Lockwood & Co.: The Screaming Staircase

Late morning was Lockwood’s favourite time for meeting new clients. It gave him a chance to recover from any expeditions of the night before. He always received his guests in the same living room where I’d had my interview, probably because its friendly sofas and displays of oriental ghost-catchers provided an appropriate atmosphere for discussions that bridged the banal and the strange.

On my first full day at Portland Row a single new client came by appointment at eleven o’clock: a gentleman in his early sixties, puffy-faced and plaintive, a few thin strands of hair slicked despondently across his skull. Lockwood sat with him at the coffee table. George was positioned some way off at a slope-sided writing desk, taking notes from the meeting in the big black casebook. I had no part in the conversation. I sat in a chair at the back of the room, listening to what went on.

The gentleman had a problem with his garage. His grand-daughter refused to go in, he said. She claimed she’d seen things, but she was a hysterical girl and he hardly knew whether to believe her. Still, against his better judgement (here he blew out his cheeks to emphasize his extreme reluctance), he’d come to us for a consultation.

Lockwood was politeness itself. ‘How old is your grand-daughter, Mr Potter?’

‘Six. She’s a silly little minx at the best of times.’

‘And what does she say she’s seen?’

‘I can’t get any sense out of her. A young man, standing at the far end of the garage, beside the tea crates. Says he’s very thin.’

‘I see. And is he always in the same place, or does he move at all?’

‘Just stands there, she says. First time out, she reckons she spoke to him, but he never answered her, only stared. I don’t know as she’s making it up. She hears enough about Visitors in the playground.’

‘Possibly, Mr Potter, possibly. And you’ve never noticed anything odd in the garage yourself? It’s not unreasonably cold, for example?’

A shake of the head. ‘It’s chilly . . . but it’s a garage, so what do you expect? And before you ask me: nothing’s happened there. No one’s . . . you know – died or anything. It’s a new-build, only five years old, and I always keep it safely locked.’

‘I see . . .’ Lockwood clasped his hands together. ‘Do you keep pets, Mr Potter?’

The man blinked; with a stubby finger he encouraged a long droop of hair back onto his forehead. ‘I don’t see what that’s got to do with anything.’

‘I just wondered if you had a dog, perhaps, or cats.’

‘The wife’s got two cats. Milk-white Siamese. Stuck-up, bony little things.’

‘And do they often go into the garage?’

The man considered. ‘No. They don’t like it there. Give it a wide berth. I’ve always thought it’s because they don’t like getting their precious little coats dirty, what with all the dust and cobwebs everywhere.’

Lockwood looked up. ‘Ah, you have a problem with garage spiders, Mr Potter?’

‘Well, there’s a colony there, or something. They seem to spin new webs fast as I can brush them away. But it’s that time of year, isn’t it?’

‘I couldn’t say. Well, I’m happy to look into this. If it’s convenient we’ll be along tonight, shortly after curfew. Meanwhile, I’d keep your grand-daughter out of that garage, if I were you.’

‘What’s your opinion of the case, Ms Carlyle?’ Lockwood asked, as we sat on the eastbound bus that evening. It was the final service on that route before curfew, the seats empty of adults, but crowded with children heading off for night-watch duties in the factories. Some were still half asleep; others stared dully through the windows. Their watch-sticks – six feet long, tipped with iron – bounced and rattled in the racks beside the door.

‘Sounds like a weak Type One,’ I said, ‘since it’s staying put and making no obvious moves towards the girl. But I wouldn’t want to take it for granted.’ My lips tightened as I spoke; I thought of the little shape glowing in the darkness of the haunted mill.

‘Quite right,’ Lockwood said. ‘Best prepare for the worst. Besides, he says the place is thick with spiders.’

‘You know about spiders, right, Miss Carlyle?’ George was sitting on the seat in front; he glanced casually back towards me.

It’s a commonly known fact that while cats can’t stand ghosts, spiders love them. Or, at least, they love the psychic emanation that some ghosts give off. Strong Sources, remaining active and undisturbed over many years, are often choked by layer upon layer of dusty webs laid there by generations of eager spiders. It’s one of the first things agents look out for. Those trails of webbing can lead you directly to the spot. Everyone knew that. Mr Potter’s six-year-old grand-daughter probably knew that.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know about spiders.’

