Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

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. Thesound 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.’

24

    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