Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

outfit run by juveniles’) had resulted in a dangerous, destructive blaze. It was clearly implied that Lockwood had lost control. At the end of the piece a spokeswoman for the giant Fittes Agency was quoted. She recommended ‘adult supervision’ for nearly all psychical investigations.
    The repercussions of this article had been quick and definite. At 8.05 a.m. there’d been a phone call to the office, cancelling one of our ongoing cases. A second call followed at nine. We fully expected several more.
    The chances of raising £60,000 within a month seemed remote, to say the least.
    Our meal tailed off into frosty silence. Lockwood sat across the table from me, nursing his cold tea, flexing hisinjured fingers. Life was returning to them, but they still had a bluish look. George shuffled about the kitchen, gathering plates and bunging them in the sink.
    I turned the glass case over and over in my hand.
    Lockwood’s anger was justified, and that made me miserable. The strange thing was – though I knew I’d been in the wrong, both in taking the necklace and forgetting all about it – I couldn’t wholly regret what I’d done. That night in Sheen Road I’d heard the voice of a murdered girl. I’d seen her too – both as she’d once been, and as the wretched, shrivelled object she’d become. And despite the fear and fury of the haunting, despite the terrible malignancy of the vengeful ghost, I couldn’t quite throw those memories aside.
    With the body turned to ashes, this necklace was all that remained: of Annabel Ward, of her life and death, of her whole unknown story.
    And we were going to bung that in the fires too.
    It didn’t seem right to me.
    I lifted the case closer to my eyes, staring through the glass. ‘Lockwood,’ I said, ‘can I get the necklace out?’
    He sighed. ‘I suppose. It’s daytime. It’s safe enough for now.’
    It was certainly true that Annabel Ward’s ghost was not going to spring forth from the pendant during the day. But it was linked to her, whether she was somehow contained within it, or simply using it as a conduit fromthe other side. So I couldn’t help feeling a frisson of anxiety as I flicked aside the slender iron bolt and eased the silver-glass open.
    There it was: looking scarcely more sinister than the jam spoons and butter knives that littered the sunlit table. A delicate piece of jewellery on a delicate golden chain. I took it out of the case, flinching a little at its chill touch on my skin, and studied it properly for the first time.
    The chain was formed of twisted loops of gold, mostly clean and bright, except in a couple of spots where something black had clogged between the links. The pendant itself was roughly oval, about the dimensions of a walnut. Thanks to George’s galumphing boot, it had a slightly squashed look. At one time the exterior must have been lovely. It had been lined with dozens of flakes of mother-of-pearl – pinkish-white and glittering, and neatly embedded in a mesh of gold. But many of the pieces had fallen out and, as with the chain, the surface was tarnished in places with ominous black flecks. Worst of all (and again thanks probably to George), the entire oval had been ruptured down one side. I could see a clear split along a seam.
    More interesting than all that, however, was a slightly raised heart-shaped symbol halfway down the pendant at the front. Here, a faint and spidery pattern marked the gold.
    ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘There’s an inscription on it.’
    I held it up so it caught the light, and ran my finger overthe letters. As I did so, I caught a sudden sound of voices – a man and woman talking, then the woman’s laughter, high and shrill.
    I blinked; the sensation faded. I gazed at the object in my hand. My curiosity had infected the others. Despite himself, Lockwood had got up and moved round the table. George had left off the dishes and, flourishing a tea towel, was peering over my shoulder from the other side.
    Four words. We gazed at them in silence for a time.
    Tormentum meum
laetitia mea
    It didn’t make much sense to me.
    ‘ Tormentum . . .’ George said at last. ‘That sounds cheerful.’
    ‘Latin,’ Lockwood said. ‘Haven’t we got a Latin dictionary somewhere?’
    ‘It’s from the man who gave her the necklace,’ I said. ‘The one she loved . . .’ The echo of the two voices still resounded in my mind.
    ‘How d’you know it’s a bloke?’ George put in. ‘It could have been a female