I should point out, I guess, that I’m not in the habit of secreting haunted objects on my person. I certainly don’t have any other sinister artefacts stuffed down my socks, as George suggested. The necklace was a weird one-off for me.
I’d seen it the previous afternoon, as we got ready for the assignment by the willow tree. George had put it on the trophy shelf along with all the other curios. It just lay there, in its little protective case, sparkling dully behind the glass. And instead of leaving it, as any ordinary person would have done, I’d picked up the case, hung it round my neck, and simply walked away.
Explaining why I’d done this wasn’t exactly easy, especially considering the state we were all in after the fight. So it wasn’t until after a very late breakfast the following day that I tried to give my reasons.
‘I just wanted to keep the necklace close at hand,’ I said. ‘Not shoved in with all the other trophies. I think it’s because of what happened when I touched it, when I got that psychic connection with Annie Ward. The sensations I experienced then were her sensations. I felt what she felt; I got a glimpse of being her. So—’
‘That’s the danger of your Talent,’ Lockwood said abruptly. He was pale and serious that morning; he regarded me with narrowed eyes. ‘You’re almost too sensitive. You get too close to them.’
‘No, don’t get me wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m not close to Annie Ward at all. I don’t think she was a particularly nice person when alive, and she’s certainly a cruel and dangerous ghost. But because of my Touch, I do understand something of what she went through. I understand her pain. And that means I want justice for her now. I don’t want her forgotten. You saw her lying in that chimney, Lockwood! You know what Blake did. So when I saw the necklace dumped there with all the other trophies, it just . . . it just seemed wrong to me. Until that man’s been punished, and justice is properly done, I don’t think we should . . . discard her.’ I gave them a rueful smile. ‘Don’t tell me . . . that’s basically a bit mad, isn’t it?’
‘Yep,’ George said.
‘You need to be careful, Lucy,’ Lockwood said, and his voice was flat and cold. ‘Wicked ghosts aren’t things to trifle with. You’re keeping secrets again, and any agent who does that is endangering the rest of us. I’m not having anyone on my team who can’t be trusted. You understand what I’m saying?’
I did understand. I looked away.
‘However . . .’ he went on, in a slightly lighter tone, ‘by chance it’s all worked out quite well. This necklace would probably have been stolen, if it weren’t for you.’
He had it in his hand as he spoke, the gold surface of the pendant glinting in the sun. We stood in the basement, beside the open garden door. Cool air drifted in, diluting the taint of decay left by the freed Visitors in the night. The floor was littered with broken glass and plasm stains.
George had been working on the trophy shelves, sorting through the cases. He wore an apron with slightly lacy edges, and had his sleeves rolled up. ‘Nothing else has been nicked,’ he said, ‘which, if that guy was a normal thief working for the black market, is a little strange. There are some cracking pieces here. The pirate hand, for instance, or this lovely fibula . . .’
Lockwood shook his head. ‘No. It’s the necklace he wanted. It’s too much of a coincidence otherwise. Someone needs it badly.’
‘Well, we know who that someone is,’ I said. ‘Hugo Blake.’
George paused. ‘Only one problem. He’s currently locked up.’
‘He’s in custody,’ Lockwood agreed, ‘but that doesn’t mean much. He’s a wealthy man. He might easily have arranged the raid. But I must admit, I don’t quite understand why the necklace is so important to him. That Latin inscription doesn’t prove him guilty, does it?’ He hesitated. ‘Unless . . .’
‘Unless,’ I said, ‘the necklace contains another clue or secret that Blake doesn’t want found out.’
‘Exactly. Let’s look at it in daylight.’
We stepped outside into the little garden. Lockwood held the necklace up for us to inspect. It seemed exactly as before: an oval pendant, gold with pearly flakes, rather squashed and split along one side.
I gazed at it. Split along the side . . .
‘We’re idiots,’ I gasped. ‘It’s staring us in the face.’
Lockwood glanced at me. ‘Meaning . . .’
‘Meaning it’s supposed to have a split! It’s a locket. It opens! We can open it.’
I took the pendant from him, and pressed the corners of my thumbnails into the narrow crack. I prised gently. Despite its distorted shape, there was an immediate satisfying click; the pendant split in two, neatly swivelling on its hinge. I pulled the halves apart, held it open on my palm.
