‘Welcome, Mr Lockwood, welcome!’ John William Fairfax ushered us over the threshold, shaking Lockwood’s hand, nodding curtly to George and me. He seemed even taller and thinner and more mantis-like than I remembered; the cloth of his dark-grey suit hung off his wasted limbs in empty folds. ‘Right on time, exactly as you promised. And you will find that I have kept my promise too. I wired the money to your bank account ten minutes ago, Mr Lockwood, so your company’s future is assured. Congratulations! If you will accompany me now to my apartments in the East Wing, you may telephone your bank manager, as we discussed. Mr Cubbins, Miss Carlyle – yonder in the Long Gallery you will find refreshments laid out by the fire. No, don’t bother with your bags! Starkins will see to them.’
He continued talking loudly as he walked away, his stick tapping on the flagstoned floor. Lockwood went with him; George lingered a moment, stamping his boots clean on the entrance mat. Me, I lingered too, but not to clean my boots. For the first time since I was a tiny kid, and Jacobs had forced me inside a haunted farmhouse with a stick, I disobeyed the first, most crucial rule.
I hung back at the doorway, hesitant and afraid.
The lobby of the Hall was a great square chamber with a vaulted wooden ceiling and plainly whitewashed walls. George’s floor-plans had told us it was a relic of the original priory, and in its scale and simplicity it was still very much like a church. Up on the ceiling, where ancient cross-beams met, small carved figures gazed inscrutably down, winged and robed, their faces worn away by the years. The walls were hung with oil paintings, mostly portraits of lords and ladies from long ago.
On either side of the lobby, recessed arches led to other rooms. Directly opposite me, however, a much larger arch rose almost as high as the ceiling, and beyond that arch . . .
Beyond that arch was a staircase. The steps were broad and made of stone. Time and the feet of centuries had worn them thin at the centre, smoothed them sheer as marble. On either side, stone balustrades swept up towards a quarter-landing, beneath a circular glass window. Through this the final rays of sunlight gleamed, splashing the stairs with red.
I looked at that staircase, and I couldn’t move. I looked at it and listened.
Beside me, George stamped his great fat feet. Old Starkins hefted the first duffel bag, wheezing and gasping as he thumped it down in the lobby. Footmen walked by, carrying trays of cups, cakes and clinking cutlery. I heard Lockwood laugh as he passed into another room.
There was plenty of noise around, in other words. But when I listened, it was something else I heard. A silence. The deeper silence of the house. I sensed it all around me, sentient and aware. That silence stretched away from me, along the corridors and levels, up that great stone flight of stairs, through open doors and under lonely windows, on and on, to an ever more frightening distance. There wasn’t any end to it. The house was just the gate. The silence continued for ever. And it was waiting for us – I could feel it waiting. I had the impression of something towering over me, massive and cliff-like, ready to crash down on my head.
George finished stamping his boots; he set off in pursuit of the footmen and their cakes. Starkins wrestled with the luggage. The others were gone.
I looked over my shoulder at the gravel driveway and the park beyond. Light drained across the winter countryside. Out in the fields, furrows filled with shadow; soon they’d brim over and flood the land with spreading dark, and the silence in the house would stir . . .
Panic gripped my chest. I didn’t have 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. ‘This whole 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 to leave 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 aware that those main doors will remain unlocked all night, should you need to leave the building. In addition, on each level you will find an iron door leading to my apartments in the East Wing. These will be locked, but in case of emergency, rap on them loudly and I will come to your aid. Electrical equipment does not work well in this wing, owing to psychic influences, but we will rig up a telephone in the lobby that will connect you to Starkins’s cottage. All internal doors will, with one exception, be unlocked, so you can roam where you please. As for that exception’ – he tapped his jacket pocket – ‘I have the key here, and will give it to you presently. Any questions so far?’
‘It would be useful if you could indicate the areas of most activity, sir,’ Lockwood said quietly. ‘If you have the time.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Starkins!’ The old man raised his voice in a roar; from the lobby the even older man came scuttling, wringing his bony hands. ‘Get Boris and Karl setting up the phone,’ Fairfax said. ‘I’m taking Mr Lockwood on a tour. He’s a good servant, Starkins,’ he confided, once the caretaker had bobbed and shuffled away, ‘only hellish timorous. Wouldn’t catch him going upstairs this late, even with the sun still in the sky. Well, I suppose caution’s kept him alive this long. Let’s get on.’
We left the table and followed Fairfax out across the room. He indicated a door on the far side of the fireplace. ‘Through there you’ll find the garden rooms, reception areas, conservatory and kitchens. They’re old, but not as ancient as this gallery here, which is part of the original priory. It used to lead to other buildings, but they were pulled down long ago.’ He pointed to the tapestry at the end. ‘That’s where the house ends now.’
He led us back through the lobby and over to an archway beyond. Here was a square, carpeted room made dark by rows of towering bookshelves; on the far side was a studded metal door. Uncomfortable-looking modern chairs of iron and leather stood amongst reading tables. One wall was almost covered by a large collection of framed photographs, some in colour, most in black and white. The largest of all, in pride of place, showed a serious young man, in doublet, ruff and tights, scrutinizing a mouldy-looking skull.
Lockwood regarded it with interest. ‘Excuse me, sir, but isn’t that you?’