‘Good,’ George said. ‘Just checking.’

We alighted in an eastern district of the great grey city, not far north of the river. Narrow terraced streets clustered in the shadow of the dockland cranes. With dusk, the local shops were shutting up: psychic healing booths, cheapjack iron dealers, self-proclaimed specialists offering ghost-wards from Korea and Japan. As always in my first few weeks in London, the sheer scale of it all made my head spin. People hurried homeward on every side. At the crossroads, the local ghost-lamp was powering up, the shutters slowly rising.

Lockwood led the way down a side-street, rapier glinting beneath a long, heavy greatcoat that swung stylishly behind him. George and I trotted alongside.

‘As usual, Lockwood,’ George said, ‘we’re doing this all too fast. You didn’t give me enough time to properly research the house and street. I could have found out lots of background if you’d given me an extra day.’

‘Yes, but research only goes so far,’ Lockwood said. ‘There’s no substitute for actually exploring. Besides, I thought Ms Carlyle would enjoy the expedition. She might hear something.’

‘Can be a risky business being a Listener,’ George remarked. ‘There was that girl working for Epstein and Hawkes last year. Good ears, incredibly sensitive insight. But she got so freaked out by all the voices she heard, she ended up jumping in the Thames.’

I smiled thinly. ‘Marissa Fittes had my kind of Talent too,’ I said. ‘She didn’t jump anywhere.’

Anthony Lockwood laughed. ‘Well said, Ms Carlyle! Right, shut up now, George. We’re here.’

Our client’s house was one of four unremarkable semi-detached properties set in the middle of an otherwise terraced street. It was of fairly modern construction. The garage was a solid brick affair, with an up-and-over metal door at the front, and a side-door that joined up with the kitchen. The garage interior contained three old motorbikes in various stages of repair, this being Mr Potter’s hobby. There was also a long workbench and a wall of tool racks, and, towards the rear, a great stack of tea crates, mostly filled with second-hand parts and wheels and dismantled engines.

The first thing we noticed was that though the workbench and tool racks were relatively clean, the storage area was thinly laid with fresh grey webbing. Shimmering threads hung between the crates and slanted down towards the floor; in the light of our torches, large-bodied spiders could be seen moving stealthily on unknown errands.

We spent the first few hours carefully taking measurements and making observations. George in particular zealously recorded the minutest drops in temperature, but we all noticed a supernatural chill developing as the hour grew late. A sour miasma rose up too – a smell of faint decay. Towards midnight, there was a frisson in the air; I felt my neck hairs prickle. A faint apparition appeared in the furthest corner of the garage, close beside the crates. It was very quiet and still; a man-sized nimbus of pale cloud. We watched it quietly, hands ready at our belts, but there was no sense of imminent threat. After lingering for ten minutes, the figure vanished. The air cleared.

‘A young man,’ Lockwood said. ‘Wearing some kind of leather uniform. Anyone else get that?’

I shook my head. ‘Sorry, no. My Sight’s not as good as yours. But—’

‘It’s clear enough what we’ve got here, Lockwood,’ George interrupted. ‘I saw the uniform, and it confirms what I guessed before we came inside. This is quite a modern house. Most of the other buildings in the street are older, pre-war terraces. Once upon a time there would have been a terraced house here too, right where we’re standing. But it’s gone. Why? Because it was bombed in one of the air-raids in the war. The bomb that destroyed the house probably killed the man we just saw. He’s a Blitz ghost, maybe a soldier home on leave, and his remains are in the ground somewhere under our feet.’ He tucked his pen decisively in his trouser pocket, took off his glasses and wiped them on his shirt.

Lockwood frowned. ‘You think? Maybe . . . Though I don’t get any death-glows here.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘If so, our client won’t be happy. It’s going to cost him to knock the garage down.’

George shrugged. ‘Tough. He needs to find the bones. What else can he do?’

‘Excuse me,’ I said, ‘but I don’t agree with you.’