I don’t quite know what I expected, but I expected something. A twist of hair, maybe? A photograph? People keep things in lockets. That’s what they’re for.
As one, we stared at the locket’s open halves.
There wasn’t any hair. Or a photograph, a keepsake or a tiny folded letter. But that didn’t mean the locket was empty. No. There was something there.
It was another inscription, neatly scored into the smooth gold of the interior:
A ‡ W
H.II.2.115
‘Here it is,’ Lockwood said. ‘The hidden clue. This is what he wanted to hide.’
‘The AW’s obviously Annabel Ward,’ I said.
‘And the H is for Hugo,’ George breathed. ‘As in Hugo Blake . . .’
Lockwood frowned. ‘That’s good as far as it goes. But there must be more. What about these numbers? This is some kind of code . . .’
‘We’d better give this to DEPRAC,’ I said suddenly. ‘We can’t hold onto it. This is serious evidence, which the police will need to see. And Blake knows it’s here.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Lockwood said. ‘Not that I really want to come clean with Barnes. I’d rather we figured this out ourselves. Still . . .’ The phone rang shrilly in the office. ‘Maybe we haven’t got much choice. Answer that, would you, George?’
George departed and was some time gone. By the time he returned, Lockwood had returned the locket to its case and I’d started sweeping up the debris on the floor.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Lockwood said. ‘Barnes again?’
George’s features were slightly flushed. ‘Actually, no. A new client.’
‘I assume some old lady with a ghost-cat up a tree?’
‘Nope, and you might want to leave that, Lucy, and start tidying upstairs. That was Mr John Fairfax, Chairman of Fairfax Iron, and he’s coming over now.’
It was generally accepted that the Problem afflicting the British Isles was a bad thing for the economy. The dead returning to haunt the living, apparitions after dark – these things had consequences. Morale and productivity were low. No one wanted late shifts. In winter, businesses closed mid-afternoon. But some companies did flourish, because they fulfilled a vital need. One of these was Fairfax Iron.
Already a leading manufacturer of iron products when the crisis began, Fairfax Iron had immediately set about supplying seals, filings and chains to the Fittes and Rotwell agencies. As the Problem worsened, and the government began to mass-produce ghost-lamps, it was Fairfax Iron that provided the vast quantities of metal required. This alone secured the company’s fortune. But of course there was more. Those ugly iron gnomes that people dotted around their gardens? Those naff Protecto™ necklaces? Those little plastic bracelets with the smiley iron faces they put on babies’ wrists before they left the hospital? Fairfax products, every one.
The company’s owner, John William Fairfax, was in consequence one of the richest men in the country, up there with the silver barons, with the heirs of Marissa Fittes and Tom Rotwell, and with that bloke who owns the great lavender farms on the Lincolnshire Wolds. He lived somewhere in London, and when he snapped his fingers, the ministers of whichever government was currently in office scampered hot-foot to his house.
Now he was coming here in person.
You can be sure we tidied that living room double-quick.
A few minutes later the purr of a large vehicle sounded in the street. I peeped out, to see a shiny Rolls idling to a halt. It seemed to fill the road. It had polished silver-coated grilles upon the windows, and threads of silver tracery running down the sides. On the bonnet, a small silver figurehead glinted in the winter sun.
The chauffeur emerged; smoothing down his crisp grey uniform, he marched round the car to open a rear door. I ducked back inside, where Lockwood was frantically plumping cushions, and George brushed cake crumbs beneath the sofa. ‘He’s here,’ I hissed.
Lockwood took a deep breath. ‘OK. Let’s try to make a good impression.’
We stood up when Mr John Fairfax entered the room – not that it made much difference. He was a very tall, thin man. He towered over me, towered over Lockwood. George, trailing in his wake, was entirely in his shadow. Even at seventy or eighty, or whatever age he’d got to, he was built on an impressive scale, like something you’d expect to launch down a slipway at Southampton docks. Yet his limbs were thin and wasted. The sleeves of his long silk jacket hung loose; his legs, despite the walking stick that supported him, trembled as he walked. My immediate impression was of a peculiar mix of strength and weakness. In a room of a hundred people he would have been impossible to ignore.