Fairfax nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me. I played Hamlet in my youth. Indeed, I played most Shakespearean roles, but the Dane was perhaps my favourite. Ah, “To be or not to be”, the hero caught suspended between life and death . . . I flatter myself I was rather good. So then: this is the library, where I spend most time during my visits. My predecessor’s taste in books was poor, so I have replaced his with my own collection, and refurbished it a little. It is just a step through the door there to the safety of my chambers, and the iron furniture – made by my own company, of course – keeps the ghosts away.’
‘A very pleasant room, if I may say so,’ Lockwood commented.
‘You won’t spend much time here during your search.’ Fairfax returned us to the lobby, where Starkins was setting a black, old-fashioned telephone on a side-table, beside an ornate vase. ‘The Source, whatever it is, is doubtless in the oldest portion of the house. The lobby, the Long Gallery or, most probably, upstairs. Hey, careful there!’ Two footmen were unravelling a coil of telephone wire around the table. ‘That’s Han Dynasty! Do you know the value of that vase?’
He continued to rebuke them, but I had tuned him out. I walked across the lobby, listening with my inner ear, hearing only my heart beating in the waiting silence. Ahead of me, the great stairs rose, curving to the quarter-landing and onwards into darkness. Strange creatures, with lots of scales and horns, were carved into the sides of the balustrade every other step. Each supported a small plinth between its claws.
‘Hear anything?’ George murmured. He’d drifted alongside me.
‘No. The reverse. It’s like it’s cloaked, or something.’
‘I see you’ve found the legendary Screaming Staircase!’ Fairfax was back with us once more. ‘See those plinths beside the carved dragons? Those are where the Red Duke set the skulls of his victims – or so the story has it. Perhaps, after tonight, you will be able to confirm the story of the stairs. I hope, for your sake, you do not hear it scream.’
He led the way up the flight, stick tapping on the stone. We followed in a silent, ragged procession, each ignoring the others, letting our senses take the lead. I let my fingers run across the handrails, opening my mind to psychic traces, listening all the time.
We crossed below the window, four slow figures stained with the sun’s last rays, climbed another flight and arrived at a landing. A deep burgundy carpet and flocked red wallpaper absorbed all sounds. There was a strange sweet smell up here, like tropical flowers, heavy with the taint of decay. A long, wide corridor that I remembered from George’s plans ran east–west, following the line of the house. Numerous rooms opened on both sides; through half-open doors I glimpsed dark-toned furniture, paintings, heavy golden mirrors . . . Fairfax ignored them all. He led the way west along the corridor until it ended in a door.
Fairfax halted; whether it was the effort of the stairs, or the suddenly stifling quality of the air, he was out of breath.
‘Beyond this barrier,’ he said finally, ‘is the place I told you of. The Red Room.’
It was a sturdy wooden door, closed and locked, and no different from the others we’d passed – except for the mark upon it. Someone, at some time, had slashed a great rough X upon its central panel. One stroke was short, the other long; both were made with violence, scoured deep into the wood.
Fairfax adjusted the position of his stick upon the floor. ‘Now, Mr Lockwood, pay close attention. Because of its particular danger, this room is always kept locked. However, I have the key here, and I hereby transfer it to your possession.’
He made a great palaver about it, patting and rummaging. Finally the key appeared: a small gold thing on a loop of dark red ribbon. Lockwood took it coolly.
‘It is my belief,’ Fairfax said, ‘that the Source is in that room. Whether you decide to pursue it is a matter for yourselves. You do not have to enter. I leave it up to you. I think you can already sense, however, that I am right . . .’
He may have said more, but I was too busy trying to block out the faint, insistent whispering sounds that had suddenly broken through the silence. They were somewhere very near, and I did not like the voices. I noticed that Lockwood had gone ashen, and even George looked green and queasy; he’d drawn his collar high about his neck as if he felt the cold.
Down in the lobby, the telephone had been rigged up beside the vase, its cable running across the stones to a socket somewhere in the library. The footmen had gone. Old Bert Starkins jittered by the doors, silhouetted in the half-dark, desperate to follow them.
‘Ten minutes, sir!’ he cried.
Fairfax regarded us. ‘Mr Lockwood?’
Lockwood nodded. ‘That’s fine. Ten minutes is all we need.’
We worked in silence beneath the high thin windows of the Long Gallery, emptying out the bags, collecting the equipment, tightening straps and adjusting gear. Each of us had our usual kit – plus a little extra, to make up for our lack of flares.
At my belt I carried my rapier, a torch and extra batteries, three candles with a lighter and a box of matches, five small silver seals (each of a different shape), three sachets of iron filings, three salt bombs, two flasks of lavender water, my thermometer, my notebook and pen. Next, on a separate strap, looped like a sash across my shoulder, I had two lines of plastic canisters arranged in pairs. Each pair contained half a pound of iron filings and half a pound of salt. Next, also over my shoulder, I had a loop of slender iron chain, six foot long when fully unfurled, and tightly wound with bubble wrap to prevent excessive noise. Last, in an outer pocket of my coat, I kept a pack of emergency provisions – energy drink, sandwiches and chocolate. Our thermos flasks of good hot tea, and the larger chains and seals, were carried in a separate bag.
In addition to my normal clothes I wore thermal gloves, a thermal vest and leggings, and thick socks under my boots. It wasn’t cold enough yet for my hat, so I stuffed this in the pocket of my parka. And I still had the necklace in its silver-glass case, hidden round my neck.
The others were kitted out more or less the same, though Lockwood also had his dark glasses clipped to the breast pocket of his coat. The kit weighed us down, and was more cumbersome than usual, but we each carried enough iron to be individually self-reliant. 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, and weltered 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 a gaunt 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.
