my chest, eyes staring wildly side to side.

Nothing. The stairs were empty. No broken body sprawled lifeless on the floor.

Lockwood leaned casually against the banister. It was too dark to be certain, but I swear he’d raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard a thing.

‘You all right, Lucy?’

I breathed hard. ‘No. I just got the echo of Mr Hope’s last fall. It was very loud and very real. It was like he’d landed right on top of me. Don’t laugh. It’s not funny.’

‘Sorry. Well, something’s stirring early tonight. It’s going to get interesting later. What time d’you make it?’

Having a watch with a luminous dial is my third recommended rule. It’s best if it can also withstand sudden drops in temperature and strong ectoplasmic shock. ‘Not yet five,’ I said.

‘Fine.’ Lockwood’s teeth aren’t quite as luminous as my watch, but when he grins it’s a close-run thing. ‘Plenty of time for a cup of tea. Then we find ourselves a ghost.’

2

When you go out hunting wicked spirits, it’s the simple things that matter most. The silvered point of your rapier flashing in the dark; the iron filings scattered on the floor; the sealed canisters of best Greek Fire, ready as a last resort . . . But tea bags, brown and fresh and plenty of them, and made (for preference) by Pitkin Brothers of Bond Street, are perhaps the simplest and best of all.

OK, they may not save your life like a sword-tip or an iron circle can, and they haven’t the protective power of a sudden wall of fire. But they do provide something just as vital. They help to keep you sane.

It’s never pleasant, sitting in a haunted house, waiting in the dark. The night presses in around you and the silence beats against your ears, and soon, if you’re not careful, you start to see or hear things that are the products of your mind. In short, you need distractions. Each of us at Lockwood’s has our preference. I do a bit of drawing, George has his comics, Lockwood himself reads the gossip magazines. But all of us like our tea and biscuits, and that night in the Hopes’ house was no exception.

We found the kitchen at the far end of the hall, just beyond the stairway. It was a nice enough room, neat and white and modern, and noticeably warmer than the hall. It had no supernatural traces of any kind. All was quiet. The knocking sound I’d heard was inaudible here, and there was no repetition of the nasty bumping on the stairs.

I got the kettle going, while Lockwood lit an oil lamp and set it on the table. By its light we took off our rapiers and work-belts and laid them out before us. Our belts have seven separate clips and pouches, and we went through these in silence, systematically checking the contents while the kettle wheezed and huffed away. We’d already checked everything back in the office, but we were more than happy to do it again. A girl at Rotwell’s had died the previous week after forgetting to restock her magnesium flares.

Outside the window, the sun was gone. Faint clouds choked the blue-black sky, and mists had risen to engulf the garden. Beyond black hedges, lights shone in other houses. They were near, but also distant, cut off from us like ships passing across deep water.

We put the belts back on, and checked the Velcro strapping around the rapiers. I fixed the teas and brought them to the table. Lockwood found the biscuits. We sat together while the oil lamp flickered and shadows danced in the corners of the room.

At last Lockwood pulled the collar of his greatcoat high about his neck. ‘Let’s see what Mrs Hope has to say for herself,’ he said. He stretched out a long thin hand for the folder lying on the table. Lamplight glimmered darkly in his flop of hair.

As he read, I checked the thermometer clipped to my belt. Fifteen degrees. Not warm, but roughly what you’d expect from an unheated house at this time of year. I took my notebook from another pouch and jotted down the room and figure. I also recorded details of the aural phenomena I’d experienced in the hall.

Lockwood tossed the folder aside. ‘Well, that was useful.’

‘Really?’

‘No. I’m being ironic. Or is it sarcastic? I can never remember.’

‘Irony’s cleverer, so you’re probably being sarcastic. What’s she say?’

‘Absolutely nothing of any use. She might as well have written it in Latin for all the good it does us. Here’s a summary. The Hopes have lived here for two years. Before that they were down in Kent somewhere; she gives lots of irrelevant detail about how happy they were. Hardly any curfews, ghost-lamps almost never on, how you could go for a walk late evening and only meet your living neighbours. That sort of thing. Don’t believe a word of it myself; Kent’s had one of the biggest outbreaks of anywhere outside London, according to George.’