They looked across at me. ‘What?’ George said.

‘I didn’t see the Visitor as well as you, of course,’ I said, ‘but I perhaps noticed something you missed. I caught a voice just before the apparition faded out. Did you hear it? No? Well, the words were very faint but quite distinctive. “No time. Couldn’t check the brakes.” That was what it said. It repeated it twice over.’

‘Well, what does that mean?’ George demanded.

‘It means,’ I said, ‘that the Source may not be under the floor, and it may be nothing to do with the Blitz. I think it’s one of those crates. What are they filled with?’

‘Junk,’ George said.

‘Motor parts,’ Lockwood said.

‘Yes, parts of old motorbikes that our client’s picked up all over the place. Well, where do they come from? What’s their history? I just wonder whether one of them might come from a machine that was once involved in an accident – perhaps a fatal one.’

George snorted. ‘A road accident? You think the Source is a broken motorbike?’

‘Could the ghost’s outfit have been biker’s leathers?’ I said.

There was a pause. Lockwood nodded slowly. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘they just might have been, at that . . . Well, we’ll have to check. Tomorrow we’ll ask the client if we can investigate the crates more closely. Meanwhile – thank you, Ms Carlyle, for that very interesting insight. Your Talent doesn’t disappoint!’

Just for the record, I was right. One of the crates contained the smashed remains of a rally motorcycle that provided some very curious readings when we assessed it. We subsequently removed it from the garage and had it sent to the Fittes furnaces, and that was the end of that. But on the night in question, when we finally got back to Portland Row, Lockwood’s praise still rang loudly in my ears. I was too elated to go straight to sleep. Instead of heading to my attic I made a sandwich in the kitchen and then wandered into the library, a room I hadn’t properly explored before.

It was a dark, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. Heavy curtains shrouded the windows; black shelves, crammed with hardback volumes, lined the walls. Above the mantelpiece hung an oil painting of three ripe green pears. Angled standard lamps stood stooped and heron-like; light from one of these illuminated Anthony Lockwood, slumped sideways in a comfy chair. His long slim legs were draped elegantly over the chair arm; his forelock hung no less decoratively over his brow. He was reading a magazine.

I hesitated at the door.

‘Oh, Ms Carlyle.’ He jumped up, gave me a grin of welcome. ‘Please – come in. Sit wherever you like, except possibly in that brown chair in the corner. That’s George’s, and I’m afraid he’s been known to lounge there in his pants. I hope that’s a habit he’ll snap out of, now you’re here. Don’t worry, he won’t come in now; he’s already gone to bed.’

I sat in a leather chair opposite his. It was soft and comfy, and only slightly let down by a shrivelled apple core laid neatly on one arm. Lockwood, who had come over to switch on a light behind my head, plucked it deftly away without comment and put it in a bin. He flung himself back into his seat, where he set the magazine down in his lap and folded his hands on top of it.

We smiled across at each other. All of a sudden I remembered we were strangers. Now that all the interviews, tours and investigations were over for the moment, I found I didn’t have a clue what to say.

‘I saw George going upstairs,’ I said finally. ‘He seemed a little . . . crotchety.’

Lockwood made an easy gesture. ‘Oh, he’s fine. He has these moods sometimes.’

There was a silence. I became aware of a steady ticking noise coming from an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace.

Anthony Lockwood cleared his throat. ‘So, Ms Carlyle?’

‘Call me Lucy,’ I said. ‘It’s shorter, and easier, and a bit more friendly. Since we’re going to be working together, I mean. And living in the same house.’

‘Of course. Quite right . . .’ He looked down at his magazine, then up at me again. ‘So, Lucy’ – we both laughed awkwardly – ‘do you like the house?’

‘Very much. My room’s lovely.’

‘And the washroom . . . it’s not too small?’

‘No. It’s perfect. Very homely.’

‘Homely? Good. I’m glad.’

‘About your name,’ I said suddenly. ‘I notice George calls you “Lockwood”.’

‘I answer to that, most of the time.’

‘Anyone ever call you “Anthony”?’

‘My mother did. And my father.’