‘Good morning, sir,’ Lockwood was saying. ‘This is Lucy Carlyle, my associate.’
‘Delighted.’ The voice was deep, the outstretched hand vast and all-encompassing. A great square head, bald and liver-spotted, bent in my direction from on high. The nose was hooked, the black eyes bright and shining; the lines on the brow were heavy. When he smiled (it was scarcely a smile at all; rather an acknowledgement of my existence), I saw that the teeth were capped with silver. It was a face used to exerting authority and command.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said.
We sat. Our guest engulfed his chair. His walking stick was mahogany, with an iron handle shaped like a dog’s head: a mastiff or bulldog, maybe. He rested it against one great bent knee and spread his fingers on the seat arms.
‘It’s an honour to have you here, sir,’ Lockwood said. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Mr Fairfax inclined his head, gave a rumble of assent. ‘Pitkins’ Breakfast, if you have it. Tell your boy to bring the sugar too.’
‘My boy? Er, yes. Off you go, George. Teas all round, please.’
George, who had neglected to remove his apron, rotated a leg and exited the room, expressionless.
‘Now, Mr Lockwood,’ John Fairfax said, ‘I’m a busy man, and as you’ll be wondering why I’ve called upon you unannounced on a Friday morning, we’ll dispense with the small talk and get down to business. There is a haunting that is proving most troublesome to me. If you can help me with it, I shall make it worth your while.’
Lockwood nodded gravely. ‘Certainly, sir. We’d be glad to.’
Our visitor cast his gaze around the room. ‘A nice house you have. Excellent collection of New Guinean ghost-wards, I see . . . Business going well?’
‘Tolerably, sir.’
‘You lie like a politician, Mr Lockwood,’ the old man said. ‘Smooth and effortless. My mother, God rest her soul and may she never walk at night, told me to speak plainly and honestly to all men. I have followed her advice all my life. So, come’ – he slapped his knee with his great flat palm – ‘we shall get on much better if we are open with each other! Your business is not going well. I read the papers! I know you are in financial difficulties . . . in particular following a certain incident with a house you managed to burn down.’ He chuckled, a dry reverberation. ‘You have a heavy fine to pay.’
A muscle twitched in Lockwood’s cheek; otherwise he gave no sign of irritation. ‘That’s correct, sir, though I am in the process of raising the money. We have plenty of other excellent cases, which give us a healthy income.’
Fairfax made a dismissive gesture. ‘Fibbing again, Mr Lockwood! I should tell you I have contacts in DEPRAC and I have read your recent files. I know the extent and quality of those “excellent” cases. Grey Hazes! Cold Maidens! Gibbering Mists! The weakest and most humdrum Type Ones imaginable! I’m surprised you earn enough to pay Miss Carlyle here.’
Which was a good point, come to think of it. I hadn’t been paid for a month.
Lockwood’s eyes glinted. ‘That being so, sir, might I ask why you have come to us today? There are many other agencies in London.’
‘Indeed there are.’ Fairfax raised his tufted eyebrows and fixed us both with his black and beady stare. ‘But it so happens that your recent publicity surrounding that case drew my favourable attention. I was impressed by the way in which you not only found the body of . . .’ He hesitated. ‘What was the name of the girl?’
‘Annie Ward, sir.’
‘Of Annie Ward, but discovered her identity too. I like your panache, I like your attention to detail. I also like your youth and independence of mind!’ The old man leaned forward on his stick. There was something new in his face: not warmth, exactly, more a fierce enthusiasm. ‘I began as an outsider too, Mr Lockwood. I struggled hard to make my way when I was a lad. I fought against big companies, knew lean times . . . I understand the passion that drives you on each day! Besides, I’ve no interest in giving yet more money to Fittes or Rotwell. They’re rich enough already. No, I propose to give you an opportunity you’ve never dreamed of, see if you can bring your powers to bear on a different, more dangerous puzzle . . . Ah, your fellow’s back again.’