I sipped my tea. ‘It’s where the Problem began, I thought.’

‘So they say. Anyhow, then they moved up here. All fine, no troubles in the house. No manifestations of any kind. Husband changed his job, started working from home. That’s six months ago. Still nothing funny going on. Then he fell downstairs and died.’

‘Hold it,’ I said. ‘How did he fall?’

‘Tripped, apparently.’

‘What I mean is, was he alone?’

‘According to Mrs Hope, he was. She was in bed. Happened during the night. She says her husband was a bit distracted in the weeks before he died. Hadn’t been sleeping well. She thinks he got up to get a drink of water.’

I grunted noncommittally. ‘Ri-i-ight . . .’

Lockwood flashed me a glance. ‘You think she pushed him?’

‘Not necessarily. But it would provide a motive for the haunting, wouldn’t it? Husbands don’t normally haunt wives, except when there’s reasons. Pity she didn’t want to talk to us. I’d have liked to suss her out.’

‘Well, you can’t always tell by looking,’ Lockwood said. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I met the notorious Harry Crisp? Sweet-faced man, he was, soft-voiced and twinkly-eyed. Good company and very plausible; he actually got me to lend him a tenner. Yet it turned out in the end that he was the most appalling murderer who liked nothing better than to—’

I held up a hand. ‘You did tell me that. About a million times.’

‘Oh. Well, the point is, Mr Hope could be coming back for a host of other reasons that aren’t to do with vengeance. Something left undone, for instance: a will he hasn’t told his wife about, or some stash of money hidden under the bed . . .’

‘Yeah, maybe. So the disturbances began soon after his death?’

‘A week or two later. She was mostly away from the house up until then. Once she’d moved back, she began to be aware of an unwelcome presence.’ Lockwood tapped the folder. ‘Anyway, she doesn’t describe it here. She says she gave a full account to our “receptionist” over the phone.’

I grinned. ‘Receptionist? George won’t like that. Well, I’ve got his notes with me, if you want to hear them.’

‘Go on, then.’ Lockwood sat back expectantly. ‘What’s she been seeing?’

George’s notes were in an inside pocket of my jacket. I took them out and unfolded them, smoothing the papers on my knee. I scanned them briefly, cleared my throat. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes.’

‘“A moving shape”.’ With great ceremony I refolded the papers and put them away.

Lockwood blinked in outrage. ‘“A moving shape”? That’s it? No further details? Come on – was it big, small, dark or bright, or what?’

‘It was, and I quote, “a moving shape that appeared in the back bedroom and followed me out across the landing”. Word for word, that’s what she told George.’

Lockwood dunked a forlorn biscuit in his tea. ‘Hardly the finest description of all time. I mean, you wouldn’t want to try to sketch it, would you?’

‘No, but she’s an adult: what do you expect? It’s never going to be any good. The sensations she had are more revealing. She said she felt as if something was looking for her, that it knew she was there, but couldn’t find her. And the thought of it finding her was more than she could bear.’

‘Well,’ Lockwood said, ‘that’s a little better. She sensed a purpose. Which suggests a Type Two. But whatever the late Mr Hope’s up to, he’s not the only one at work in this house tonight. There’s us as well. So . . . what do you say? Shall we take a look around?’

I drained my cup, set it carefully on the table. ‘I think that’s a very good idea.’

For almost an hour we made a tour downstairs, briefly flashing on our torches to check the contents of each room, but otherwise moving in near-darkness. The oil lantern we left burning in the kitchen, together with candles, matches, and an extra torch. It’s a good rule to keep a well-lit place to retreat to if the need arises, and having different forms of light is always advisable, in case the Visitor has the ability to disrupt them.

All was clear in the scullery and dining room at the rear of the house. They had a sad, musty, rather sombre air, a sense of lives suspended. Neat piles of newspapers lay curling on the dining-room table; in the scullery, a tray of shrivelled onions sprouted quietly in the darkness. But Lockwood found no visual traces anywhere, and I heard no noise. The delicate knocking sound I’d detected when first we’d entered seemed to have died away.

As we walked back up the hall, Lockwood gave a little shudder and I felt the hairs rise on my arms. The air was noticeably colder now. I checked the reading: nine degrees this time.

