Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

was fused to the wood and could not be removed, so the whole branch was sawn off and burned in a salt fire. Three days later, the owners had the tree cut down.
    Arriving back at Portland Row after our vigil in the garden, we were surprised to find a police car parked outside our house, with the lights on and the engine running. A DEPRAC officer got out as we approached: a big fellow, shaven-headed, all muscle and no neck. He wore the usual night-blue uniform.
    He regarded us unsmilingly. ‘Lockwood and Co.? At bloody last. You’re to come to Scotland Yard.’
    Lockwood frowned. ‘Now? It’s late. We’ve just been on a case.’
    ‘That’s nothing to me. Barnes wants you. He wanted you two hours ago.’
    ‘Could it wait until tomorrow?’
    The policeman’s hand, pink and massive as a ham joint, alighted slowly on the iron truncheon at his belt. ‘No.’
    Lockwood’s eyes flashed. ‘Eloquently put,’ he said. ‘All right, Sergeant. Let’s go.’
    Scotland Yard, the headquarters of London’s conventional police force, and also of the DEPRAC units that served the city in the grim night hours, was a wedge-shaped block of steel and glass halfway up Victoria Street in the middle of the city. Close by stood the Gravediggers’ Guild and the Union of Undertakers; also the Fairfax Iron Company, United Salts and, above all, the vast Sunrise Corporation, which manufactured kit for most agencies in the country. On the opposite side of the road stood the offices for most of the major religions. Each one of these powerful organizations was at the heart of the ongoing war against the Problem.
    Outside the Yard, lavender fires smouldered in metal tubs, and runnels of fresh water gushed across the pavement. Two red-nosed night-watch kids stood near the doors, keeping guard against supernatural threat. They drew back their sticks and stood to attention as the officer led us past, and up some stairs to DEPRAC’s centre of operations.
    As always after dark, the room was a hive of activity. Onthe back wall a giant street-map of London was dotted with dozens of tiny lights, some green, some yellow, each marking the night’s emergencies. Men and women in sober uniforms bustled back and forth below it, carrying sheaves of paper, talking loudly on telephones, giving orders to team leaders from the Rotwell and Fittes agencies, which often helped DEPRAC in its work. A young agent ran past us, carrying a bundle of rapiers in his arms; beyond, two policemen stood drinking coffee, their body-armour steaming from ectoplasm burns.
    The officer showed us into a waiting room and left us. It was quieter here. Above our heads iron mobiles moved in the breeze from hidden fans. Air-conditioning thrummed.
    ‘What do you think he wants?’ I asked. ‘Something more about the fire?’
    Lockwood shrugged. ‘I hope it’s news about Blake. Maybe they’ve got him. Maybe he’s confessed.’
    ‘Speaking of which . . .’ George foraged in his bag. ‘While we’re waiting, you might take a look at these cuttings from the Archives. I’ve found out more about Annie Ward. Seems that, fifty years ago, she was part of a glitzy set – mostly rich kids, but not all – who hung out in the swankiest bars in London. A year before she died London Society did a photo piece on them. Check it out. She’s not the only name you’ll recognize.’
    The pictures, photocopied from the originals, were in black and white. They were mostly of balls and parties, but of casinos and card games too. Young, glamorous peopleclustered in every shot. Apart from the dress styles (and the lack of colour) they were little different from those in the modern magazines that Lockwood read, and just about as dull – but on the third or fourth sheet I was suddenly brought up short. There were two photos on this page. The first was a studio shot of a sleek young man, smiling at the camera. He wore a black top hat, a black bow tie, a jet-black jacket. There was probably a frilly shirt as well, but that was mercifully hidden behind the cane in his hand. He had white gloves too. His hair was long, dark and luxuriant; his face handsome in a fleshy way. The smile was confident and ingratiating. It said it knew how much you’d like him, if you’d only take the chance.
    Underneath, a caption: Mr Hugo Blake: Today’s Man About Town .
    ‘There he is,’ Lockwood breathed.
    I stared at the glossy, self-satisfied face. As I did so, another face – laced with dust and cobwebs –