Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

If we were separated, and the need came, we could set up our own circles of defence. The duffel bags still contained double sets of two-inch iron chains – which even the strongest Visitor would find pretty hard to shift – but we weren’t wholly dependent on those now.
    We finished. The light outside the windows was almost gone. Over in the fireplace, the orange flames danced low. Darkness crept along the ceiling of the Long Gallery, andweltered in the crooks and angles of the great stone staircase. But so what if it did? Yes, the day was dead and the night had come, and the Visitors of the Hall were stirring, but Lockwood & Co. were ready. We worked together, and we wouldn’t be afraid.
    ‘Well, that’s it,’ Fairfax said. He stood beside Starkins at the door. ‘I shall re-enter here at nine tomorrow morning to receive your report. Are there any final questions?’
    He gazed around at us; we stood there waiting, Lockwood smiling softly in that way he had, hand resting on his rapier, seemingly as relaxed as if he were queuing for a cab. Beside him, George – as awkwardly impassive as ever, blinking through his thick round specs, his trousers hitched high against the weight of salt and iron. And me . . . How did I look, I wonder, in those final moments? I hope I carried myself well. Hope I didn’t let the fear show.
    ‘Any questions?’ Fairfax repeated.
    Each of us stood there quietly, waiting for him to shut his trap and go.
    ‘Until the morning, then!’ Fairfax raised his hand in ponderous farewell. ‘Good luck to you all!’ He nodded crisply to Bert Starkins, and turned to descend the steps. Starkins reached out to close the doors. Twin squeals of hinges; the doors swung in. For a moment the caretaker’s body was framed between them, silhouetted against the twilight like agaunt and twisted gallows-tree . . . Then the doors slammed shut. The reverberation of their closing rang sharply around the lobby and away along the galleries. I could hear the echoes drifting on and on into the dusty reaches of the house.
    ‘Wouldn’t it be good if he’d forgotten his stick,’ George said, ‘and had to scurry back in again to pick it up? That would absolutely ruin the effect, wouldn’t it?
    Neither of us answered. The echoes had faded, and now the eager silence of the house rose to enfold us like the waters of a well.

20

    ‘First things first,’ Lockwood said. ‘Wait here.’
    He walked away across the lobby, boots tapping on the flagstones, under the gaze of the old lords and ladies of Combe Carey, to a small door beside the staircase. He opened the door and disappeared within. The door shut. There was a pause. George and I looked at each other. An oddly ceramic sound followed, then silence; then a toilet flushing. Lockwood emerged, wiping a hand on his greatcoat. He strolled back to us unhurriedly. ‘That’s better,’ he said. He was carrying a glistening wet packet under his arm.
    ‘What’s this?’ George asked.
    Lockwood flourished the packet. ‘Seven of the strongest magnesium flares Satchell’s could provide,’ he said. ‘Strapthem onto your belts as normal and off we go.’ He broke the tape seal around the bag and unfolded the wet plastic. When he tipped it, two bright silver canisters fell out onto his palm.
    ‘Lockwood . . .’ George began. ‘How did—’
    ‘You had the flares under your clothes!’ I cried. ‘You hid them when we arrived! While we were waiting outside with Starkins!’
    He smiled; his teeth glinted dimly in the half-light. ‘That’s right. They were strapped to the lining of my coat. As soon as we got here I nipped to the loo and hid them in the cistern. Here you go, Lucy. Hold out your hands.’
    I took comforting possession of the cylinders, and fixed them to my belt in their proper place. Lockwood tipped out two more and handed them to George.
    ‘I guessed Fairfax would frisk us, or check our kit eventually,’ he said, ‘and I wanted them stashed away and out of sight before that happened. I must admit, though, I didn’t think he’d have the cheek to rifle through our bags while we weren’t looking. But there you go, that’s a measure of the man he is.’
    ‘Why, what kind of a man is he?’ George said, staring at his canisters.
    ‘A dreadful one. Isn’t it obvious? And here are two for me . . .’
    I shook my head, marvelling. ‘If Fairfax knew you’d done this . . .’
    ‘Ah, but he doesn’t.’ Lockwood wore his wolf-like smile.