At the front of the building were two squarish rooms on either side of the hall. One had a television set, a sofa, two comfy armchairs; here the temperature was warmer, back to the levels of the kitchen. We looked and listened anyway, and found nothing. On the opposite side, a formal sitting room contained the usual chairs and cabinets, arranged before large net-swathed windows, and three enormous ferns in terracotta pots.

It seemed a little chilly. Twelve degrees showed on the luminous dial. Colder than the kitchen. Might mean nothing; might mean a lot. I closed my eyes, composed myself and prepared to listen.

‘Lucy, look!’ Lockwood’s voice hissed. ‘There’s Mr Hope!’

My heart jolted. I spun round, rapier half drawn . . . only to find Lockwood stooped and casual, peering at a photo on a side-table. He had his torch trained on it: the image hung in a little circle of floating gold. ‘Mrs Hope’s here as well,’ he added.

‘You idiot!’ I hissed. ‘I might have run you through.’

He chuckled. ‘Oh, don’t be so grumpy. Take a look. What do you think?’

It was a grey-haired couple standing in a garden. The woman, Mrs Hope, was an older, happier version of the daughter we’d met outside: round-faced, neat-clothed, wearing a radiant smile. Her head was level with the chest of the man beside her. He was tall and balding, with sloped, rounding shoulders and big, rather cumbersome forearms. He too smiled broadly. They were holding hands.

‘Seem cheerful enough there, don’t they?’ Lockwood said.

I nodded dubiously. ‘Got to be a reason for a Type Two, though. George says Type Two always means someone’s done something to somebody.’

‘Yes, but George has a nasty, gruesome little mind. Which reminds me: we should find the phone and ring him. I left a message on the table, but he’ll probably be worrying about us, even so. Let’s finish off the survey first.’

He didn’t find any death-glows in the little sitting room, and I couldn’t hear anything, and that was the ground floor done. Which told us what we’d already guessed. What we were looking for was upstairs.

Sure enough, the moment I set foot on the lowest step, the knocking began again. At first it was no louder than it had been before, a tiny hollow tap-tap-tapping, like a fingernail on plaster, or a nail being hammered into wood. But with every step I climbed, the echo increased a little, became a little more insistent in my inner ear. I mentioned this to Lockwood, who was treading like a formless shadow at my back.

‘Getting nippier too,’ he said.

He was right. With every step the temperature was dropping, from nine degrees, to seven, to six here, midway up the flight. I paused, zipping up my coat with fumbling fingers, while staring upwards into the dark. The stairwell was narrow, and there was no light above me at all. The upper regions of the house were a clot of shadows. I had a strong desire to switch on my torch, but resisted the impulse, which would only have made me blinder still. With one hand on my rapier hilt, I continued slowly up the stairs, the knocking growing ever louder and the cold biting at my skin.

Up I went. Louder and louder grew the knocking. Now it was a frantic scratching, tapping sound. Lower and lower dropped the number on the dial. From six degrees to five, and finally to four.

The blackness of the landing was a formless space. On my left, white banisters hung at head height like a row of giant teeth.

I reached the final stair, stepped out onto the landing—

And the knocking noise stopped dead.

I checked the luminous dial again: four degrees. Eleven degrees lower than the kitchen. I could sense my breath pluming in the air.

We were very close.

Lockwood brushed past me, flicked his torch in a brief reconnaissance. Papered walls, closed doors, dead silence. A piece of embroidery in a heavy frame: faded colours, childish letters, Home Sweet Home. Done years ago, when homes were sweet and safe, and no one hung iron charms above their children’s beds. Before the Problem came.

The landing was L-shaped, comprising a small square space in which we stood, and a long spur running behind us parallel to the stairs. It had a polished wooden floor. There were five doors leading off: one on our right, one straight ahead and three at intervals along the spur. All the doors were closed. Lockwood and I stood silently, using our eyes and ears.

‘Nothing,’ I said at last. ‘As soon as I got to the top, the knocking noises stopped.’

Lockwood took a while to speak. ‘No death-glows,’ he said. From the heaviness in his voice I knew that he too felt malaise – that strange sluggishness, that dead weight in the muscles that comes when a Visitor is near. He sighed faintly. ‘Well, ladies first, Lucy. Pick a door.’

