Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

Fairfax, was in consequence one of the richest men in the country, up there with the silver barons, with the heirs of Marissa Fittes and Tom Rotwell, and with that bloke who owns the great lavender farms on the Lincolnshire Wolds. He lived somewhere in London, and when he snapped his fingers, the ministers of whichever government was currently in office scampered hot-foot to his house.
    Now he was coming here in person.
    You can be sure we tidied that living room double-quick.
    A few minutes later the purr of a large vehicle sounded in the street. I peeped out, to see a shiny Rolls idling to a halt. It seemed to fill the road. It had polished silver-coated grilles upon the windows, and threads of silver tracery running down the sides. On the bonnet, a small silver figurehead glinted in the winter sun.
    The chauffeur emerged; smoothing down his crisp grey uniform, he marched round the car to open a rear door. I ducked back inside, where Lockwood was frantically plumping cushions, and George brushed cake crumbs beneath the sofa. ‘He’s here ,’ I hissed.
    Lockwood took a deep breath. ‘OK. Let’s try to make a good impression.’
    We stood up when Mr John Fairfax entered the room – not that it made much difference. He was a very tall, thin man. He towered over me, towered over Lockwood. George, trailing in his wake, was entirely in his shadow. Even at seventy or eighty, or whatever age he’d got to, he was built on an impressive scale, like something you’d expect to launch down a slipway at Southampton docks. Yet his limbs were thin and wasted. The sleeves of his long silk jacket hung loose; his legs, despite the walking stick that supported him, trembled as he walked. My immediate impression was of a peculiar mix of strength and weakness. In a room of a hundred people he would have been impossible to ignore.
    ‘Good morning, sir,’ Lockwood was saying. ‘This is Lucy Carlyle, my associate.’
    ‘Delighted.’ The voice was deep, the outstretched hand vast and all-encompassing. A great square head, bald and liver-spotted, bent in my direction from on high. The nose was hooked, the black eyes bright and shining; the lines on the brow were heavy. When he smiled (it was scarcely a smile at all; rather an acknowledgement of my existence), I saw that the teeth were capped with silver. It was a face used to exerting authority and command.
    ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.
    We sat. Our guest engulfed his chair. His walking stick was mahogany, with an iron handle shaped like a dog’s head: a mastiff or bulldog, maybe. He rested it against one great bent knee and spread his fingers on the seat arms.
    ‘It’s an honour to have you here, sir,’ Lockwood said. ‘Would you like some tea?’
    Mr Fairfax inclined his head, gave a rumble of assent. ‘Pitkins’ Breakfast, if you have it. Tell your boy to bring the sugar too.’
    ‘My boy? Er, yes. Off you go, George. Teas all round, please.’
    George, who had neglected to remove his apron, rotated a leg and exited the room, expressionless.
    ‘Now, Mr Lockwood,’ John Fairfax said, ‘I’m a busy man, and as you’ll be wondering why I’ve called upon you unannounced on a Friday morning, we’ll dispense with the small talk and get down to business. There is a haunting that is proving most troublesome to me. If you can help me with it, I shall make it worth your while.’
    Lockwood nodded gravely. ‘Certainly, sir. We’d be glad to.’
    Our visitor cast his gaze around the room. ‘A nice house you have. Excellent collection of New Guinean ghost-wards, I see . . . Business going well?’
    ‘Tolerably, sir.’
    ‘You lie like a politician, Mr Lockwood,’ the old man said.‘Smooth and effortless. My mother, God rest her soul and may she never walk at night, told me to speak plainly and honestly to all men. I have followed her advice all my life. So, come’ – he slapped his knee with his great flat palm – ‘we shall get on much better if we are open with each other! Your business is not going well. I read the papers! I know you are in financial difficulties . . . in particular following a certain incident with a house you managed to burn down.’ He chuckled, a dry reverberation. ‘You have a heavy fine to pay.’
    A muscle twitched in Lockwood’s cheek; otherwise he gave no sign of irritation. ‘That’s correct, sir, though I am in the process of raising the money. We have plenty of other excellent cases, which give us a healthy