Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

they searched her house,’ I murmured. ‘They can’t have looked very hard.’
    We stood by the table staring at the photo and forgotten newspaper, fifty years old.
    ‘Whoever hid her did the job well,’ George said at last. ‘And this was before the Problem was widely accepted, don’t forget. They wouldn’t have sent any psychics in.’
    ‘But why wouldn’t the ghost make trouble from the start? Why the long time-gap?’
    ‘Could be as simple as too much iron in the house. An iron bedstead in that room might have been enough. If the Hopes did a clearout, changed the furniture, that would have freed the Source again.’
    ‘They did make a change,’ I said. ‘He turned it into a study.’
    ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.’ George took off his glasses and rubbed them on his untucked shirt.
    ‘I’m sorry, George. You were right. We should have waited.’
    ‘Well, I should have gone out to join you. It’s so hard to get a night cab . . .’
    ‘There was no call for me to get so mad. I’m just worried. I hope he’s all right.’
    ‘He’ll be OK. Look, I shouldn’t have lost my temper – or kicked that fertility gourd. I broke it, didn’t I?’
    ‘Oh, he’ll never notice. Just put it back on the shelf.’
    ‘Yeah.’ Back went the glasses. He looked at me. ‘I’m sorry about your arm.’
    We’d probably have carried on being sorry about stuff indefinitely, but right then I was distracted by the face in the jar, which had stealthily re-emerged and was now pulling expressions of extravagant disgust. ‘That thing can’t hear us, can it?’
    ‘Not through silver-glass. Let’s go back up. I’ll make you something to eat.’
    I headed for the spiral stairs. ‘You’ll have to wash up first. That’ll take some time.’
    I was right. So much time, in fact, that I’d bathed and changed, and come stiffly downstairs again before George had got the eggs and bacon on the plate. I was just parking my sprained elbow on the table and reaching gingerly for the salt when the doorbell rang again.
    George and I looked at each other. We both went to the door.
    Lockwood stood there.
    His coat was torn and burned, his shirt ripped at thecollar. His face was scratched; he had the bright staring eyes and hollow cheekbones of an invalid risen from his bed. Far from being swollen, as I’d feared, he seemed thinner than ever. When he stepped slowly into the hall’s light, I saw that his left hand was bandaged in thin white gauze.
    ‘Hi, George,’ he said, and his voice shook. ‘Hi, Lucy . . .’ He wobbled, seemed about to fall. We rushed forward to support him between us, and Lockwood acknowledged us with a smile. ‘Glad to be home,’ he said, and then, ‘Hey, what happened to my gourd?’

10

    Whether the chill of the ghost-touch still ran in his veins, or whether his other injuries – together with his long interrogations at Scotland Yard – had simply exhausted him, Lockwood was in a ropy state all day. He slept (as I did) for much of the morning; at lunch he ate little, scarcely picking at George’s fresh-made cottage pie and peas. He moved slowly; he hardly spoke, which for Lockwood was unusual. After lunch he went into the living room and sat with his wounded arm swathed in hot-water bottles, staring dully out of the window.
    George and I stayed near him in companionable silence throughout the afternoon. I read a cheap detective novel. George conducted experiments on the trapped ghost in thejar, using a small electrical circuit to apply shocks to the glass. Whether out of protest, or for some other reason, the ghost did not respond.
    Towards four o’clock, when the light was already failing, Lockwood startled us both by suddenly asking for our casebook. It was the first time he’d said anything for hours.
    ‘What’ve we got coming up, George?’ he said, when the black ledger had been fetched. ‘What cases have we got outstanding?’
    George turned the pages to the latest entries. ‘Not a great deal,’ he said. ‘Got a report of a “terrifying black shape” seen in an off-licence car park, early evening. Could be anything from a Dark Spectre to a Grey Haze. We were going to visit it tonight, but I’ve rung them to postpone . . . We’ve also got a “sinister rapping sound” heard in a house in Neasden . . . Possibly a Stone Knocker, even a weak Poltergeist, but again there’s not enough info yet to be sure. Then there’s a “dark, still shadow” seen at the bottom of a