Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

still livid with us, and since takingdangerous artefacts as Lucy did is kind of an offence, I thought it was safer to keep quiet about it now. Besides, why bother? The necklace doesn’t really add anything. Even without it, Blake’s clearly guilty. That reminds me – did you find anything else about the Ward case, George?’
    ‘Yeah. Some pictures. They’re interesting. I’ll show you when we get back.’
    Time passed. The chill increased. The desolate emotions of the restless suicide seeped out from the willow, spreading between the shrubs and flowerbeds, the plastic bikes and children’s toys scattered about the garden. The willow twigs began to rustle gently, though there wasn’t any wind.
    ‘Wonder why he did it,’ Lockwood murmured.
    ‘Who?’ George said. ‘Hugo Blake?’
    ‘No, I was thinking about this case. Why the man hanged himself.’
    I stirred. ‘He lost someone dear to him.’
    ‘Really? Why do you say that, Luce? Wasn’t in the report, was it, George?’
    My mind had been empty; I’d been listening to the squeaking in the tree. ‘I don’t know. I’m probably wrong.’
    ‘Hold it.’ Lockwood’s voice was sharp. ‘I’ve got a shape . . . Yes! You both see that?’
    ‘No. Where?’
    ‘He’s right there! Can’t you see him? He’s standing under the tree, looking up.’
    I’d felt the thing’s arrival – the invisible disturbance wave, rippling outwards, had made the blood pulse in my ears. But my Sight’s not as good as Lockwood’s, and the tree was still a web of shadows.
    ‘He’s got the rope in his hand,’ Lockwood muttered. ‘He must have stood there such a time, willing himself to do it . . .’
    Sometimes the trick, like with stars, is to look slightly away. When I moved my eyes towards the garden wall, shadows under the tree contracted into sudden focus: I saw a pale outline, slim and motionless, the willow branches superimposed on it like bars.
    ‘I see it.’ Yes, he was looking up, head tilted, as if his neck were already broken.
    ‘Don’t look at his face,’ George said.
    ‘OK, I’m going in close,’ Lockwood said. ‘Let’s all keep calm. Aaah! Something’s got me!’
    Twin squeals of iron: George and I had drawn our rapiers. I flicked my torch-beam onto Lockwood, who was frozen beside me, staring.
    I flicked it off again.
    ‘Nothing’s got you,’ I said. ‘Your coat-tail’s caught on a gooseberry bush.’
    ‘Oh, fine. Thanks.’
    A snort from George. ‘That coat! It’s too long! It almost killed you the other night as well.’
    Small sounds followed as Lockwood prised his coat clearof the gooseberries. Below the willow tree, the shape had still not moved.
    ‘Keep me covered,’ Lockwood said.
    He drew his rapier and stole past, moving towards the tree. Ghost-fog clung about his calves and churned in milky eddies as he took each cautious stride. George and I kept pace behind him, salt bombs ready in our hands.
    We drew near the willow’s outer fronds.
    ‘OK . . .’ Lockwood breathed. ‘I’m close, but it’s not reacted. It’s just a Shade.’
    I could see it better now: the rudimentary outlines of a man in shirt-sleeves, high-waisted trousers, braces . . . A pale face tilted upwards. I kept my eyes averted from that face, but I felt the echoes of an ancient grief, a loved one lost, despair beyond enduring . . . I sensed a man’s deep-throated groan.
    All at once the shape moved; I saw a flash of rope, a coil flung high into the branches—
    At which a small, pale missile shot past and burst upon the tree. A shower of salt cascaded out, cut through the shape. It writhed and vanished. Salt grains ignited with green fire. They pattered down like emerald snow.
    I turned to George. ‘What did you do that for?’
    ‘Keep your hair on. It moved. Lockwood was right there. I’m not taking chances.’
    ‘He wasn’t attacking,’ I said. ‘He was too busy thinking about his wife.’
    ‘His wife? How do you know that? Did you hear him speak?’ George said.
    ‘No . . .’
    ‘So how—’
    ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Lockwood pushed the willow twigs aside. Around his boots, green sparks winked and faded into nothing. ‘He’s gone. Let’s lace the ground with iron, and get back in the warm.’
    Some cases are like that – quick and easy, over in a trice. For what it’s worth, the following day an ancient ring of rope, deeply embedded in a high branch, was discovered directly above the place where the apparition had been. The rope