Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

into a web of lines, a limestone pavement of incised clints andgrykes. His clothes carried an air of sombre correctness: he was dressed in an old-fashioned tail coat of dark black velvet, from the sleeves of which grey, liver-spotted fingers protruded. His striped trousers were incredibly thin, his shoes as long and pointed as his nose.
    He came to a halt and surveyed us dismally. ‘Welcome to Combe Carey. Mr Fairfax is expecting you, but is presently indisposed. He will be ready to receive you shortly. In the meantime, he’s asked that I show you round the grounds and introduce you to the Hall.’ His voice was broken, querulous, like the rustling of willow fronds.
    ‘Thank you,’ Lockwood said. ‘Are you Mr Starkins?’
    ‘I am, and I’ve been caretaker here for fifty-three years, man and boy, so I know a thing or two about the place and I don’t care who knows it.’
    ‘I – I’m sure you do. That’s excellent. Where shall we put our bags?’
    ‘Leave them here. Who’s going to take them? Not the Inhabitants of the Hall, I’m sure; they don’t stir before sundown. Come then, I’ll show you the gardens.’
    Lockwood held up a hand. ‘Excuse me, but it’s been a long journey. Do you have . . . any facilities nearby?’
    The net of wrinkles grew deeper; shadows enveloped the old man’s eyes. ‘When we get to the house, boy. I can’t escort you now. Mr Fairfax wants to show you the interior himself.’
    ‘It’s a bit urgent.’
    ‘Cross your legs and wait.’
    ‘Well, you could give me directions.’
    ‘No! Impossible.’
    ‘I’ll just nip behind one of those urns, then. No one will know.’
    Starkins scowled. ‘Up the steps, across the lobby, little room to the left of the stairs.’
    ‘Thanks so much. Won’t be a moment.’ Lockwood hurried away.
    ‘If he can’t hold it in now,’ the old man said, ‘how will he cope tonight, when the light begins to drain away from the Long Gallery?’
    ‘Er, I don’t know,’ I said. Lockwood’s behaviour had slightly perplexed me too.
    ‘Well, we don’t have to wait for him,’ Starkins went on. He pointed up at the western wing. ‘This stonework marks the oldest portion of Combe Carey. It’s the shell of the original priory – you can see one of the chapel windows there – built by the notorious Monks of St John. Ah, they were a wicked order! It’s said they turned away from God to the worship of—’
    ‘– darke things,’ I murmured.
    Starkins looked at me askance. ‘Who’s doing this tour, me or you? But you’re right. Such depraved sacrifices and rituals . . . Ooh, it’s terrible to think of it. Well, the rumours spread, and finally the priory was sacked by the barons.Seven of the wickedest monks were thrown down a well. The rest were burned inside the building. Yes, they all died screaming inside those walls! By the way, I’ve prepared your beds in the guest rooms on the first floor. There’re ensuite bathrooms too. You’ve all the mod cons.’
    ‘Thanks,’ I said.
    ‘Is the well still open?’ George asked.
    ‘No. You could still see a disused well out here in the courtyard when I was a lad, but they sealed it up with an iron plug, years ago, and buried it in sand.’
    George and I scanned the silent building for a time. I was trying to work out which, in Mr Fairfax’s photograph, had been the window with the apparent spectral figure standing at it. It was very hard to tell. There were several potential candidates, seemingly up on the first or second floor.
    ‘Are the monks the ultimate Source of the haunting, do you think?’ I asked. ‘Sounds like they must be.’
    ‘It’s not my place to speculate,’ Bert Starkins said. ‘Might be the monks; then again, it might be mad Sir Rufus Carey, who built the first Hall from the ruins of the priory in 1328 . . . Ah, here’s your weak-bladdered friend back. About time too.’
    Lockwood was pattering towards us, a spring in his step. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Have I missed anything?’
    ‘We were just hearing about mad Sir Rufus,’ I said.
    Starkins nodded. ‘Yes. He was known hereabouts as theRed Duke, on account of his flaming hair and addiction to spilled blood. It’s said he brought his enemies to a torture chamber deep inside the house, where . . .’ He hesitated. ‘No, I can’t say more, not with a young girl present.’
    ‘Oh, go on,’ George said. ‘Lucy’s terribly jaded. Look at her. She’s seen it all.’
    ‘I have seen a lot,’ I