George had returned, carrying the tray, on which he’d assembled a tea service I’d never before set eyes on. It was all fine-bone china and little pink flowers, the kind of mincing cups that are so delicate and brittle you expect them to shatter when you put them to your lips. This classy effect was slightly undermined by a teetering pile of fat jam doughnuts on a plate beside them.
‘Thanks, George,’ Lockwood said. ‘Put them down here.’
George set the tray on the table, poured out the tea and offered the doughnuts around. Since no one took one, he prised the biggest of all from the bottom of the stack, fingering most of the others in the process, plonked it on a plate and sat next to me with a lingering sigh of gratification. ‘Shove up,’ he said. ‘So have I missed anything?’
The old man’s eyes widened. ‘Mr Lockwood, this is an important consultation! Surely your lad should wait outside.’
‘Er, he’s not actually an office boy, sir. This is George Cubbins. He works with me.’
Mr Fairfax appraised George, who was busily licking jam off his fingers. ‘I see . . . Well, in that case, I shall delay no longer.’ He put a hand inside his jacket and rummaged awkwardly within. ‘Take a look at this.’ He threw a crumpled photograph onto the table.
A house. More than a mere house, in fact: it was a country mansion, set in extensive grounds. The photo had been taken from some distance across a stretch of attractively mown lawn. Willow trees and flowerbeds featured on the margins, and there was also the suggestion of a lake, but the house beyond dominated all – a tall, dark slab of several floors. You could see columns and sweeping entrance stairs, and a profusion of thin, irregularly positioned windows, but the precise age and nature of the building was hard to make out. The photo seemed to have been taken either very early or very late. The sun was somewhere behind the building, and the long black shadows of its many ancient chimneys stretched out like grasping fingers across the lawns.
‘Combe Carey Hall,’ Fairfax said, rolling the syllables off his tongue. ‘In Berkshire, just to the west of London. Have you heard of it?’
We shook our heads. None of us had.
‘No, it is not well known, and yet it is possibly the most haunted private house in England. I believe it may well be the most deadly. To my certain knowledge four previous owners of the estate have died there as a result of its apparitions. As for the numbers of servants, guests or other folk who have been frightened to death, or ghost-touched, or otherwise drawn to their doom across the house and grounds . . .’ He gave a small, dry chuckle. ‘Well, the list is extensive. In fact, the place was boarded up thirty years ago after some gruesome scandal of that kind, and not reopened until recently, when it came into my possession.’
‘You live there, sir?’ I asked.
The domed head tilted, the dark eyes flashed at me. ‘It is not my only property, if that is what you mean. I visit it from time to time. The place is very old. In origin, it was a priory, founded by a breakaway group of monks from one of the local abbeys. The stones at the heart of the West Wing go back to that period. Subsequently a series of local lords owned it, rebuilding and adapting the ruins, before it was converted into its current form around the turn of the eighteenth century. Architecturally it is a peculiar mishmash of a place – passages leading nowhere or doubling back upon themselves, odd changes of level . . . But more to the point, it has always had a sinister reputation. Stories of Visitors here go back centuries. In short, it is one of those sites where hauntings were already in evidence, well before the start of the Problem. It’s said that—’
‘Is that someone looking out?’ George said suddenly. He had been studying the photograph closely while the old man talked, staring at it quizzically through his thick round glasses. Now he picked it up and, with a chubby finger, indicated a point on the main wall of the house. Lockwood and I bent close, frowning. High above and to the left of the entrance portico, a dark triangular notch indicated the presence of a narrow window. There was a slight grey smudge inside the notch, almost too faint to be seen.
‘Ah, you’ve noticed that, have you?’ Fairfax said. ‘Yes, it does look like a figure, doesn’t it? Standing just inside. The curious thing is, this photograph was taken a couple of months before I inherited the estate. The house was shut and locked. There was no one living there.’
He took a sip of tea, his black eyes twinkling. Again, I thought I detected amusement in his manner, as if he took a certain pleasure in that smudge and its implications.
‘What time was the picture taken?’ I asked.
‘Approaching dusk. The sun’s setting, as you can see.’
Throughout all this, Lockwood’s face had been glowing with scarcely suppressed excitement. He sat hunched forward, bony elbows balanced on his knees, hands pressed together, every sinew tense with interest. ‘You were about to tell us something of the phenomena, sir,’ he said. ‘About how they manifest, I mean.’