‘Not me. I picked a door in that orphanage case and you know what happened then.’

‘That all turned out fine, didn’t it?’

‘Only because I ducked. All right, let’s take this one, but you’re going in first.’

I’d chosen the nearest, the one on the right. It turned out to lead to a recently fitted bathroom. Modern tiling gleamed eagerly as the torch swept by. There was a big white bath, a sink and toilet, and also a distant smell of jasmine soap. Neither of us found anything noticeable here, though the temperature was the same as the landing.

Lockwood tried the next door. It opened into a large back bedroom, which had been converted into possibly the messiest study in London. Torchlight showed a heavy wooden desk set beneath a curtained window. The desk was almost invisible under stacks of papers, and further teetering piles were placed, higgledy-piggledy, all across the room. A row of dark bookshelves, chaotically filled, ran down three-quarters of the far side-wall. There were cupboards, an old leather chair beside the desk, and a faintly masculine smell about the room. I tasted aftershave, whisky, even tobacco.

It was bitterly cold now. The dial at my belt showed two degrees.

I stepped carefully round the paper stacks and pulled apart the curtains, disturbing enough dust to set me coughing. Dim white light from the houses across the garden drifted into the room.

Lockwood was looking at an ancient frayed rug upon the wooden floor, nudging it to and fro with the toe of his shoe. ‘Old pressure marks,’ he said. ‘Used to be a bed here before Mr Hope took over . . .’ He shrugged, surveyed the room. ‘Maybe he’s come back to sort out his paperwork.’

‘This is it,’ I said. ‘This is where the Source is. Look at the temperature. And don’t you feel heavy, almost numb?’

Lockwood nodded. ‘Plus this is where Mrs Hope saw her legendary “moving shape”.’

A door slammed, loudly, somewhere below us in the house. Both of us jumped. ‘I think you’re right,’ Lockwood said. ‘This is the place. We should rig up a circle here.’

‘Filings or chains?’

‘Oh, filings. Filings will be fine.’

‘Are you sure? It’s not even nine o’clock, and its power’s already strong.’

‘Not that strong. Besides, whatever Mr Hope wants, I can’t believe he’s suddenly turned malevolent. Filings will be more than adequate.’ He hesitated. ‘Also . . .’

I looked at him. ‘Also what?’

‘I forgot to bring the chains. Don’t stare at me like that. You do weird things with your eyes.’

‘You forgot to bring the chains? Lockwood—’

‘George took them out to oil them and I didn’t check he’d put them back. So it’s George’s fault, really. Listen, it doesn’t matter. We don’t need them for a job like this, do we? Get the iron set up while I scan the other rooms. Then we focus here.’

I had a lot more to say, but now wasn’t the time. I took a deep breath. ‘Well, don’t get into trouble,’ I said. ‘Last time you went wandering off during a case, you got yourself locked in the toilet.’

‘A ghost shut me in, I keep telling you.’

‘So you claim, but there was not a shred of evidence that—’

But he was already gone.

It didn’t take me long to carry out my task. I hauled several stacks of dusty yellowed paper over to the edges of the room to make space in the centre of the floor. Then I pulled the rug aside, and scattered the filings in a circle, giving it a fairly small radius, so as not to waste the iron. This would be our primary refuge, where we could retreat if necessary, but we might need other circles too, depending on what we found.

I went out onto the landing. ‘I’m just going down to get more iron.’

Lockwood’s voice echoed from a nearby bedroom. ‘Fine. Can you put the kettle on?’

‘Yeah.’ I crossed to the stairs, glancing at the open bathroom door. When I put my hands on the banister rail, the wood was freezing to the touch. I hesitated at the top, listening hard, then descended towards the grainy illumination of the hall. A few steps down I thought I heard a rushing noise behind me, but when I turned back I saw nothing. With my hand on my rapier hilt, I continued to the bottom, and walked along the hall to where the kitchen’s warm glow shone through a crack in the door. Dim as it was, the lantern-light made me screw up my eyes as I went in. I helped myself to a cheeky biscuit, rinsed out the mugs and put the kettle on again. Then I picked up the two duffel bags and, with some difficulty, prised the hall door open with my foot. I moved back out into the hall, which – thanks to the bright kitchen – seemed even darker than before. There was no sound in the house. I couldn’t hear anything of Lockwood; presumably he was still scanning the final bedrooms. I climbed the stairs slowly, from cool, to cold, to colder, holding the heavy bags awkwardly on either side.