A pause. ‘So what about “Tony”?’ I said. ‘Ever been called that?’

‘Tony? Look, Ms Car— sorry – Lucy. You can call me whatever you like. As long as it’s Lockwood or Anthony. Not Tony, please, or Ant. And if you ever call me Big A, I’m afraid I’ll have no option but to throw you out into the street.’

Another silence. ‘Er, has someone actually called you Big A?’ I asked.

‘My first assistant. She didn’t last long.’ He smiled at me. I smiled back, listened to the ticking of the clock. It seemed noticeably louder. I began to wish I’d gone up to my room.

‘What’s that you’re reading?’ I asked.

He held it up. The cover showed a blonde woman with teeth as bright as ghost-lamps getting out of a black car. She wore a big spray of lavender on the lapel of her dress, and the windows of the car were fortified with iron grilles. ‘London Society,’ he said. ‘It’s a dreary rag. But you get to see what’s going on in town.’

‘And what is?’

‘Parties, mainly.’ He tossed the magazine across. It consisted of endless photographs of smartly dressed men and women preening in crowded rooms. ‘You’d think the Problem would make people consider their immortal souls,’ Lockwood said. ‘But for the rich, it’s had the opposite effect. They go out, dress up, spend all night dancing in a sealed hotel somewhere, thrilling with horror at the thought of Visitors lurking outside . . . That party there was thrown last week by DEPRAC, the Department of Psychical Research and Control. The heads of all the most important agencies were there.’

‘Oh.’ I scanned the photos. ‘Were you invited? Can I see your picture?’

He shrugged. ‘No. So no.’

I flipped through the pages a little longer; they made a rhythmic flapping sound. ‘When you said in your advert that Lockwood’s was a well-known agency,’ I remarked, ‘that was a bit of a lie, wasn’t it?’

The pages flapped, the clock ticked. ‘I’d call it a mild exaggeration,’ Lockwood said. ‘Lots of people do it. Like you, for example, when you said you had the full Agency qualifications up to the Fourth Grade. I rang up DEPRAC’s north of England branch straight after your interview. They said you’d only completed Grades One to Three.’

He didn’t seem angry; just sat there looking at me with his big dark eyes. All of a sudden my mouth was dry, my heart thumping in my chest. ‘I – I’m . . . sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that . . .’ I cleared my throat. ‘I mean, the point is, I’m good enough to have that qualification. It’s just that my traineeship with Jacobs ended very badly and I never took the test. And when I came here . . . well, I really needed the job. I’m sorry, Lockwood. Would it help if I told you about Jacobs – how it happened?’

But Anthony Lockwood had held up a hand. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No. It doesn’t matter. Whatever happened then is in the past. What counts now is the future. And I already know you’re good enough for that. For my part, I can assure you that one day this will be one of the three most successful agencies in London. Believe me, I know it will. And you can be part of that, Lucy. I think you’re good, and I’m glad you’re here.’

You can bet my face was flushed right then – it was a special triple-combo of embarrassment at being found out, pleasure at his flattery and excitement at his spoken dreams. ‘I’m not sure George agrees with you,’ I said.

‘Oh, he thinks you’re special too. He was amazed by what you did in the interview.’

I thought back to George’s vocal range of snorts and yawns, to his spikiness that evening. ‘Is that how he usually shows approval?’

‘You’ll get used to him. George dislikes hypocrites – you know, people who say nice things to your face, and criticize you behind your back. He takes pride in being the reverse. Besides, he’s an excellent agent. He had a job at Fittes once,’ Lockwood added. ‘They value courtesy, secrecy and discretion there. Know how long he lasted?’

‘I should think about twenty minutes.’

‘Six months. That’s how good he is.’

‘If they put up with his personality that long, he must be superb.’

Lockwood gave me a radiant smile. ‘My view is: with you and George on my team, nothing can stand in our way.’

For a moment, as he said this, it all made perfect sense. I soon learned that when he smiled like that, it was hard not to agree with him.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I hope so too.’

Lockwood laughed. ‘There’s no “hope” about it. With our combined talents, what can possibly go wrong?’