Mr Fairfax placed his cup down on the table, and sat back with a sigh. One great hand grasped his iron-headed walking stick; the other gestured as he spoke. ‘I am an old man. I cannot see apparitions myself, and as a general rule, I don’t sense ’em, either. But the malign aura of this house is evident even to me. I feel it the moment I walk in the door, I taste it in my mouth. Ah, it is a sickly atmosphere, Mr Lockwood, which works to sap the soul. As for specifics . . .’ He leaned a little on the stick, adjusted his position slightly as if his bones hurt him. ‘Well, there are many stories. The caretaker, Bert Starkins, is the one to ask about it; he seems to know them all. But certainly the two best-known tales in the neighbourhood – the key hauntings, if you will – concern the Red Room and the Screaming Staircase.’
There was a profound silence, abruptly broken by an enormously loud rumble from George’s stomach. Plaster didn’t actually fall from the ceiling, but it was close.
‘Sorry,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Famished. I think I’ll have another doughnut, if you don’t mind. Any takers?’ No one paid him any heed. He reached out for the plate.
‘The Red Room?’ I said.
‘The Screaming Staircase?’ Lockwood edged forward in his chair. ‘Please, Mr Fairfax, tell us more.’
‘I’m delighted to see that you display such interest,’ the old man said. ‘I can see that my high opinion of you was correct. Well, the Red Room is a bedchamber on the first floor of the West Wing of the house. At least, it was used as a bedroom once. No longer. It is completely empty now. It is one of those places where the supernatural presence is so potent that it spells disaster to all who visit it. No one can spend the night there and live – or that’s the story.’
‘Have you been in there, sir?’ Lockwood asked.
‘I have peered in. By day, of course.’
‘And the atmosphere . . .?’
‘Thick, Mr Lockwood. Thick with evil.’ The old head drew back; Fairfax looked down his great hooked nose at us. ‘And I have good reason to believe in the power of this room, as I shall tell you presently. Then there is the Screaming Staircase. To me, this is a more mysterious tale. The stairs wind from the Long Gallery, on the ground floor, up to the landing. They are made of stone and are very ancient. I myself have never experienced any ill sensation on these stairs, and I do not know of anyone who has. But it’s said that long ago they witnessed some great horror, and that the souls of those involved are trapped within. At certain times, perhaps when the power of these Visitors is at its height, perhaps when they sense the presence of a new victim, you can hear their frenzied howling. It emanates from the stairs themselves.’
Lockwood spoke softly. ‘The actual staircase screams?’
‘Apparently. I have never heard it.’
‘About the Red Room . . .’ George was finishing his doughnut; he paused and swallowed. ‘You say it’s on the first floor? Would that be the same level as the window in this picture?’
‘Yes . . . I suppose it would be about there. Do you mind not spraying sugar on the photograph? I don’t have another copy.’
‘Sorry.’
‘This is fascinating,’ Lockwood said. ‘From what you’re saying, there is more than one Visitor in the house. More than one Source. A cluster of ghosts, in other words. You believe that to be true?’
‘Certainly,’ Fairfax said. ‘I can feel them.’
‘Yes, but how did it begin? There must have been some key event, some central trauma that started it all . . . It begs the question – which Visitor was first?’ Lockwood tapped his fingertips together. ‘Is the house empty now?’
‘The West Wing is certainly unoccupied, for that is where the danger is concentrated. My man, Starkins, has been caretaker for many years. He lives in an adjacent building.’
‘And where do you stay, sir, when you visit the property?’
‘I have a suite in the East Wing, which is relatively modern. It has its own entrance, and is separated from the main section of the house by iron doors on every floor. I installed them myself, along with the best defences money can buy, and my sleep has not been disturbed.’ The old man regarded us all fixedly in turn. ‘I am by no means a coward, but I would not for any consideration spend the night alone in the old wing of Combe Carey Hall. However’ – he fingered the iron bulldog lovingly – ‘that is precisely what I am asking you to do.’
My heart jumped. I made some small adjustment to my skirt, but was otherwise quite still. Lockwood’s eyes were shining. George’s were, as ever, expressionless; slowly he took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses on the front of his jumper. We waited.