I reached the landing and heaved the bags down with a little sigh. When I raised my head to call to Lockwood, I saw a girl standing there.

3

I froze; for a tightly packed string of heartbeats I couldn’t stir a muscle. In part, of course, this was down to simple shock, but there was a lot more to it than that. A cold weight pressed like a headstone on my chest; my limbs felt entombed in mud. An icy torpor crept through the roots of my brain. My mind was numbed, the workings of my body dulled; I felt I should never have the strength to move again. A mood stole over me that might have been despair, had I the energy to truly care about it one way or the other. Nothing mattered, least of all me. Silence and stillness and utter paralysis of movement were all I could aspire to, all that I deserved.

In other words I was experiencing ghost-lock, which is the effect Type Twos have when they choose to direct their power on you.

An ordinary person might have stood there, helpless, and let the Visitor work its will upon them. But I’m an agent. I’d dealt with this before. So I wrested savage, painful breaths from the frigid air, shook the mist clear of my brain. I forced myself to live. And my hands moved slowly towards the weapons at my belt.

The girl stood halfway across the floor of the study-bedroom, directly ahead of me. I could see her framed by the open door. She was fairly faint, but I saw she stood barefoot on the rolled-up rug – or, more precisely, in it, for her ankles were sunk inside the fabric as if she were paddling in the sea. She wore a pretty summer print dress, knee-length, decorated with large, rather garish orange sunflowers. It was not a modern design. The dress and her limbs and her long fair hair all shone with dim, pale other-light, as if lit by something far away. As for her face . . .

Her face was a solid wedge of darkness. No light reached it at all.

It was hard to tell, but I guessed she’d been eighteen or so. Older than me, but not by too many years. I stood there for a time wondering about this, with my eyes locked on the faceless girl and my hands inching to my belt.

Then I remembered I was not alone in the house.

‘Lockwood,’ I called. ‘Oh, Lockwood . . .’ I said it as lightly as I could. Showing signs of fear is best avoided where Visitors are concerned – fear, anger, and other strong emotions. They feed on it too easily; it makes them faster and more aggressive. No answer came, so I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘Oh, Lockwood . . .!’ I was using a merry singsong intonation here, as if I were speaking to a little babe or a cuddly pet or something. As I might as well have been, in fact, because he didn’t bloody respond.

I turned my head and called a little louder. ‘Oh, Lockwood, please come here . . .’

His voice sounded muffled back along the landing. ‘Hold on, Luce. I’ve got something . . .’

‘Jolly good! So have I . . .’

When I looked back, the girl was closer, almost out on the landing. The face was still in shadow, but the drifts of other-light that spun about her body shone brighter than before. Her bony wrists were tight against her side, the fingers bent like fishhooks. Her bare legs were very thin.

‘What do you want?’ I said.

I listened. Words brushed soft as spiders’ touch against my ear. ‘I’m cold.’

Fragments. You seldom get more than fragments. The little voice was a whisper uttered at great distance, but also uncomfortably near at hand. It seemed an awful lot nearer to me than Lockwood’s reply had done.

‘Oh, Lockwood!’ I cooed again. ‘It’s urgent . . .’

Can you credit it? I detected a hint of annoyance in his answer. ‘Just wait a sec, Lucy. There’s something interesting here. I’ve picked up a death-glow – a really, really faint one. Something nasty happened in this front bedroom too! It’s so hazy I almost missed it, so it must’ve been a long while back. But, you know, I think it was traumatic . . . Which means – it’s only a theory, I’m just playing with ideas here – there might possibly have been two violent deaths in this house . . . What do you say to that?’

I chuckled hollowly. ‘I say that it’s a theory I can maybe help you with,’ I sang, ‘if you’ll only come out here.’

