Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

must have been bigger, because they filled huge crates. A few days later he’d have it all taken away again. The locals had no doubt what he was doing – he was busy safety-testing new products on the ghosts of Combe Carey Hall. Which in itself,’ Lockwood said, smoothing back his hair and considering the wall, ‘isn’t wrong – all the corporations must do it. But again it raised the question. If he found the place so useful, why would he suddenly want to snuff it all out? Why call us in?’
    ‘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 ourcrowbars 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 brokeoff, 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