‘You would not be the first to make this attempt,’ Fairfax went on. ‘The same questions Mr Lockwood has just articulated were on the mind of the previous owner too. Thirty years ago he decided to investigate, and hired a small team from the Fittes Agency – a youth, a girl and their adult supervisor – to conduct initial explorations. They agreed to spend the night in the house, focusing their attention on the so-called Red Room. Well, they followed standard procedures. The main door to the house was left unlocked, so they had a clear avenue of escape. They rigged up an internal telephone in the Red Room itself; this was connected to the phone in Bert Starkins’s lodge, so that help – if necessary – might be summoned. They were all highly experienced operatives. The owner left them there at dusk. Some hours later, when he went to bed, Starkins noticed torchlight moving steadily in the windows of the upper floors. Around midnight the caretaker’s phone began to ring. He picked it up: it was the supervisor. He said that there had been some odd phenomena, and that he wished to check that the connection was working properly. Otherwise all was well. He was quite calm. He rang off, and Starkins went to bed. The phone did not ring again that night. In the morning, when Starkins and the owner met on the front steps, the Fittes group had not emerged. At seven-thirty they entered the Hall. The place was quiet; no one answered their calls. They knew where they had to go, of course; when they opened the door of the Red Room, they found the body of the supervisor lying face-down beside the telephone. He was ghost-touched and quite dead. The girl was on the far side of the room, crouched beside a window. I say crouched: she was so tightly curled up they could not unbend her to see her face or check her pulse. Not that there was much point in that. She was stone dead too, of course. I am sorry to say they never discovered what happened to the boy.’
‘You mean they couldn’t tell how he died?’ George asked.
‘I mean they never found him.’
‘Excuse me, sir,’ Lockwood said, ‘but when the man used the telephone at midnight, did he say what kind of phenomena they’d been experiencing?’
‘No. He did not.’ Mr Fairfax took a pocket watch from his jacket and consulted it briefly. ‘Time is passing. I need to be in Pimlico in fifteen minutes! Very well, to the point. As I say, your agency has caught my eye; I am surprised and intrigued by your capabilities. So: here is my proposition for you. I am prepared to pay your costs in the Sheen Road case. That will settle the damages caused by the fire, and keep DEPRAC quiet into the bargain. To earn your sixty thousand pounds, all you need to do is commit yourself to the investigation. In fact, I shall wire the sum to your account the moment you arrive at the Hall. Additionally, if you succeed in uncovering its mysteries, and locate the Source within it, I shall pay you a further handsome fee. What is your standard charge?’
Lockwood named a figure.
‘I shall pay twice that. Combe Carey, I can assure you, is not to be taken lightly.’ Mr Fairfax grasped the bulldog’s head and shuffled forward, preparing to rise. ‘Another thing: when I require something, I act quickly. I would want you there in two days.’
‘Two days?’ George said. ‘But we’d need time to—’
‘Let me tell you at once,’ Fairfax said, ‘that my proposal is not up for negotiation. You are not in a position to impose terms. Oh, and I have another stipulation. No flares or explosive devices may be brought into the Hall, which contains a great deal of ancient and valuable furniture. It is not that I don’t trust you, but, forgive me’ – the silver-capped teeth glittered – ‘I do not want my property burned down.’ Squeaks of protest from the chair; he stood, towering over us on his brittle limbs like some kind of giant insect. ‘Very well. I don’t expect a decision from you now, of course. Let me know by the end of the day. You’ll find my secretary’s number on this card.’
I sat back in the sofa, blowing out my cheeks. Too right he wouldn’t get an immediate decision. Fittes agents were the best, we all knew that. And three of them had died in Combe Carey Hall! To follow them in, without time for proper preparation, would be bordering on madness. The Red Room? The Screaming Staircase? Yes, the money Fairfax was offering might save the company, but what good was that if we lost our lives? There was no doubt about it: we needed to debate this very carefully.
‘Thank you very much, sir,’ Lockwood was saying, ‘but I can give you our answer now. We’ll definitely take the case.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘We’ll make arrangements to be down at the Hall as soon as possible. Shall we say Sunday afternoon?’
