Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

of anywhere outside London, according to George.’
    I sipped my tea. ‘It’s where the Problem began , I thought.’
    ‘So they say. Anyhow, then they moved up here. All fine, no troubles in the house. No manifestations of any kind. Husband changed his job, started working from home. That’s six months ago. Still nothing funny going on. Then he fell downstairs and died.’
    ‘Hold it,’ I said. ‘How did he fall?’
    ‘Tripped, apparently.’
    ‘What I mean is, was he alone?’
    ‘According to Mrs Hope, he was. She was in bed. Happened during the night. She says her husband was a bit distracted in the weeks before he died. Hadn’t been sleeping well. She thinks he got up to get a drink of water.’
    I grunted noncommittally. ‘Ri-i-ight . . .’
    Lockwood flashed me a glance. ‘You think she pushed him?’
    ‘Not necessarily. But it would provide a motive for the haunting, wouldn’t it? Husbands don’t normally haunt wives,except when there’s reasons. Pity she didn’t want to talk to us. I’d have liked to suss her out.’
    ‘Well, you can’t always tell by looking,’ Lockwood said. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I met the notorious Harry Crisp? Sweet-faced man, he was, soft-voiced and twinkly-eyed. Good company and very plausible; he actually got me to lend him a tenner. Yet it turned out in the end that he was the most appalling murderer who liked nothing better than to—’
    I held up a hand. ‘You did tell me that. About a million times.’
    ‘Oh. Well, the point is, Mr Hope could be coming back for a host of other reasons that aren’t to do with vengeance. Something left undone, for instance: a will he hasn’t told his wife about, or some stash of money hidden under the bed . . .’
    ‘Yeah, maybe. So the disturbances began soon after his death?’
    ‘A week or two later. She was mostly away from the house up until then. Once she’d moved back, she began to be aware of an unwelcome presence.’ Lockwood tapped the folder. ‘Anyway, she doesn’t describe it here. She says she gave a full account to our “receptionist” over the phone.’
    I grinned. ‘Receptionist? George won’t like that. Well, I’ve got his notes with me, if you want to hear them.’
    ‘Go on, then.’ Lockwood sat back expectantly. ‘What’s she been seeing?’
    George’s notes were in an inside pocket of my jacket. I took them out and unfolded them, smoothing the papers on my knee. I scanned them briefly, cleared my throat. ‘Are you ready?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘“A moving shape”.’ With great ceremony I refolded the papers and put them away.
    Lockwood blinked in outrage. ‘“A moving shape”? That’s it? No further details? Come on – was it big, small, dark or bright, or what?’
    ‘It was, and I quote, “a moving shape that appeared in the back bedroom and followed me out across the landing”. Word for word, that’s what she told George.’
    Lockwood dunked a forlorn biscuit in his tea. ‘Hardly the finest description of all time. I mean, you wouldn’t want to try to sketch it, would you?’
    ‘No, but she’s an adult: what do you expect? It’s never going to be any good. The sensations she had are more revealing. She said she felt as if something was looking for her, that it knew she was there, but couldn’t find her. And the thought of it finding her was more than she could bear.’
    ‘Well,’ Lockwood said, ‘that’s a little better. She sensed a purpose . Which suggests a Type Two. But whatever the late Mr Hope’s up to, he’s not the only one at work in this house tonight. There’s us as well. So . . . what do you say? Shall we take a look around?’
    I drained my cup, set it carefully on the table. ‘I think that’s a very good idea.’
    For almost an hour we made a tour downstairs, briefly flashing on our torches to check the contents of each room, but otherwise moving in near-darkness. The oil lantern we left burning in the kitchen, together with candles, matches, and an extra torch. It’s a good rule to keep a well-lit place to retreat to if the need arises, and having different forms of light is always advisable, in case the Visitor has the ability to disrupt them.
    All was clear in the scullery and dining room at the rear of the house. They had a sad, musty, rather sombre air, a sense of lives suspended. Neat piles of newspapers lay curling on the dining-room table; in the scullery, a tray of shrivelled onions sprouted