Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

income.’
    Fairfax made a dismissive gesture. ‘Fibbing again, Mr Lockwood! I should tell you I have contacts in DEPRAC and I have read your recent files. I know the extent and quality of those “excellent” cases. Grey Hazes! Cold Maidens! Gibbering Mists! The weakest and most humdrum Type Ones imaginable! I’m surprised you earn enough to pay Miss Carlyle here.’
    Which was a good point, come to think of it. I hadn’t been paid for a month.
    Lockwood’s eyes glinted. ‘That being so, sir, might I ask why you have come to us today? There are many other agencies in London.’
    ‘Indeed there are.’ Fairfax raised his tufted eyebrows andfixed us both with his black and beady stare. ‘But it so happens that your recent publicity surrounding that case drew my favourable attention. I was impressed by the way in which you not only found the body of . . .’ He hesitated. ‘What was the name of the girl?’
    ‘Annie Ward, sir.’
    ‘Of Annie Ward, but discovered her identity too. I like your panache, I like your attention to detail. I also like your youth and independence of mind!’ The old man leaned forward on his stick. There was something new in his face: not warmth, exactly, more a fierce enthusiasm. ‘I began as an outsider too, Mr Lockwood. I struggled hard to make my way when I was a lad. I fought against big companies, knew lean times . . . I understand the passion that drives you on each day! Besides, I’ve no interest in giving yet more money to Fittes or Rotwell. They’re rich enough already. No, I propose to give you an opportunity you’ve never dreamed of, see if you can bring your powers to bear on a different, more dangerous puzzle . . . Ah, your fellow’s back again.’
    George had returned, carrying the tray, on which he’d assembled a tea service I’d never before set eyes on. It was all fine-bone china and little pink flowers, the kind of mincing cups that are so delicate and brittle you expect them to shatter when you put them to your lips. This classy effect was slightly undermined by a teetering pile of fat jam doughnuts on a plate beside them.
    ‘Thanks, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘Put them down here.’
    George set the tray on the table, poured out the tea and offered the doughnuts around. Since no one took one, he prised the biggest of all from the bottom of the stack, fingering most of the others in the process, plonked it on a plate and sat next to me with a lingering sigh of gratification. ‘Shove up,’ he said. ‘So have I missed anything?’
    The old man’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Lockwood, this is an important consultation! Surely your lad should wait outside.’
    ‘Er, he’s not actually an office boy, sir. This is George Cubbins. He works with me.’
    Mr Fairfax appraised George, who was busily licking jam off his fingers. ‘I see . . . Well, in that case, I shall delay no longer.’ He put a hand inside his jacket and rummaged awkwardly within. ‘Take a look at this.’ He threw a crumpled photograph onto the table.
    A house. More than a mere house, in fact: it was a country mansion, set in extensive grounds. The photo had been taken from some distance across a stretch of attractively mown lawn. Willow trees and flowerbeds featured on the margins, and there was also the suggestion of a lake, but the house beyond dominated all – a tall, dark slab of several floors. You could see columns and sweeping entrance stairs, and a profusion of thin, irregularly positioned windows, but the precise age and nature of the building was hard to make out. The photo seemed to have been taken either very earlyor very late. The sun was somewhere behind the building, and the long black shadows of its many ancient chimneys stretched out like grasping fingers across the lawns.
    ‘Combe Carey Hall,’ Fairfax said, rolling the syllables off his tongue. ‘In Berkshire, just to the west of London. Have you heard of it?’
    We shook our heads. None of us had.
    ‘No, it is not well known, and yet it is possibly the most haunted private house in England. I believe it may well be the most deadly. To my certain knowledge four previous owners of the estate have died there as a result of its apparitions. As for the numbers of servants, guests or other folk who have been frightened to death, or ghost-touched, or otherwise drawn to their doom across the house and grounds . . .’ He gave a small, dry chuckle. ‘Well, the list is extensive. In fact, the place was boarded up thirty years