Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

opened the box and put an object on the table – ‘what supernatural resonance you detect here.’
    It was an unassuming cup of old white porcelain, with a fluted base and a sharp chip in the handle. There was a strange white stain around the inside of the lip, which thickened at the bottom of the cup to become a crusty residue.
    I took it in my hand and closed my eyes, turning it this way and that, running my fingers lightly over the surface.
    I listened, waiting for echoes . . . Nothing came to me.
    This was no good. I shook my head, cleared my mind of distractions, shut out as best I could the occasional noise of traffic passing on the road, and the less occasional slurps of tea sounding from George’s sofa. I tried again.
    No. Still nothing.
    After a few minutes I gave up. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said at last, ‘I can’t detect anything.’
    Lockwood nodded. ‘I should hope not. This is the cup George keeps his toothbrush in. Good. On to the next.’ He picked up the cup and tossed it across to the plump boy, who caught it with a snort of mirth.
    I felt myself go cold; I knew my cheeks were scarlet. I took hold of my rucksack, and stood abruptly. ‘I’m not here to be made fun of,’ I said. ‘I’ll find my own way out.’
    ‘Ooh,’ George said. ‘Feisty.’
    I looked at him. His flop of hair, his glossy, shapeless face,his silly little glasses: everything about him made me livid. ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Step over here and I’ll show you exactly how feisty I am.’
    The boy blinked at me. ‘I might just do that.’
    ‘I don’t see you moving.’
    ‘Well, it’s a deep sofa. It’s taking me a while to get out of it.’
    ‘Hold on, both of you,’ Anthony Lockwood said. ‘This is an interview, not a boxing match. George: shut up. Ms Carlyle: I apologize for upsetting you, but it was a serious test, which you passed with flying colours. You’d be amazed how many of our interviewees this morning have made up some cock-and-bull story about poison, suicide or murder. It’d be the most haunted cup in London if the mildest of their tales was true. Now then, please sit down. What can you tell me about these?’
    From the drawer beneath the table: three new items, laid side by side in front of me. A gentleman’s wristwatch, gold-plated around the rim, with an old brown leather strap; a piece of lacy red ribbon; and a slim, long-bladed penknife with an ivory inlay handle.
    My annoyance at their trick receded. This was a good challenge. With a steely glance at George, I sat and spread the objects out a little, so their hidden textures (if any) didn’t overlap. Then I emptied my mind as best I could, and picked them up, one by one.
    Time went by; I tested each three times.
    I finished. When my eyes refocused, I saw George engrossed in a comic he had got from somewhere, and Lockwood sitting as before, hands clasped, watching me.
    I took a long drink of cold tea. ‘Did any of your other applicants get this right?’ I said quietly.
    Lockwood smiled. ‘Did you?’
    ‘The echoes were hard to disengage,’ I said, ‘which I suppose is why you threw them at me all together. They’re all strong, but distinct in quality. Which do you want first?’
    ‘The knife.’
    ‘OK. The knife has several conflicting echoes: a man’s laughter, gunshots, even – possibly – birdsong. If there’s a death attached to it – which I suppose there must be, since I can sense all this – it wasn’t violent or sad in any way. The feeling I got from it was gentle, almost happy.’ I looked at him.
    Lockwood’s face gave nothing away. ‘How about the ribbon?’
    ‘The traces on the ribbon,’ I said, ‘are fainter than the knife’s, but much stronger in emotion. I thought I heard weeping, but it’s terribly indistinct. What I get so strongly with it is a sense of sadness; when I was holding it, I felt my heart would break.’
    ‘And the watch?’ His eyes were fixed on me. George still read his comic – Astounding Arabian Nights ; he idly turned a page.
    ‘The watch . . .’ I took a deep breath. ‘The echoes here aren’t as strong as on the ribbon or the knife, which makes me think the owner hasn’t died – or not while wearing it, at any rate. But there’s death attached to it nonetheless. A lot of death. And . . . it isn’t pleasant. I heard voices raised and . . . and screaming, and—’ I shuddered as I looked at it glinting gently on the coffee table. Every notch on that gold plate casing,