Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

to go in. There was still time to turn back.
    ‘Nervous, are we?’ Bert Starkins remarked, shouldering his way past me with a duffel bag in his arms. ‘Don’t blame you if you are. That poor little Fittes girl, thirty years back: she was fearful too. Tell you what, I wouldn’t blame you if you ran for it.’ He regarded me with dour commiseration.
    His voice cut through my self-absorption. The moment passed; my paralysis was gone. I shook my head dumbly. With slow, mechanical steps I stepped over the threshold, crossed the chilly hallway, and entered the Long Gallery.
    This was a darkly beautiful room, lit along its enormous length by a line of mullioned windows. It was clearly the same age as the lobby: the same whitewashed stone, oak ceiling, carved figures in the shadows, rows of darkened paintings. Halfway along, a fire leaped and spat in a vast brick fireplace; at the far end, a faded tapestry filled the wall. It showed a scene of obscure mythological interest, involving six cherubs, three plump semi-naked women and a disreputable-looking bear. Beside the fireplace was a table, and the footmen setting out high tea.
    George had already helped himself to a cake, and was surveying the tapestry with interest. ‘Nice tarts,’ he said. ‘You should try a custard one.’
    ‘Not now. I need to talk with Lockwood.’
    ‘Good timing. Here he is.’
    Lockwood and Fairfax had entered the room from the lobby. Lockwood moved over to intercept us. His face was calm, but there was a bright gleam in his eye.
    ‘Have you felt the atmosphere in this place?’ I began. ‘We—’
    ‘You’ll never guess what,’ he said over me. ‘They’ve been through our bags.’
    George and I stared. ‘ What? ’
    ‘While we were walking around with Starkins. Fairfax got his men to check them over. They wanted to make sure we hadn’t brought any canisters of Greek Fire.’
    George whistled. ‘They can’t do that!’
    ‘I know! When we’d given them our word.’
    Over at the tea table, Fairfax belaboured the footmen for some error. He waved an arm, stamped his stick upon the floor.
    ‘How do you know he did it?’ I said softly.
    ‘Oh, he told me straight out, after I rang the bank. Bold as brass, he was. Said he’d do the same to anyone. Had to protect the fabric of the ancient building, and its highly expensive furniture – blah, blah, blah. But the real message he was giving me was: it’s his house, his rules. We play it his way, or not at all.’
    ‘It’s been like that from the start,’ George said. ‘Thiswhole thing is screwy. Nothing makes sense. He doesn’t allow us to take flares. He gives us no time for research. Then throws us into what he claims is one of the most haunted sites in Britain, and—’
    ‘It’s not just a claim ,’ I said. ‘Can’t you feel it? All around us?’
    I stared at them. Lockwood nodded curtly. ‘Yes. I feel it.’
    ‘Well then, do you really think we should—’
    ‘Mr Lockwood!’ Fairfax’s deep voice rolled out across the gallery. ‘Your tea awaits! Come to the table, and let me advise you about the evening.’
    The meal was good, the tea was Pitkins’ best, and the warmth of the crackling fire drove back the deathly silence for a while. Fairfax sat alongside us while we ate, watching us with his black and hooded eyes, and talking generalities about the Hall. He discussed its many treasures – the late medieval ceilings, the collections of Sèvres porcelain and Queen Anne furniture, the unique Renaissance oils hanging in the lobby and stairs. He told us of the extensive wine cellars running beneath our feet; of the herb gardens, which he hoped in due time to restore; of the ruined priory cloisters drowned beneath the lake. He did not mention anything of any relevance to our assignment until the tea was done. Then he dismissed the footmen and got down to business.
    ‘Time presses,’ he said, ‘and Starkins and I are keen toleave before the light fails. No doubt you have your own preparations to make before you can begin your work, so I shall be brief. As I told you the other day, this wing is the afflicted region of the house. Perhaps you have sensed as much already.’
    He waited. Lockwood, who was chasing a raisin around his plate with a long thin finger, smiled urbanely. ‘It promises to be a very intriguing night, sir,’ he said.
    Fairfax chuckled. ‘That’s the spirit. Very well, here are the ground rules. As dusk falls, I shall shut you in, but be