Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

this one still exists – it’s now known as the Red Room.’
    ‘Lockwood,’ I said suddenly, ‘are you listening to this?’
    ‘Mm. Yes . . .’ Lockwood was standing by Fairfax’s wall of photographs. He’d got a large book from the shelves and was flipping through it idly.
    ‘The medieval sketch,’ George went on, ‘shows passages beyond the Red Room, and beyond the Long Gallery too, which have since been knocked down. They led to a series of rooms on both levels – more dormitories perhaps, or stores, or chapels for praying in. There was probably an extension on the cellar level too – I don’t know, that’s not shown onthe plans. But when you look at the nineteenth-century floor-plan, those extra areas are gone. It shows the wing as it ends today – with that big stone wall, where the cold spots are.’
    ‘It’s a very sturdy wall, isn’t it?’ I said.
    ‘It’s a very thick wall,’ George said. ‘And that’s the point. It’s much thicker than the wall shown on the original plan. It extends out across where those earlier passages were.’
    A tremor of excitement, like a little electric surge, ran through my chest and prickled the muscles of my arms. ‘You think . . .’
    His glasses glinted. ‘Yeah. I think we’re talking secret rooms.’
    ‘So . . . when the rest was destroyed, they might have sealed up some of the connecting passages? I guess it’s possible. What do you say, Lockwood?’
    No answer. When I looked back, Lockwood had taken several other volumes from the shelves and was deeply engrossed in them. He had his back to us, his thermos balanced on the stack of books. As I watched, he took a leisurely sip of tea.
    ‘Lockwood! What the hell are you doing?’
    He turned; his eyes had that same detached look I’d noticed before during the past few days. It was like he was seeing something far away. ‘Sorry, Lucy. Did you speak?’
    ‘It was more of a yell. What are you doing? George is on to something here.’
    ‘Is he? Excellent . . . I was just looking through Fairfax’s scrapbooks. He’s kept a record of all the plays he acted in when he was young: programmes, tickets, reviews . . . that sort of thing. It’s fascinating. He was quite the actor, once upon a time.’
    I stared at him. ‘Who cares? Why is that relevant? What’s it got to do with us finding the Source?’
    ‘Nothing . . . I’m just trying to put my finger on something. It’s close, but it keeps slipping out of reach . . .’ A switch flicked in him; his face cleared. ‘And you’re right – it’s not the priority quite yet.’ He bounded over, sat down next to us, gave George a friendly slap on the back. ‘You were saying, George? Secret rooms in the far wall?’
    ‘Rooms or passages, yes.’ George adjusted his spectacles; he spoke quickly. ‘You remember Fairfax’s story about the doomed Fittes expedition thirty years ago? That settles it for me. Two agents were found dead in the Red Room. The third one – the boy – vanished. Far as we know, ghosts don’t eat their victims. So where is he?’ He prodded the floor-plan with a stubby finger. ‘Here. Somewhere in that unusually thick end wall. He found the entrance and went inside. A Visitor – perhaps the Visitor at the heart of all this – got him. He never returned. He’s in there still, and I’ll bet you three of Arif’s best chocolate doughnuts that’s where the Source is too.’
    We sat looking at the plan in our little pool of lantern-light, the sea of ghost-fog lapping at its fringes. Lockwood had his head bowed, hands pressed tight together. He was deep in thought.
    ‘OK,’ he said at last, ‘I’ve something important to say.’
    ‘It’s not about Fairfax’s scrapbooks again, is it?’ I said.
    ‘No. Listen. George, as usual, has got it right. The Combe Carey Source is probably hidden in that wall. To find it we’d have to find the entrance, and that’s almost certainly in the Red Room. Now, some of the stories about the Hall might be bunkum – I don’t think there’s anything in that Screaming Staircase yarn, for instance – but the Red Room is clearly different. We all felt the atmosphere outside that door. It would be no small thing to go inside.’ He looked up, surveyed us each in turn. ‘But we don’t have to. Fairfax said so himself. We don’t have to go into that room. Just by turning up here this evening, we’ve earned the money to pay off the damages caused by the Sheen Road fire. Fairfax has