‘The thing is,’ he went on, ‘I don’t see how the first death’s got anything to do with the Hopes. They were only here two years, weren’t they? So perhaps the disturbances we’re experiencing aren’t—’

‘– actually caused by the husband?’ I cried. ‘Yes, well done! They’re not!’

A brief pause. Finally he was paying attention. ‘What?’

‘I said, it’s not the husband, Lockwood! Now get out here!’ You might notice I’d slightly abandoned my attempts at keeping it light-hearted. That was because the thing in the study had already picked up on my agitation, and was now drifting through the door. The toenails on the thin, pale feet were long and curled.

Both my hands were at my belt. One gripped the rapier hilt; the other had closed on a canister of Greek Fire. You shouldn’t really use magnesium flares in a domestic environment, of course, but I wasn’t taking any chances. My fingertips were icy, but sweaty too; they slipped against the metal.

A movement on my left. From the corner of my eye, I saw Lockwood emerge onto the landing. He too stopped dead. ‘Ah,’ he said.

I nodded grimly. ‘Yes, and next time I call you while in an operative situation, do me a favour, and get your butt out here double-quick.’

‘Sorry. But I see you’ve got it well in hand. Has she spoken?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She says she’s cold.’

‘Tell her we can sort that for her. No, don’t fiddle-faddle with your weapon – that’ll only make it worse.’ The girl had drifted a little closer across the landing; in response, I’d begun to draw my blade. ‘Tell her we can sort it,’ Lockwood said again. ‘Tell her we can find whatever she’s lost.’

I did so, in as steady a voice as I could manage. It didn’t have much effect. The shape neither shrank nor changed, nor became vaporous, nor departed, nor did any of the other things the Fittes Manual claims they’ll do when you give them hope of release.

‘I’m cold,’ the little voice said; and then again, much louder, ‘Lost and cold.’

‘What was that?’ Lockwood had sensed the contact, but couldn’t hear the sound.

‘Same words, but I’ve got to tell you, Lockwood, this time it wasn’t much like a girl talking. It sounded really deep and hollow, and echoed like a tomb.’

‘That’s never good, is it?’

‘No. I think we should take it as a sign.’ I drew my rapier. Lockwood did likewise. We stood facing the shape in silence. Never attack first. Always wait, draw out its intentions. Watch what it does, where it goes; learn its patterns of behaviour. It was so close now that I could make out the texture of the long fair hairs sweeping down around the neck; see individual moles and blemishes on the skin. It always surprised me that the visual echo could be this strong. George called it ‘the will to exist’, the refusal to lose what once had been. Of course, not all of them appear this way. It’s all down to their personality in life, and what precisely happened when that life came to an end.

We waited. ‘Can you see her face?’ I asked. Lockwood’s Sight is better than mine.

‘No. It’s veiled. But the rest is really bright. I think it’s—’

He stopped; I’d lifted up my hand. This time the voice I heard was the barest tremor in the air. ‘I’m cold,’ it whispered. ‘Lost and cold. Lost and cold . . . and DEAD!’

The wisps of light that hung about the girl flared bright and desolate, and for an instant the dark veil was lifted from the face. I screamed. The light went out. A shadow swept towards me, bony arms outstretched. Icy air drove into me, forcing me towards the stairs. I stumbled on the lip and toppled backwards over the edge. Dropping my rapier, I threw out a desperate arm, grasped the corner of the wall. I hung above the void, buffeted by the raging wind, fingertips slipping on the smooth, cold wallpaper. The shape drew close. I was about to fall.

Then Lockwood sprang between us, his blade cutting a complex pattern in the air. The shadow reared up, arm raised across its face. Lockwood cut another pattern, hemming it in on several sides with walls of flashing iron. The shape shrank back. It darted away into the study with Lockwood in pursuit.

The landing was empty. The wind had died. I scrabbled at the wall, pulled myself upright at the top of the stairs and sank to my knees. My hair was over my eyes; one foot dangled over the topmost step.

Slowly, grimly, I reached out for my rapier. There was a dull ache in my shoulder where I’d jarred my arm.

Lockwood was back. He bent close to me, his calm eyes scanning the darkness of the landing. ‘Did she touch you?’

‘No. Where did she go?’

‘I’ll show you.’ He helped me up. ‘You’re sure you’re all right, Lucy?’

