Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

He hasn’t confessed, and we haven’t proved he went inside that house. Now his lawyers are getting busy, and that means we’re running out of time. Unless we stumble on something else, Miss Carlyle, or unless the man himself comes clean – I’m afraid he’ll walk out of here tomorrow.’
    ‘What?’ I cried. ‘But you can’t let him go! He’s obviously guilty!’
    ‘Yes, but we can’t prove it, can we?’ I could almost seeBarnes’s moustache rippling as he spoke. ‘It’s not enough that he took her home. We haven’t got the final piece of proof that connects him to the crime. If you idiots hadn’t burned the place down, we might perhaps have found something there. As it is, I’m sorry, but he’s likely to get away scot-free.’ Giving a final snort, the inspector hung up, leaving me to my indignation.
    We haven’t got the final piece of proof . . . But maybe, of course, we had .
    I took the little case from around my neck and held it so that it caught the dying light. Behind the glass the locket’s sliver of gold hung distorted, like an eel in shallow water. Tormentum meum, laetitia mea . . . I could just about read the words. And inside: what was it? A ‡ W; H.II.2.115 . . . Somehow, those letters and numbers concealed the final clue. That’s what Blake was after. That’s why he was so desperate to get it back. Perhaps, when we gave the piece to Barnes, he’d figure out the problem.
    Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Perhaps the murderer would continue to get away with it, as he had for fifty years.
    Cold, hard anger rose within me. If we didn’t crack the code, it would be the last chance gone. Blake would never admit what had happened, and there was no one else who knew.
    No one else, except . . .
    I stared down at the glass case in my hand.
    The idea that had suddenly occurred to me was soforbidden that for a little while I could only stand there, listening to the uneasy pounding of my heart. It would certainly put my life at risk, though I thought I could easily get round that; worse, it would risk the wrath of Lockwood, who had already warned me against doing anything dangerous without permission. If I had any sense at all I should wait for his return, but I knew quite well that he’d forbid me to carry out the experiment I planned. And then I really would have spent a useless day, while the vile Blake waited expectantly for his release.
    I wandered through the house, following an aimless course, turning my plan over in my mind. The light faded; I found myself in the kitchen. Slowly I took the iron steps down to the basement below. On the back wall, the artefact shelves were a grid of black. Tonight the pirate hand glowed faintly lilac, while the other trophies remained dark.
    It was worth the risk. If I succeeded, we could bypass the locket’s weird number code altogether. I could get the final confirmation of Blake’s guilt. If I failed, what did it matter? Lockwood need never know.
    The iron chains were laid out on the floor, oiled and tested, ready to be packed. I took one of the longest and thickest, a stout two-incher, and hauled it into the practice room, where the ragged straw-filled forms of Joe and Esmeralda hung in melancholy silence. I laid it out to form a loop of double thickness, about four feet in diameter, withthe ends folded over each other. Just to be sure they couldn’t be forced open, I clipped the two end links together with a bicycle lock. This was a heavy-duty defence, guaranteed against Type Twos. It was probably made by Fairfax Iron. Ordinarily the agents would stand inside, safe against any roaming ghosts.
    Today, I’d change the rules.
    There were no windows in the practice room, so it was already very dark. My watch told me it was only five p.m., which is ordinarily too soon for full manifestations. But I didn’t have the option of waiting. Lockwood and George might be back at any time. Besides, when a ghost is eager, who knows how early it might come?
    I stepped over the chains into the circle and took the silver-glass case from my pocket. Kneeling on the floor, I pushed open the bolt, flipped the lid and let the locket drop out into my palm. It was painfully cold, like something taken from the back of the freezer. I placed it carefully on the floor. Then I stood up and stepped back across the iron.
    Easy enough so far. I didn’t expect results straight away, so I went to the office area to get a couple of things. I was only out for two minutes, but when