‘Of course.’ I brushed my hair away, forcing the rapier viciously back into its belt-loop. The shoulder twinged a bit, but it was OK. ‘So,’ I said, starting towards the study. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

‘In a sec.’ He held out a hand, stalling my movement forward. ‘You need to relax.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re angry. There’s no need to be. That assault would have caught anyone out. I was surprised too.’

‘You didn’t drop your rapier.’ I pushed his hand away. ‘Listen, we’re wasting time. When she comes back—’

‘She wasn’t directing it at me. It was all at you, trying to pitch you over the stairs. I guess we know how Mr Hope came to take his tumble now. My point is, you need to calm down, Lucy. She’ll feed off your anger super-fast, and grow strong.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ I didn’t say it gracefully. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then another, concentrating on doing what the Manual recommends: mastering myself, loosening the hold of my emotions. After a few moments I regained control. I withdrew from my anger, and let it drop to the floor like a discarded skin.

I listened again. The house was very silent, but it was the silence of the snowfall, heavy and oppressive. I could feel it watching me.

When I opened my eyes, Lockwood was standing with his hands in his greatcoat pockets, waiting quietly in the blackness of the landing. His rapier was back in his belt. ‘Well?’ he said.

‘I’m feeling better.’

‘Anger gone?’

‘Not a trace left.’

‘OK, because if you don’t feel steady, we’re heading home right now.’

‘We’re not heading home,’ I said coolly, ‘and I’ll tell you why. Mrs Hope’s daughter won’t let us in here again. She thinks we’re too young. If we haven’t cracked the case by tomorrow, she’ll take us off it and put Fittes or Rotwell’s on the job. We need the money, Lockwood. We finish this now.’

He didn’t move. ‘Most nights,’ he said, ‘I’d agree with you. But the parameters have changed. It’s not some poor old boy bothering his widow; it’s almost certainly the ghost of a murder victim. And you know what they’re like. So if your head’s not in the right place, Luce . . .’

Calm and steady as I was, I found his condescension slightly irritating. ‘Yeah,’ I said, ‘but it’s not really me that’s the issue, is it?’

Lockwood frowned. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning the iron chains.’

He rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, come on. That’s hardly the—’

‘Those iron chains are standard kit for every agent, Lockwood. They’re essential for protection when we’re up against a strong Type Two. And you forgot to put them in!’

‘Only because George insisted on oiling them! At your suggestion, if I remember.’

‘Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?’ I cried. ‘Most agents would sooner forget their trousers than go out without their chains, but you somehow managed it. You were so keen on rushing out here, it’s a wonder we brought anything at all. George even advised us not to go. He wanted to do more research on the house. But no. You over-ruled him.’

‘Yes! Which is what I do, on account of being the leader. It’s my responsibility—’

‘– to make bad decisions? That’s right, I suppose it is.’

We stood there, arms folded, glowering at each other across the darkened landing of a haunted house. Then, like the sun coming out, Lockwood’s glare softened to a grin.

‘So . . .’ he said. ‘How’s your anger management going, Luce?’

I snorted. ‘I admit I’m annoyed, but now I’m annoyed with you. That’s different.’

‘I’m not sure it is, but I do take your original point about the money.’ He clapped his gloved hands together briskly. ‘All right, you win. George wouldn’t approve, but I think we can risk it. I’ve driven her away for the moment, and that gives us breathing space. If we’re quick, we can settle this in half an hour.’

I stooped and lifted up the duffel bags. ‘Just lead me to the place.’

The place proved to be on the far side of the study: a blank stretch of wall set between two recessed stretches of the chaotic bookshelf. In the harsh light of our torches, we saw it was still covered with ancient bedroom paper, drab and faded and peeling near the coving. Puffy, shapeless roses ran floor to ceiling in slanting lines.

In the middle of the space hung a coloured map showing the geology of the British Isles. The base of the wall was concealed by thigh-high piles of geology magazines, one or two of which were weighed down by dusty geological hammers. My keen investigative instinct told me that Mr Hope might possibly have been a geologist by trade.

I inspected the bookshelves on either side, saw how the wall protruded at that point. ‘Old chimney breast,’ I said. ‘So she went in there?’